PART ONE OF OUR ADVENTURES AT THE TAKEOVER STARTS HERE

....For want of a better (and less ubiquitous) phrase Three Trapped Tigers are completely fucking bonkers, truly the polar opposite of Tim and Sams terribly named band.  Twisting out a distorted electronic firestorm that makes Aphex Twin sound like Kenny G, they are heavy, foul ; the scratchy doom-laden keyboards slash the wrists of frenzied, deliberate drumbeats that lodge themselves in your brainstem.  The three tigers onstage give little mind to audience interaction, with their heads down and generally devoid of bobbing (fitting really), though the right-sided keyboard player looks as though he’s possessed by exactly the sort of drugs that should be taken when listening to them.  For this is a ketamine nightmare of a band; a headfirst leap into some dark and dirty soul-searching that is only available to those willing to plumb the depths that your Mum and Dad never did.  And they’re great. 

Inner ears rattled and spines shivered, we are desperate to get across to Vibe for Kill it Kid, but get waylaid by two Austrahlian lassies who, it appears, take rather a shine to us.  It’s unfortunate that neither of them is particularly pleasing to the eye and that both are excruciatingly annoying, but we chat chat chat, and despite our efforts to dissuade them they decide to follow us to Kill it Kid; this isn’t ideal, but they are soon forgotten as the Bath roots-rock maestros show that a year and half of relentless gigging has seen them grow into quite a different proposition than before.  Everything’s harder, louder, the edges fuzzier.  The interplay between Steph Ward and lead Chris Turpin and his booming, Hegarty-cum-Waits  voice is still central, but there’s definitely a bit less Robert Johnson, and a lot more Led Zeppelin.

Chris himself is markedly different- gone is the unassuming, slightly embarrassed  lead finding his feet on the stage, in his place is a stomping, (almost) strutting frontman, spazzing out during several furious solo’s and chatty between songs,  comfortably showing his anger and having a dig at them with the power when the band have to cut short their set.  ‘Dirty Water’ is a mix of sassy and huge, sealing its place as one of the strongest songs on their debut album.  But most exciting is new song ‘Let My Feet Fall Heavy’, which they finish on and paves the way for a band with a new direction; the roots are still strong, but they’re now combined with a thrashing, darker edge that all the band members look comfortable with.

Happy, drunk and ever so slightly damp we stand chatting. 

‘Hiiiiiiii guys.’

Fuck.

‘Errrrrr.  I’ve gotta do an interview now, gotta run,’ I say.  Genius.
‘Yeah!’ Chris says. ‘He’s gotta do an interview! ’
‘We’ll just try and catch you later, it’ll take a while’ I say, really hoping they get the point of what I’m fucking saying.
‘Oh that’s so cool!’  Urgh. ‘That’s okay, we’ll just wait for you over there.’  One of them points to the floor outside the room, where you have to walk past to get down the stairs.
‘Really?  Right there?  As in on the floor?’
‘Yeah. Just there.  Enjoy your interview.’

They leave, and I am forced to procure an interview so we introduce ourselves to Chris who thankfully  seems sympathetic to our plight and happily keeps us from the pursuers.  Ten minutes pass and Chris (my Chris) has a peek:

‘They’re still there, but they’re talking to someone and looking the other way.’
‘Well don’t just fucking stand there man. Run! Move!’
 
Waving goodbye to Kill it Kid Chris we streak away, take the stairs 5 at a time and crash into the bar, hiding behind a couple of particularly big Scandinavians.  Beers are ordered and we feel pretty smug in our cowardliness.

There was word of a party at The Brickhouse later, so we wait an hour or so in Vibe bar where everyone is exceptionally friendly and chatting inbetween groups- there’s a genuine festival feeling, different to other city events where there seems more quarter given to showing off, dusting off the heels of your points and slipping each other a digit each time you mention a band the other hasn’t heard of. Time flies and we find ourselves at Brickhouse Hour so we make the wondrously short journey there, before stopping dead just as we get ten metres from the entrance;

‘HEY! Where did you guys go? We waited for you and you never came.’

The Somme

Chris grabs my arm and whispers: ‘Lets just go.’

‘No way.  There’s booze in there.  It won’t cost us anything. We’re staying.  Leave this to me...oh, er, hi...sorry... hrmmph, ‘ I’m stalling, lost for an answer and cursing our luck, turn to my right, ‘ Chris?’

‘We were backstage.’

ZING!  What. A. Guy. The fact there is no backstage to speak of at Vibe Bar is an irrelevance here.  I’m  proud of him. 

‘Oh, fair enough,’ says the slightly more attractive one.  We thought you two must have gone home back to yours.’
‘Back to ours’? I say.
‘Back to ours?’ Chris says.
‘Yeah, yours. ‘
‘What do you mean back to ours?
‘Yeah, what do you mean back to ours?’
‘You two are gay right?’

Never in your life have you seen two vaguely effeminate blond men throw back their shoulders so fast, straighten their backs and splutter a stream of pro-hetero statements.

‘Love birds and tits!’
‘I’ve got a season ticket at Tottenham.  They’re a football team.’
‘I watched Rambo three times last week. ’

After this she dissects our appearance and tells us exactly what gave her the impression that we are gay (if you think I’m going to tell you this then you are quite mistaken). 

‘I’ll take you home and shag you right now,’ say I, desperately trying to prove that I’m a bloody bloke, with bloody balls and a cock that works when I want it to. 

I slept alone.

 


Thanks to Bruce@Get Involved and all the lovely Macmillan folk, especially Sam, who put up with a lot of drivel from me but was very nice about it in The Brickhouse.

Posted In Festivals, Feb 18 2011. Words - David