The Trashies – Space Jam (Minor Bird)

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By Tamsin Chapman

I really don’t want to review the Trashies new album. This band are all about mindless fun and words aren’t doing it for me. It just feels wrong to be sitting at my computer trying to fashion staid, coherent sentences about what they sound like. Garage grooves. Poundatious drums. Looney Tunes organ. Vocals like Miss Piggy gone feral. Chants and hollers. Twang. Twang. TWANNNNGGGGG.

I could review ‘Space Jam’ by dancing to it, but I’ve done that before.

I can’t concentrate on writing, this is what I’d rather be doing …

Night time and a bad moon is rising. I’m dancing frenziedly in a cramped and steaming dive venue, rivulets of sweat rolling down my crannies, head shaking like a horse shedding a tick, arms and legs a-flail as if drowning in 70 seas of sleaze. Not caring how insane I look, drinking and silly, being rude and falling over. Shannon And The Clams play (currently on tour with The Trashies – oh man, almost worth moving to America for that). Dirty, rumbling, nasty, glorious, primal EEK. Like this:

Then The Trashies play, like this:

They blister, they stoopid, they teeter on the edge of the universe, they rule with a tremolo tremens fist. I get hotter and hotter, but the only thing that matters is having a great fat slab of idiot good times.

They play the last song. Is that it? Hang on, what’s that grinding sound? Kind of bendy and whooping and hungry? It’s coming from outside. Oh my God! A spaceship shaped like Poison Ivy’s Gretsch has landed outside the venue. Oh my God! The aliens are all 10 foot high Siamese cats dressed like Dave Hill from Slade! They come in peace. They bear FUN. They also have chilli peanuts. We climb on board and cruise the skies and ram-raid Jupiter just for kicks. The music doesn’t stop, it keeps coming frantic and frenetic and downright fearsome. There is nothing in the solar system but intense brain-mangling rock’n’roll’n’dancing’n’smashing things up and shrieking with hilarity and god-damn senseless excess. YEAH!

I wake the next morning with no memory of the night’s previous events. Check my head – no hangover – good. Check my body – no sign of anal probe activity – good. But what’s this blurry, unidentifiable mark on the back of my hand? It looks like more than just a gig entry stamp. Could it be a Sign? A Vestige of the Unknown and Unknowable? I sniff it. Smells like spilt bourbon, guitar grease and peanuts. Smells like The Trashies.

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