The Chocolate Genocide
I appreciate that The Chocolate Genocide is a likely-sounding name for a band. But it isn't. I want to share with you a tale of real chocolate genocide.

When I was a teenager in the moonstruck inner city of the soulless cul-de-sac of North Lincolnshire that is Scunthorpe, there was precious little for entertainment. Fridays was a straight choice between wankers-and-tarts disco Henry Afrika's, or - directly over the road - rock nights at the Baths Hall (yes, once upon a time it was a swimming baths). A typical rock night would be in the hands of legendary local recording studio owner and outrageous stoner, Steve Bird, his twin turntables and a large collection of vinyl which he left to his hapless assistant while he went to smoke very large roll-ups. Cracking bloke.

However, once a year, the weekly record-session was interrupted by The Rock Open, Scunthorpe's premier Battle of the Bands. Many a terrible band (frequently featuring one or more of me and my friends) had taken to the Rock Open stage, purveying their local take on goth-punk-metal-prog-core, and the local crowd had come to be quite astute and discerning critics, giving a loud hooray to all who played great music (a local folk band once entered and were mildly disconcerted to find themselves through to the final) while roundly booing those who were deemed to be full of themselves.

And no-one was ever as full of themselves as Bingo.

Bingo were third on the list in - what? - about 1997 or so, by my reckoning. We had already proffered polite attention to a local band with a lead singer with waist-length hair inexpertly dyed black and revealing streaks of ginger, and ironic applause to two girls who had played without the benefit of a drummer or any coherent lyrics, but had alternately flashed their tits while the other one was playing a solo. There was an inopportune pause while some roadies adjusted the set and fiddled with a lighting rig with flashing red and green lights.

So far, not so good. Three things not beloved of your average greebo crowd are fancy light displays, long pauses in the music and roadies. ROADIES, for fuck's sake?! This was the Rock Open - most bands arrived without a guitar strap or a second pair of drumsticks. Indeed, one enterprising drummer had, the year before, been forced to resort to Def Leppard style one-armed abuse after accidentally throwing one of his sticks over his left shoulder. Oddly enough, that act failed to make the semi-finals.

One way or another, it was sufficient incentive for us all to slope off to the bar and order another round of the worst-kept, gassiest Murphy's that Humberside had to offer, such was the Baths' trademark.

Bingo therefore entered the stage to precisely no ovation. They were out-of-town, they had held up the evening and they had a fucking stupid name, so hostilities were already running pretty high. Things were going to get worse.

The lead singer, dressed in a white suite, red shirt and porkpie hat, was obviously under the impression that the band was popular. In case popularity wasn't forthcoming, he had brought bribery - a sizeable collection of Penguin-like chocolate bars, all emblazoned with a jazzy Bingo logo. He grabbed them by the handful out of a plastic bucket and scattered them among the crowds. They hit an empty dancefloor like Onan's seed hitting the fields.

Most professional rock groups avoid giving things to audience members. I wonder if you can work out why, boys and girls. Conniving glances passed between every single audience member present that wasn't tongue-deep in their girlfriend, attempting to top up their Murphy's without the barmaid noticing, or indulging in one of Steve Bird's spliffs.

Describing the music is quite incidental; in fact, I'm sure you can imagine what it was like. It wasn't as edgy as Suede, as emotional as the Manics or as politically smart as Blur, despite trying to be all three. It was a bit listening to a duet between Piers Morgan and a kangaroo with a distortion pedal, with Meg White on drums. It was completely misjudged on an audience who thriving on shredding guitar solos, grunting vocals, and performers whose hair wasn't slicked backwards.

The Baths Hall crowd knew how to voice displeasure, but Bingo had given them extra ammunition. The band perked up as several dozen leather-clad bodies moved onto the dancefloor, but were immediately downcast as arms were raised, holding twee little wanky chocolate bars.

The first shot passed disappointingly over the guitarist's head. The second, to the loudest cheer of the night, removed the singer's porkpie hat. And then, a barrage. A bucketful of chocolate bars, hurled with the accuracy and force of a Jimmy Anderson yorker, assaulted the band. A sonorous WHHOOOOOONNNNGGGG sounded as the bassist's E-string was hit dead centre. The drum kit provided a range of entertaining targets and noises, and every time the singer opened that fucking stupid mouth, he would be bombarded by a couple of ounces of sugary biscuit.

The rest of the first number was an instrumental. Then Bingo left the stage, about four minutes into what was supposed to be a twenty-minute set. The bassist's nose was bleeding. Steve Bird's DJ-monkey span up 'Rocks' by Primal Scream and we all had a good thrash. More Murphy's was consumed.

I don't know if it qualifies as a bad gig; I've rarely enjoyed myself more. When else do wankers give you chocolate and then give you the opportunity to hurt them with it?
( ousgg is not seeking approval, Thu 25 Jul 2013, 20:38, 1 reply)

Hahaha!
This sounds like an excellent night out. Have a click.
(SimianKid internet faffer, Fri 26 Jul 2013, 10:31, closed)