The Fucking Champs

I shouldn't, really: eyes misted and ears muffled by a head full of cold virus and a prolonged ATP hangover, what I should do this bitter evening is wrap a blanket about me, cradle a hot chocolate and watch Johnny Vaughan dupe a carefully chosen selection of fools into believing they're going into space. That's what I should be doing, but I'm not: I'm striding through scaffolding, dodging the drips that fall from the planks above, in a race to catch the start of The Fucking Champs. I pause only to raise a tissue to my nose before entering the foggy blackness of The Garage. No turning back now; no creature comforts for the duration of The Rock.

Turns out I needn't have hurried: The mainly instrumental San Francisco trio are yet to emerge onto the venue's stage, clearly visible through the crowds of people who aren't here. (Do the absentees feels as rough as I do? If so: losers.) Todd are kicking up clouds of choking hardcore dust before the throng of few, wildly contorting vocalist Craig ditching into the audience with some songs to spare. First he loses his guitar, then casts the microphone stand aside, before stalking the brave and foolish front-row faces with no need for standard hunter camouflage: he is the king of the beasts this evening. He points a finger at a photographer, lifts his face to the ceiling, and emits a thunderous roar that could have even the most hungry and savage of lions fearing for its safety. The final song collapses about him, fragments of down-tuned and fuzz-hued punk fuck each other 'til holes are raw. He's a nice man, really, I assure a bystander. Their face wears a mask of disbelief.

After such excess, the main event is something of an anticlimax. The Fucking Champs' crisp rock - no need for bass when you've a nine-stringer being rocked by one of your number - comes as no little relief to beleaguered ears, but the clarity subsequently fails to impact upon senses dulled by illness. Their stage presence also pales in comparison to the might of Todd. Nevertheless, fists are pumped and beer glasses raised: this is a band that requires alcohol intake to fully move the listener, to have them swinging what hair they have with all the vigour of a Thin Lizzy tribute act. These lips, sadly, only open for Diet Coke today, and its effects are hardly the same as a froth-topped pint of the black stuff. As they open 'Extra Man' The Champs have no fewer than 21 strings at work through mega-sized amplifiers; those fully appreciating The Rock this evening duly go as crazy as beer-chugging beardies can go without looking, y'know, scene. Or like they're having fun, the like immortal Thor forbid.

No such outpouring of physical adoration stems from these aching joints, though, and I step out into the drizzle, past those still-dripping planks, and wait some 20 minutes for a bus. When it comes, the girl in the seat parallel to mine has the most tedious phone conversation I've ever listened in on: "Yeah, but, y'know, yeah... so like, d'ya get me? Like, really? D'ya get me? Got any spliffs there... oh, shall I come up anyways like...?". She doesn't pronounce one of her words properly, 'like' excepted. I try to sigh, wondering where the children of north London were taught to speak English, but can only bubble a little mucus forth from my clogged nostrils. Should have stayed longer and rocked my congested woes away. In a blanket.