wembley hell placebo

Driving in London scares me. I know it shouldn't, after all, I did grow up there. But whenever I have to go to an area I don't know, I think back to a survey carried out my a motoring organisation five or so years back. They concluded that half of the road signs were either missing or pointing in the wrong direction. Since the GPS on my phone gets confused by any building taller than a shed, I bought an A-Z with my petrol. I did eventually find the Wembley complex, although it may have had more to do with luck than judgment.

The roadsigns?

Aaaarrrrrrrrrrrggggggg!!!

They can put up signs every 50 meters on every bloody road informing you of the speed limit and the presence of speed cameras. Would it be too much to expect even an occasional sign telling you which fucking road you are actually on, coupled with other useful hints (like the direction you are driving in, for example?) Apparently so. Do the powers-that-be not realise that most people do not want to be in north London? They just want road signs telling you how to get the hell out of there...

(One rant down)

Anyway, I arrived at Wembley around 4 pm. Kind of early, I know, but as well as giving me a better chance to get down near the front, I could avoid the M25 during a Friday rush hour. Billed as Placebo's last gig until 2006, there was a pretty multinational feel to the crowd; I think people had travelled from all over Europe to be there. I speak virtually no French, but when the girl in the queue behind me said something that loosely translated as "Fuck me, I'm cold!" I could understand perfectly. A fairly good indication that I've spent too much time in the lab with Emilie, my foul-mouthed French fellow postgrad!

In front of me was a group of kids (you know you're getting old when you describe people as kids)... including girls that pretty much personified every rant I've ever made about Fucking Annoying People at Gigs.

"Oh, I sit on my boyfriends shoulders at festivals..."
"oooo, I like the Ramones (never mind that most of them were dead before you hit puberty) and I think Busted and McFly are soooo cool"
"aahhhh, and I like, you know, like going down the front at gigs, because guys usually let me infront of them 'cause I'm short..."

Oh, wake the fuck up you vacuous dumb blonde airhead bitch... they let you infront of them because you're sickeningly cute jailbait with your tits on display, and apparently have no shame about fluttering your overdone eyelashes to get your own way. Urgh! Do I sound bitter??

First up were The Departure... although from what exactly I couldn't tell. They didn't totally suck, or anything... they were just rather generic, with no particularly good songs. Their music, styling and posturing all reminded me of Franz Ferdinand... about the only outstanding thing about them were the bass player's cheekbones.

I wasn't sure quite what to expect of Har Mar Superstar. Some people in the queue told me they were "kind of funky", and that the bloke often finishes up jumping around the stage in his pants (for Americans, read underpants, I think). So before they came on, I was intrigued and looking forward to the set.

Holy fucking fuck!

I have seen some bloody awful support acts. I honestly can't remember ever seeing something so bad. It had road crash karma: you know you're not supposed to look, but you can't help it.

I decided perhaps I was being overly judgmental. I closed my eyes and just tried to see if there was any actual song-writing talent under the ridiculous backing tapes, flabby torso, man-tits, and oversized ego. Nope... none to be found. When they announced they "only had three more songs" left to play, I spent them all wishing I had an Uzi. And lots of ammunition. By this point, he had stripped down to his trousers; I just stood there praying he wouldn't remove them. Thankfully, he didn't.

Why-oh-why? They could have booked Saint Silas Intercession. Or the Ga Gas. Or better still, both.

(second rant over)

So, before Placebo came on, I was standing there thinking "you bastards had better bloody be worth all this..." I needn't have worried. The came on to the tune of Taste in Men, the crowd went wild, and two of the whiny little bitches in front of me got slammed out of the way (in my defence, I've never actually claimed to be a nice person...).

Anyway, the setlist for anyone who cares:

Taste In Men
The Bitter End
Every You Every Me
Protege Moi
Black-Eyed
Special Needs
English Summer Rain
I Do
This Picture
Special K
Slave To The Wage
36 Degrees (Re-worked version)
Pure Morning

Twenty Years
Without You I'm Nothing (with Special Guest Robert Smith)
Boys Don't Cry (with Robert Smith)

Teenage Angst (Acoustic Version)
Nancy Boy

It's got to be said, I failed to get too excited about Robert Smith as a special, surprise guest. Boys Don't Cry did sound good, and is now added to a short list of Cure-songs-that-don't-suck. I know he has a trademark look, but he's a compelling argument in favour of stylists. At the very least, he could have let Brian do his make-up...



(pic lifted from placeboworld.co.uk)

Anyway, the gig fucking rocked. Security sucked - by refusing to hand out water (they preferred instead to haul out a small army of the highly dehydrated and semi-conscious). I even had a good drive home. I just hope they don't split... their goodbye sounded a little too final. Possibly just Brian being a drama queen.

The verdict? Worth every penny. And assuming they're still together, Roll on 2006.