The Brand Man Cometh
- 1 Feb 07, 12:21 PM
Russell Brand΅―s illegitimate children are scampering around the Ulster Hall in Belfast, proudly wearing the eyeliner and haystack bouffants. They have found themselves a new cultural icon and while these teenagers may not be genetically linked to the bearded one, he is their spiritual dad. They share his excitable nature, his potty mouth and his fondness for unfeasibly tight black jeans.
Am I jealous? Well, tight pants would fit my legs like sausage skins, so I΅―ll not be returning there. It΅―s a youth thing, of course. And the event in question is the NME Indie Tour, our annual look at the cool acts of the season. Back in 1993, I was one of the music writers who launched the NME Brats, our answer to the boring Brits, so I too have a parental role in this.
I see that the event is sponsored by hair products and that the music chain stores are hurling money at the show. Adverts from other parts of yoof culture industry are also getting intimate. And of course all of the bands on the bill are all signed to major record labels. It΅―s a corporate love-in, but should that matter?
I watch The Horrors, with their bad approximations of Nick Cave and Screaming Lord Such. They have stack hair and dress in black. The keyboard player keeps flapping his cape around, but he΅―s not going anywhere.
I see an old mate at the back of the venue, Phil Jupitus. We chat about the old days, about Billy Bragg and the Housemartins and the time when he was an illustrator and stand-up comic called Porky the Poet. We watch The View with some approval, hoping that some loud guitars and songs about bad hygiene in Dundee might put a bit of attitude into this audience, with their ever-flashing phones and vacant political outlooks.
The kids of today, eh?
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