No sooner had I finished my rant yesterday morning [sorry for that, incidentally] and little electrical sparks were flying between parts of my memory that I haven't explored for many years.
And I remembered 60ft Dolls.
My wife recorded Later With Jools Holland for me while I was out DJ'ing last Friday night. She knows I love P.J. Harvey, y'see. Elsewhere on the smugfest, Stereophonics were plodding through a couple of their new songs. Kelly looked sullen. The sound was as brown as shitwater. They exuded all of the charisma of a moth at midday. How on earth did the world manage to get presented on a silver platter at their feet instead of at the feet of 60ft Dolls?
They were only a couple of years apart, after all.
They were both classic three-pieces.
They both had singers with great, soulful rock voices.
They both came from working class communities in South Wales that had endured over a decade of being fucked over.
And that's where the comparisons end.
One band's live experience was like being locked in a cage with drunk tigers playing nitro glycerine instruments. The other's was like being on a minibus with a bunch of pensioners humming their favourite Creedence Clearwater Revival b-sides.
Which does the pensioners a great disservice.
The first time I saw 60ft Dolls I thought they were going to knock the world off its axis, such was the combustible power of what was going on on stage.
The first time I saw Stereophonics they played a cover version of 'I Love Rock 'n' Roll'.
©Adam Walton
2010
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