[From the September 1995 issue of Craze magazine.]
Lance knocks back the rest of his champagne and shrugs.
“It’s all right. I mean, it’s a decent crop of new bands and they’re all doing fairly decently. It happens. I’m not convinced it’s earth-shattering. I haven’t heard anything that, like, radically influences me or sends me scratching my head back to the drawing board. But it’s pretty healthy, I s’pose. A f*ck sight better than the crap that was around when we first came out. I quite like Sleeper, she writes good lyrics. Supergrass are cool.”
A foreign writer asks who he’s rooting for in the great Blur/ Oasis single battle.
“Neither, I think both songs are shit.”
But which group does he prefer?
“Slade.”
CRAZE: Do you see yourself as part of, or an alternative to, the current explosion?
“I don’t see why we have to be either.”
CRAZE: Were you ever concerned that you’d be superfluous to it?
“How do you mean?”
CRAZE: Rendered unnecessary?
“I knew this was coming. I dunno. You tell me. Why would we be?”
CRAZE: You’re part of the old guard. Pretty much everyone else has been swept away.
“Like who?”
CRAZE: You know. The Cure. The Wonder Stuff. The Mission. James. Pop Will Eat Itself. Carter. Jesus Jones.
“Yeah, and you’ve forgotten Ned’s Atomic Dustbin, Eat and Kingmaker, and why don’t you throw in Gaye Bikers on Acid and Dumpy’s Rusty Nuts while you’re at it?”
About half the room laugh. The others look puzzled. Lance continues.
“You must’ve got that list off the back of an old Camden Palace flyer. You see … we’ve never had much in common with that lot. We’ve always been more than capable of moving on, and we’re not stopping now just ’cos there’s suddenly a cool new scene for all you cool new people to shake your record bags to. I mean, why shouldn’t people continue listening to us? Why is it such a surprise? It’s not as if we’re doing something completely contrary to what’s happening now. We use guitars. We’re British. We write real pop songs about real life. And we still rock harder than anyone. A lot of the new bands rock about as hard as Simply Red.”
CRAZE: But you represent a bygone era.
“No. That’s just what you’ve decided, because the goths and grebos used to dig us, and ’cos we’re from Reading. It’s a complete fallacy. I bet you won’t be asking Shaun Ryder the same question.”
CRAZE: Does a backlash scare you?
“From the press? We’ve already had four of them. One after each album. We’d survived our first one probably before you finished your GCSEs.” [Laughs]
CRAZE: What about from the public?
“No,” he scowls. “You read Music Week—look at the sales figures, mate. The record’s already gone platinum, and it’ll probably be double by the time the Blur album comes out. And that’s just Britain. So I don’t think anyone at BFM’s losing sleep just yet.”
Deciding the conference has reached a natural conclusion, he rises, delivers one of his characteristic cheeky grins, gathers up his routinely silent bandmates and departs. Although he’s slightly more defensive than we’ve come to expect, the consensus is that his acerbic style is on fine form and that it’s business, for the foreseeable future, as usual.
So it comes as some surprise five hours later when, in front of fifty thousand people, Lance Webster single-handedly ensures that the significant portion of his own musical career is drawn to a rapid close.
“Summer’s gone, days spent with the grass and sun…” Hang on.
“I don’t mind, to pretend I do seems really dumb…” You’ve woken up. Which means you must have fallen asleep. The last streak of daylight in the sky has gone. So has your good mood. You’re pissed. In the British and American senses of the word. That last little half-pill has wormed its way into your bloodstream, blended with the alcohol and made your head hurt, in that sort of nonhurting way that ecstasy does. Your mouth is dry. Anything left in the beer cup? Nope. Better get another one.
But they’re playing your favourite Boo Radleys song. Hell, it’s everyone’s favourite Boo Radleys song this summer. Apart from those who liked them before they turned into The Monkees. You struggle to your feet. The tune is blasting out. The crowd’s loving it. Impressive stuff. Wake up, Boo. There’s so many things for us to do.
Like dance. Sod it, it’s a pop song. What’s a little head-throbbing. You frug away, belting out the lyrics with the rest of the mob. But something else is strange. The chanting mob in question is quite far away. There are lots of other people next to you, though. Huh. Truth is, these particular neighbours don’t seem to like this breezy little indie-pop song much. One look at their faces explains why. The hair, pallor and interesting beards. And the T-shirts. Fear Factory. Sepultura. Slayer. Cradle of Filth. You’re surrounded by them. And they’re not happy. Christ knows why they’re here. Probably because Skunk Anansie played earlier and now they’re too drunk to move. But you’re dancing, jumping, hollering (“You can’t blame me, not for the death of summer”) without a care in your boozed-up and loved-up world. Although … it does make you feel a little self-conscious, behaving like this, alone, in a sea of dark metal. Why don’t they like it? What’s wrong with a little … . frivolity occasionally? Why does music have to continually refer to crucifixes, disorder unleashed, seasons in the abyss and principles of evil made flesh in order to get these corpses moving?
“Am I the only one enjoying this?”
Apparently you are.
“What’s wrong with you?”
You’re shouting.
“Why are you all so f*cking miserable?”
Hang on. You’re shouting. That’s why they’re all turning round, looking strangely at you.
“Why don’t you all piss off back to your tents and stick on some f*cking Napalm Death?”
No. Not nice. Rude. Pretty dangerous too, as there are about forty of them and only one silly little pissed indie wanker.
“Just because you’ve spent the last f*cking ten years listening to the same Iron Maiden record.”
“Leave it, mate, all right.”
One of them has spoken to you. Quietly, almost kindly. You won’t like me when I’m angry. A threat you skilfully ignore.
“You’re all dull as shit. Oooh, look at me, I’m so dark and damaged.”
“Mate, why don’t you just mind your own f*cking business?”
Another of them. Less quiet, not particularly kind at all.
“I was! But you’re f*cking … prohibiting me from enjoying myself!”
Ah. The logic of the heavily intoxicated.
“Go and stand somewhere else, then!”
A girl this time. Knee-length black hair, face jewellery, Nine Inch Nails T-shirt. Apparently about three feet tall.
“I was bloody here first!”
“It’s not fookin’ reserved seating, mate.”
Birmingham accent.
“Yeah, but it’s a bloody festival, you could at least f*cking—”
“I’ve heard about enough of this shit.”
New guy. Big guy. Enormous guy. Shaved head. Beard you could store cigarettes in. Sick of It All T-shirt.
“If you don’t button it or f*ck off, I’m going to personally see to it that you finish your evening locked inside an overturned Port-a-loo.”
Sometimes a hopeless drunken argument is assailed by a moment of clarity. This is such a moment. But you’re still drunk. To completely back down now would be as unnatural as mooning in front of your girlfriend’s parents. So, unable to bend, you break.
“Yaaaaaaaaaahhhh!!!!”
This is you. You’re screaming. You’re hurling out limbs in every available direction, pushing past the massive dude and tearing through the comatose herd of metallers. As only the very f*cked can, you leap and shove and sprint, hollering abuse in a language that doesn’t resemble English but perhaps Hungarian, ignoring the various observations (“Oy, watch it, you cock”) that drift into your ears as you pass. On and on you race, until the black and Judas Priest give way to the brown and Teenage Fanclub, then finally the white and Oasis. Not that you prefer this brand of people, but they’re at least dancing and the danger is over. The Boos are on their last song by now, you’re about twenty yards away from Mister Carr himself, you’ve got that sweating-buckets heat-rush thing going on and the stage lights are illuminating everyone in your immediate vicinity. Suddenly the festival seems very small, intimate, like it’s taking place in a school sports hall with oversized equipment. You look around frantically for something to drink. A girl next to you has a pint, but … naaah, even you can surmise that she won’t want some gurning fool nagging on her beverage. Instead you approach a nearby Graham Coxon look-alike who has a camping water bottle dangling from his rucksack.
“Mate, can I have a sip of your water?”
“Nah, man, it’s vodka and blackcurrant.”
“Wicked.”
Although this isn’t perhaps the reply he expects, Coxon shrugs and hands the bottle over. You’ve drunk about half of it before he grabs the bottle back.
“That’ll do.”
You acknowledge his generosity with a grunt and a belch. It’s only then that it hits you how strong the mixture was. The guy probably just added a small carton of blackcurrant juice to a whole bottle of vodka. Oh well. Needs must when you’ve an evening of meat-and-potatoes guitar music to get through. You catch your breath slightly at the hot tingling sensation all over your body and turn your somewhat flexible attention back to the action onstage.
[From the Daily Telegraph, 14 August 1995.]
POTTED MAGPIE
Lance Webster, 28, vocalist with the indie-rock group Thieving Magpies, was arrested on Saturday night for drunk and disorderly behaviour. Webster had brawled with security staff and repeatedly insulted the audience at the Aylesbury Festival, during a headline appearance which was abandoned after twenty-five minutes. The band, best known for their 1992 album Bruise Unit, have subsequently cancelled several concerts in Europe and the US.
“I stare at my face, I know every trace, and I make it hard to get along, to get along with me …”
“Yeah.”
“Bills and heartburn …”
“Yuh … ills and s-soaps …”
This is you.
“And flickin through the books you’ve read before …” “Read befo-ooore-ah …” You’re singing. “Tears come easy …” “… ears come easyyyyeeeah …”
You can’t sing. But you’re singing all the same. To a song you’ve never heard before.
“Words come hard, but there really isn’t much …”
“Much to say no moooo-ooorre.”
“I stare at my face …”
“Yeahh-aaye stare at maaah face …”
“Sorry man.”
It’s Coxon again.
“Uh?”
“Sorry pal, can you give it a rest?”
“Give what a rest?”
“The singing. Sorry. Trying to listen.”
“Am I not allowed to sing?”
“Sorry friend. It’s just that—”
“What?”
“It’s, um, not very good.”
“Who are you? Freddie Mercury?”
“No, but … the words …”
“It’s a f*cking gig.”
“I know, but—”
“Everyone’s singing.”
“Well, not really to this one—”
“Uh?”
“Well, it’s a new song. He said it’s a new one.”
You puff yourself up.
“Well, I know it.”
“Um … how?”
“How?”
“Yes. It’s brand-new.”
“I have the album.”
“Mate, the f*cking album isn’t out yet.”
“I got an advance copy.”
“Bollocks.”
“I’m a music journalist.”
“F*cking right, man. I’m a music journalist too, and they haven’t even finished recording the damn thing.”
“They gave me some demos.”
Coxon is shaking his head, exasperated.
“Mate, you’re full of it.”
You ponder this charge for a moment as the band play on. Unable to fully disagree with the man, you change tack.
“Who d’you write for anyway?”
He ignores you.
“Come on! Who d’you write for?”
He turns back to you and gives a wide, sarcastic smile.
“Craze.”
“Craze? That pile of crap?”
First he looks astonished at your intuition, then turns away. “F*cking weirdo,” he mutters.
“You’re a bunch of clowns, man,” you continue. “That rag is so f*cking superficial they should give it away for free with packets of chewing gum.”
“F*ck off.”
“Are you proud of your work when it comes out?”
“Why, who do you f*cking write for?”
You’ve become an expert at sidestepping this particular question.
“Plus, you’re the only pieces of shit that gave the Magpies album a bad review.”
Finally at his wits’ end, Coxon spins round and grabs you by the neck of your T-shirt.
“I know! I wrote it!”
He glares at you for a few seconds, then pushes you away. The rest of the crowd are now heartily cheering as the triumphant Boo Radleys leave the stage. You, however, are oblivious to this.
“You’re Tony Gloster?”
He has his back turned now, joining in the applause.
“Oi! Are you really Tony Gloster?”
This has clearly impressed you, one way or the other. You tug on his rucksack.
“Tony!”
“Piss off!” he roars, shoving you off again. “What do you want from me, knobhead?”
He angrily turns to go.
“Hey! Tony! Where you going? You’ll miss the Magpies.”
Gloster glowers at you for the last time, then spits out five words that contain not one trace of doubt.
“The Thieving Magpies are finished.”