It’s a snake with a line, a shape with only one eye!

Whoo-hoo! The Easter holidays have well and truly begun!

Teachers around the country can lie in, loaf about and generally look back sheepishly at the days when they thought they were going to have to get a real job.

Usually this is the cue for scenes of modest revelry – possibly even a trip to the pub on a Tuesday night, but this Easter has begun with myself and fellow-traveller Coleser jumping into a car, zig-zagging across the country in search of the full range of sybaritic delights the East Midlands can offer. With his customary eye for the deal, Coleser had spotted that not only were Gloucester due to play that Sunday in Northampton, a town where we have friends who could be persuaded to put us up for a night; but also this lot of grubby hooligans were due to play there the night before.

Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs, Esquires, Bedford

We probably should get this out of the way, first – the name, it’s just daft, a pain in the arse, and not the only thing about the band that I don’t really get (and I’d be adrift without Coleser’s ingenious nursery-rhyme-themed way of counting off the “pigs”).

In what’s becoming something of a recurring theme, I was not really familiar with the porcine oeuvre, excepting the odd (ultimately unsuccessful) foray onto YouTube. The impression I was left with was that this was lead-lined, heavy, heavy music.

A gig’s a gig, though, eh? And we rocked up at what may turn out to be my only visit to Bedford’s foremost indie venue, with hope in the heart and a ticket in the pocket – and let me tell you, friends, life doesn’t get a whole lot better than this. In times of national humiliation and chicanery, a Gig is, refreshingly, still most definitely a Gig.

Support band Blóm were kind of fun, exploiting the full freedom a limited pallet of bass, drums and shouting can offer, with a number of nervy forays into the audience that involved mic wires trailing provocatively over and around feet, in a health & safety nightmare that had me looking around anxiously for some of those yellow floor signs – “Caution! Screaming in Progress!”

Shambling on, to the eager tones of the Grandstand theme, Pigs x7 were soon among us, though. The sound was as heavy and blunt as I’d imagined and was somehow intensified by the deadening effect of a man with the cloth ears that thirty years gig-going will give him. It was exhilarating but pretty one paced – all a bit Black Sabbath without “Paranoid”, Motorhead without the silliness. At their most successful, they sounded like a sedated T Rex, but there was not really enough humour about them to maintain this. I’d been promised dark scenes of reckless abandon in the mosh-pit – men tearing their shirts off and losing all semblance of discretion – which didn’t quite materialise. There were moments, for sure, but nothing that made me fear for my safety.

Chubby frontman, Matt Baty led the battery with bare-chested enthusiasm and an ill-advised line in mic-lead S&M poses (again… will nobody think of the health & safety implications?), but there wasn’t a lot of texture in the set, no light and shade over the course of the evening – pretty much just shade. I’d been hoping for some ironic, Ripley Johnson –style motorik behind it all…

It was actually a better night than I think I’m making it sound – there are few experiences as electrifying as the feel of the floor thrumming beneath your feet or the sense of your ears weakening at every touch of the bass player’s fingers on nylon.

I do have a couple of recordings for you, the first and last songs of the night, which I am reliably informed are the Pigs x7 “hits”. I’ve not tried to clean them up, they remain beguilingly grimy (x7)

GNT

A66

[Oh, and to complete a cracking weekend, a patched-up Glaws team with a scrum half at full back, an inside centre at fly half and a flanker on the wing, held on for a famous win at Franklin’s Gardens. But you knew that already, right?]

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