Stillness doesn't come naturally to me.

I don't do 'holidays'.

Which explains why I've done more work in the last couple of days than I would have done if I was officially working [and, you know, getting paid for it...]

The Underground Reading Club, for example... that idea came to me in a period of supposed stillness. It's a good idea, and I couldn't let it slip out of my mind without acting upon it.

If you missed the official proclamation and launch of the Underground Reading Club, you can read more about it here.

Please join us.

Anyway - I had a lovely Saturday. I got up sans hangover and pottered around the house. Pottering is ace. It's why Harry always has that smug grin on his punchable face. I made a tip top smoked haddock risotto for Ava and Jo, bathed Ava, and settled back for a quiet evening in with a bottle of wine and Parky on the box.

I might even have checked my myspace out a couple of times. I've met a couple of interesting and stimulating people already. It's social networking gold, I tell thee.

My grainy plan was that I would watch Liverpool's about-bloody-time-too first away win of the season on Match of the Day and then walk down to Telfords to catch the end of good friend, Tony Bear's DJ set.

I texted Soundhog to see if he was coming along only to be reminded in curt textual terms that he and [I'm getting sick of all these links!] DJ Fuzzyfelt were on the way to Bangor to watch Wales' best live-band, bar fucking no one, Genod Droog.

"Come and get me!" I replied, as a joke.

"Get a train" surly Soundhog replied.

I looked at the wife, whose eyes were already dropping into early sleep mode, looked at my watch, hit the national rail timetable website and saw that there was a train leaving Chester in 20 minutes, got up, said I was going to Bangor [to a non-plussed shrug], and legged it down the road clambering aboard the 8:35 to Holyhead just in time.

I didn't have a coat.

I had no money.

I had left my phone at home.

The last time Genod Droog played in Bangor they were turning people away. No one knew I was going. If I got there and they turned me away at the door, there was no way - without making a loud and embarrassing fuss - yn Saesneg - that I would get in... that would have been a short night out. I didn't even have a book to read on the way back.

There is no real suspense to this story, though, is there? I mean, the whole page is decorated top-to-toe in photgraphs of Genod Droog playing at the Railway Institute in Bangor.

Oooh! I wonder if Adam's long [and bloody expensive, £19.00!] journey was worthwhile! I wonder if he got it! Did he end up having to travel back on the drunk train, all of those nutters having spent the day in Ireland, getting sluiced back to Rhyl, and looking for porky man flesh to prickle and punch! I wonder! Such tension!

Of course I got in.

Arriving at Bangor in a horizontal storm of Macbethian proportions was disconcerting, though.

I had thought that the Railway Institute would be next to the Railway Station --

"ha! ha! ha! Stupid fool!" shouted God, doing a passable impersonation of B.A. Baracus, "I moved it while you were on the way here, because, being God and being omnipotent and omnipresent, I knew you didn't have a coat with you, and I knew just the precise distance to push it away from the railway station, so that you would be soaked through just as you got there."

And I don't even believe in God!!!!

I wandered around Bangor, past Chinese takeaways, eyes slit against the rain, desperately seeking cash machine and Railway Institute. A minibus went by with a bunch of hipsters in it. I jogged after them, denting the pavement with each footfall.

Up a little hill went the minibus.

There was a building with lights on.

Cars were parked outside.


And I could hear the unmistakeable 'thud! thud! thud!' of someone trying to DJ in a way that would impress Soundhog.

Sod the cash machine, I thought, I'll get into the gig before it sells out...

And, so I did. After my bag had been searched. Which, in itself, was a big embarrassing because the only thing in my bag was my digital camera and all of the legal pharmaceuticals I had packed in there during our house move - Nurofen, aspirin capsules, soluble aspirin, paracetemol, Nurofen, Ibuprofen - most of which had fallen out of their packets and lay in the bottom of the bag looking class 'A' suspicious.

"What are these?" asked the impressively ugly bouncer,

"They're painkillers..." I said, looking class 'A' suspicious,

I think it's to my advantage that I'm a bit on the portly-side. I don't look like a pillhead or speed-freak. I look like a doughnut addict. She let me in.

I met Soundhog and Fuzzyfelt. Fuzzyfelt leant me £10 [ ;0) ] when he heard about my lack of funds. Kind man. I'll make sure I pay him that £5 the next time I see him. He also said he'd give me a lift home. Ridiculous generosity. It's only thirty-ish miles out of his way!

What a gent.

He and his Bonnie, Linda, are far more deserving of a Recognition for Effort in the Line of Welsh Music awards than Rhys Mwyn [again].

With the £2.50 in my hand that Fuzzyfelt had given me, I queued up in a remarkably civilised queue for the bar. It was like being in a school canteen. Actually, the whole place was a bit like being thrust back into one of Father Francis' gigs in 1978.

Was a monk about to get on stage and strum through 'Kum By Ya'?

Not quite -- it was about to get a lot stranger than that.
First band on were Plant Duw whose energy and levels of rock n roll delusion were impressive for so early in the night.

The drummer's bare torso and superglued sunglasses testified to that.

An impressive amount of energy and bluster spilt forth from the stage, and random acts of dancing broke out in the spangle of the glitterball.

But none of the songs snagged me.

They are young and they will get better, if they don't fall into the trap of getting comfortable ripping up a storm [big gusts, probably from that bouncer's arse, had the curtains on the left hand side of the room billowing like a Simple Minds video] for their mates, but not having the ambition to reach out a bit further. A worthwhile first sighting.

I met Linda and Angharad and Tanwen and Kim D'Bills and Mr Phormula and the atmosphere was so different to any gigs I go to anywhere else.

No 'impress me' aloofness; no cliquey [not Cliquey - that be different] exclusion for outsiders; no uptight reservation. There was a real air of celebration and living music, quite unlike the sanitised up-its-own-arseness of the majority of gigs I go to, or - it has to be said - put on.

It had the atmosphere of a school disco where everyone knew each other and most of them liked each other. That's not to patronise the event. I wish every gig I went to felt like this.

Everywhere I looked people were patting each other on the back, laughing, or hugging each other.

Maybe it's just that the E in Bangor is particularly benevolent and pure.

I wouldn't know.

I 'E' quite naturally, thank you very much.

Some larvae people had taken to the stage. They were normal-ish people in large fabric condoms, I think. Or the kind of one-piece overalls you see forensic pathologists wearing in Prime Suspect.

Had the mood turned? Had someone been MURDERED?

Nope.

It was simply Derwyddon Dr. Gonzo.

They started line-breakdancing to a techno track.

It was fucking ace.

A brilliant entrance.

My sides hurt.

A member of Genod Droog stood behind me said, They're ace, they'll blow us off stage.

Well... they didn't, as it happens. But I was very impressed. Much invention and twisting of Chic funk riffs into different shapes... hillbilly, ska, baggy... and three costume changes for the singer who looked disarmingly like that smug little wanker who has been co-presenting the jungle bits in 'I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here' with kelly Osbourne. Or a young, shaggier haired Andrew Loog Oldham.

I know which I'd go for!

But he was a good presence and managed to keep the focus of our attention amidst all of the pantomime going on on stage.

They reminded me of an 'up' New Fast Automatic Daffodils' - which is an incredibly ace thing.

There was a little too much theatre for my liking. Madonna and Prince wouldn't have taken on so many costume changes as the singer did. All they need now is a couple of killer songs.

No, not Killers songs.

Shudder.

They finished and I clapped wholeheartedly. I might even have stood up to give them an ovation.

I went for a wee, dodging snogging, snorting, sicking and whatever the 'ing' word is for getting tthe bottom of your trousers wet in a river of other people's piss.

Mmmm.

Piss.

The filth, and unabashed decadence of youth makes me blush and look the other way, these days.

Take the couple mouth fucking each other's tonsils in the back room, hands like flesh-eating clams all over each others' torsos, nipples and white flesh hung out like Christmas decorations for all to see.

I looked the other way, blushing like I haven't done since my mum surprised me with a morning cup of tea when I was fourteen.

I wasn't resentful of them at all. Go for it! my sex-retardant brain shouted! It - and it was only a flash of an accidental glance, I assure you - made me feel like a pervert, a voyeur here, not a participant.

As it transpires, though, I just hadn't drunk enough - at that point.

One more pint of Guinness and a whisky,

Do you want ice?

No.

< little pause while the barmaid watched two lads smash each others' bottles of Budweiser against each other... sending glass shrapnel and crap, sweet American beer in all directions... >

Sorry, would you like ice?

No.

< another pause while the barmaid watches one of the lads start to lick the beer and the glass splinters up off the floor... >

Sorry, did you way you wanted ice?

While she was asking me, she was already putting the ice in the glass. I didn't have the heart to tell her. It couldn't have been an easy night.

Gulp.

I was now ready for da Droog.

From the off there was a nervousness about the band. Apparently, the gig in Cardiff the previous night hadn't gone so well.

Dyl Mei - shaper of beats and refashioner of Morricone riffs - had thought that the sound was crap and was equally worried about the impromptu P.A. here in Bangor.

The band were on stage for a good five minutes, geeing each other up and looking a little on edge, before they rattled into the first song.

Oh no, I thought, Dyl was right. The sound was wrong. But this is what first songs are for [an impressive new number that radicalized the Spaghetti Western with beats that would have had Public Enemy nodding in approval]. By the end of it, the crowd were gravitating towards the dancefloor. Mr Phormula broke into a magnetic smile. His foil: 9 Tonne Square Bagz seized the initiative and lassooed the audience in with some breathtaking rhyming and wordplay.

Wow. This was good.

The only criticism people ever throw at Genod Droog is that they're all about performance. Thats like criticising a Ferrari because it can go fast. Sometimes, however, in amidst the colour and energy and wonder of Genod Droog's set, it's easy to lose focus and forget that these are incredible pieces of music - songs - that they're performing.

Tonight there is none of the theatric accoutrements on stage.

No balloons. No silly string guns.

They - obviously - have a point to prove.

This band can do it without the pyrotechnics.

Oh, and can they!

The audience start to move as one, led by Nei's hand gestures, like he's a human conductor with the beats as his baton. Mr Phormula is more reserved, but this - apparently - is the group dynamic. It's why Liverpool's season is falling to shit. When Gerrard [in this case, Mr Phormula] is having a quiet [but by no means rubbish game], someone else is there ready to step up to the plate [Nei], and - next gig- no doubt, the roles will be reversed.

It works brilliantly.

The invention and energy coming from the stage is cleverly rationed. Dyl Mei isn't the Brian Wilson of Welsh electro cinematic beat symphonies for nothing.

When the pace drops, the harmonics and melodies soar up to fill the space, taking us with them.

That's the Gwyneth Glyn one I'm talking about, I think. But by this stage, I'm bouncing and jumping and getting elbowed in the eyehole along with the best of them. Utterly hooked, utterly up, utterly enjoying myself, and utterly transported from the shitstorm outside, from the grey-tug of 21st century anxiety. I am party-ing!

RAH!

As, Mr Akira the Don would say.


Phormula leads a conga through the audience and I'm left breathless, invigorated, sweaty and a little perplexed.

Where do Genod Droog go now?

This is the best live gig I have seen in memory.

This is something that could tear the roof off arenas.

This is - potentially - commercial gold.

Why hasn't a record label ripped their own arms off in an attempt to throw the blank cheques at the band before anyone else?

WHY?

I have seen enough and heard enough in my thirteen years working in Welsh music to know that this is as good as anything I've seen - and, more importantly - as good as anything I've heard.

I get the sense that Genod Droog know this.

They know that they have to make a leap into the unknown.

They probably don't know in which direction to leap.

That choice is the key one.

I hope that someone is giving them good advice because the world needs a band like this.

It's potentially that big.

We drift off into the hurricane outside.

DJ Fuzzyfelt - somehow - manages to navigate through the torrent to Ruthin, to drop a brilliantly tipsy Soundhog off, then to Shotton to drop Ben Neb off [oh, I get it!], then to Hoole in Chester to drop me off.

I try to give him petrol money but he says I should just give the whole £20 the next time I see him.

What £20?

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