Sunday 4th September - Skid Row @ The Bierkeller

Even with directions, I hate driving into cities I don’t know. I’d only been to Bristol once before. I came in by train, and I find it much easier to navigate on foot. Anyway, with a leap or two of faith (and a little help from The AA), I found the Travelodge and ditched my poor old Ford in their car park. No-one’s ever going to steal my car, indeed I often wonder why I bother locking it, but the various scatterings of broken auto glass warned me not to leave anything more valuable inside than a couple of scuffed up pairs of boots (and an inflatable shark...)

I can imagine the Travelodge is cosy enough in winter, but this was an oppressively sticky, humid day; the hotel windows didn’t open, and they didn’t have air-con. I thought ahead to the evening’s gig, and could imagine the sweatiness that was to follow.

Skid Row were playing Bristol’s Bierkeller. It’s an odd venue, with copious amounts of seating around the main floor, and almost unnervingly low ceilings. As soon as I saw the (knee height) stage, I had flashbacks to a gig in Cardiff where the crew spent much of the gig going ape-shit. As the crowd went nuts, the people at the front were shoved forward, pushing the monitors across the stage, and knocking everything in their path loose. I’d spent the next two weeks wearing black, very opaque tights to cover the bruises on my knees as they cycled through various colours that living flesh should never be (the green was my personal favourite). Before the first band came on, the security guys belatedly began constructing a barrier. I felt like a wimp as I breathed a small sigh of relief.

Gripshift were OK. I find it hard to dislike any band that has a girl guitarist. However, a good stylist may have been able to drag them kicking and (almost certainly) screaming into the 21st century.

Next up (again) were Hhhheeaaaooonnn (name still unknown, now sounds like singer attempting violent throat clearance). Their music was at least starting to grow on me, and when they did occasionally bore me, their guitarist made an attractive distraction. Again, a VCR was sacrificed with the mallet, and I was still no wiser as to why. At the end of the set, some of the guys to my left were clamouring over broken plastic pieces of the smashed-up video recorder. I will admit to being a sad muppet... but sweet Jesus!

Anyway, the important bit: Skid Row. The gig started off a little slow, but after a few songs, they had the crowd (including myself) eating out of their hands. The sound was much better than Rock City, although not quite so deafeningly loud.

Before long, it felt like even the walls were sweating, and the nice security people started handing out glasses of water. As I tipped the first of many over my head in a desperate attempt to cool down, I prayed that I’d used waterproof mascara, and felt pity for the poor bastards behind me, who must have been hit with a slick of diluted Frizz-Ease.

Personally, the highlight was Rachel singing his cover of The Ramones’ Psychotherapy. I can’t imagine how many times he must have played that song, but tonight, it felt like the first time. Someone had really put a rocket up his arse. Or he was high. He also won the award for The Coolest T-Shirt... it was black, with Psych Ward emblazoned across the front in stencil-style lettering. I wanted one!!

By the time the band walked off-stage, I was still somewhat drunk, and drenched in the traditional gig-mix of water, sweat and beer. Lost in a state of ecstasy, feeling heady and bruised, I left the venue knowing that feeling is why I’m willing to drive a couple of hundred miles for a gig. Some people instinctively understand, others think you’re nuts. At times like this, I truly don’t care.

The plan had been to float merrily back to my hotel. That was until I got lost. This doesn’t happen as much as people might think; I have an arrogant self-belief in my ability to find my way anywhere, and I find it unnerving, to say the least. Directions from a taxi-driver appeared to get me even more lost, until a nice policeman kindly pointed me in the right direction.

Depressingly, I knew I would have to get up at 4.30 am to drive to Oxford.

12.30 am, I was sitting in my hotel room finishing off a chicken shish kebab, wondering quite how long it’d take me to get to sleep, in the hot, humid sweatbox that was my hotel room.