“Can I sit here and get drunk until my friend arrives and we order some food?”
“Of course you can – come and sit here so that we can watch you – it might be entertaining.”
“Thanks.”
“Here’s a cocktail list.”
Saturday evening started promisingly in the Camden Cantina. And though I love the bloated contentedness created by gorging on a meal packed with spices, fat and carbohydrates, this was not to be the highlight of the evening. I had heard some joyous news that morning that had altered my evening plans. The nice lady on the radio had informed me that Sheep On Drugs were headlining at the Camden Underworld that very evening.
Sheep On Drugs are a very highly thought of band in quite small circles. I hadn’t seen the live since I was a stoodent, and their claim to chart-topping fame was their entry into the Top 40, straight in at number 39. Top Of The Pops, that wholesome carnival of glitter and pop, actually billed them as ‘Sheep’. Clearly, suggesting that there were such things as ‘Sheep on Drugs’ was too dangerous for the British teenager. It didn’t matter to the producers what the name actually meant. It could have been about real sheep, injected with amphetamines and covered in special flourescent paint. A herd of paintbrushes that could be used to lay the paint in amusing patterns by stoned border collies. The hills of Wales would come alive with secret messages from the dogs to the world, when viewed under ultraviolet light. Or it could have been that Sheep on Drugs was about the masses of herdlike ecstacy users who would act mindlessly under the influence of trance music. Whatever it was, the producers cropped the band name to ‘Sheep’.
That Sheep on Drugs were quite this unpopular had its advantages – tickets were still available on the door. Even the band themselves were heard to remark, “F*cking hell, some people have actually turned up.” before ripping into some of their golden tracks such as ‘Catch 22′, and ’15 Minutes of Fame’. Half of the duo in the original line-up had gone. Lee, the tattoed guy with the custard blonde shock of hair was there. This time there were no hyperdermic needles sticking out of his forearm. The other guy, Duncan, did not appear – the skinhead bloke with the Hitler moustache. However, a remarkable woman in a rubber corset who has replaced the Hitler skinhead more than matched his charm. The last time I had seen Sheep on Drugs, said skinhead had tried to kick me in the head while I was at the front of the stage. The remarkable woman did nothing more offensive than play a single string on her bass guitar and moan into the microphone in a way that some of the pvc-sporting crowd described as “Quite erotic.” Hence her moniker – the Queen of Sleaze.
Sheep On Drugs were utterly marvellous, and I shall be endeavouring to see them some more on Monday the 12th May, when they play at Cargo of all places, as part of their Pleasure and Pain World Tour.
The evening continued to get better in even more surprising ways – a friend phoned up at closing time, saying that he was in London on a stag do in London – quite unexpected given that he lives and works in Detroit. In no time, I was united with the stag party, and talking about life, love and methylated spirits with my friend, on the wrong side of a well funded drinks kitty.