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Sunday, 27 September 2015
Review by Neil Taylor of a "Suede: Animal Nitrate" bootleg video from 1993
Isn't life like an over-hyped gig by the latest sensation? I've just watched an old video of a Suede gig from back in the day; way back in the day. You look at the crowd and you can't help but be struck by human nature. During the meat of Animal Nitrate the ebb and flow makes it all slot into place. You've got the people at the front, the possessed. They get there early and protect it solidly throughout. They don't shimmy and sway, they are like the brick wall between the light and the rest of the people. Nothing would persuade them to move a fucking inch. These cunts are old money. Well educated and schooled in defending what's obviously rightfully theirs. Just behind these cunts you've got the pretenders. Yeah, they've got Brett Anderson posters and have tried on their Mum's lipstick, but they weren't there at the beginning and/or lack courage to get to the front. Devout as those at the front; as slavish to the same ideal, but lacking in either education or courage to knee the cunt in front in the back of their thigh. Endlessly bitter, always looking down on those not feeling so fervent, but aching to climb over those just in front. But unable to because they're too energetic. These are the cunts we've all worked with that tell us off for not giving a fuck enough about emptying the bins at the end of the shift. Behind these cunts, you have the masses. The throbbing, swaying masses. A conglomerate of desperados and housewives. Butchers and nobodies. Just glad not to be stuck at home watching Coronation Street. They like Suede, like life, but they can take it or leave it. Each time. If the train to the gig hadn't turned up, they wouldn't have been broken hearted. But they dance as furiously as the scathing fuckers in front, scowling at them for having the temerity to dare to crash into their world of idealism and wonder. They still aren't overly concerned about missing the train home, but evidently the cunts in front are. Then at the back you have those that don't leave the bar throughout. What to make of them? They could be as passionate about the band as those pressed against the barriers up front, but they can't be arsed with it all. They may not even like music at all, but just enjoy observing the swarm in full effect. Who fucking knows? But isn't looking at the whole of that somehow like looking at this society? As I was just watching it, that's how it seemed. But I am drunk. I'm staying fucking drunk.
About the reviewer Neil Taylor is not a sailor but lives in Loughborough.