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This is a question Pretentious bollocks

Possibly the worst event I ever went to was an evening of turntablists in London. The lights went down, the first guy put a cymbal onto a turntable, dropped the needle on it and left it making screeching noises for ten minutes.

When the lights came up, half the audience had snuck out.

What's the most pretentious rubbish you've ever been to see in the name of art?

(, Wed 28 Sep 2005, 14:19)
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Ah yes!
"And now, please put your hands together and give a huge Blackpool welcome to...The Conjoined Hitlers!"

I had come here not knowing what to expect. All I had been told prior to my arrival at the North Pier was that I was in for an electrifying sensory overhaul not dissimilar to having my body turned inside-out, laid out on a bed of salmon and delicately licked by a troupe of hungry Armenian boys. So here I was.

Before me, beneath the starlit summer sky, was a four-piece band consisting of three men and one woman. They had a selection of musical instruments, some of which appeared more familiar than others. The frontman, a thin, mule-like young fellow with an equine mane, forelock and all, stepped up to the microphone and promptly switched it off with a click. "We need not such artificial means of amplification!" he announced proudly. "For we sing with the lungs of God and we play with the fingers of Satan!" The band then lurched into an uncomfortable blend of skiffle, chamber music and morse code.

The amputee percussionist, eyes closed and face contorted, was using his arm stumps to pound out a disjointed rhythm upon a selection of malnourished primates. In addition to the percussive sound of stump upon mammal, the beasts were wailing painfully with every blow, except for a colobus monkey that seemed to be cooing blissfully, glad of the attention. What the percussionist lacked in upper limbs he more than compensated for in lower ones. His formidable legs protruded out towards either side of the stage like angular, denim-clad stage-pythons. His left foot was sheathed in a hefty black boot, and this tapped merrily at a tambourine suspended from the stage ceiling by a thin rope wound entirely from beagle hair. His right foot was bare, and the spindly toes moved in a wonderful contra-rhythm, tickling the female band member's puckered quincy. This caused her to hoot sporadically while she strummed a strange electric guitar/French horn hybrid instrument with her unfathomably pointed knees. Her wiry hands brandished an emperor penguin and common cormorant, and she used these to strike violently at a large, ornate harp. The shrieks of the birds would have been more audible had they not been muffled by the musician's firm grip around their beaks. Nevertheless, the force with which they bounced off the harp's mighty strings sent feathers billowing out around the stage and over towards the brass player. His brasses were crumpled and bent. His moist, pink face was swollen and scrotal. Brown sweat poured from his slanted forehead. His eyes were mere slits while his mouth was thick and wet. The odour of vinegar emanated from his every pore.

"Glorious, is it not?" a young lady asked from behind. I turned to face her.
"Pray, fair nymph. What is this rare spectacle before us?" I asked.
"Thou art either naive or elsewise thou hath head cancer, sire," the harlot guffawed.
I humoured her. "Indeed, I am afflicted by both of these conditions! Please teach me about this music."
"Canst thou not tell with thine ears?" she answered. "'Tis the story of the bible told in music!"
Suddenly it all made perfect sense. With a swift arm movement I sent her bellowing like a pregnant she-ox over the edge of the pier and into the steaming Gulf of Morecambe. I then returned my attention to the music.

The frontman was staring at the stars, the little finger of each hand inserted firmly and deeply inside the corresponding nostril. He seemed to be pushing at his eyeballs from the inside, causing himself to emit such a sound (and stench) that the assembled throng spontaneously dropped to their knees and twitched awhile. But not I. I remained steadfast. I resolved to bring this nonsense to an end. I stepped forward and was going to mount the stage and send them all into the bubbling brine of the great Gulf. But I had not anticipated what would happen next.

The stage began to rise beneath an onslaught of strobe lighting. It was only when this happened that I realised the band had been playing for all this time inside a giant revolving brothel. Women writhed all around, fellating middle-aged men and committing hand robbery. Young whorelets were being jimmynudged as they teasingly screamed, "Please don't hurt me," while elderly scrubbers were wildly educating young men in the ways of jugflappery and flapwaggery.

I took a run and managed to leap onto the stage, fully intending to join in. And I would have succeeded had I not been so disaster prone, stepping on a gibbon and causing an almighty brawl to break out. One young man threatened a young lady with a broken Moet and Chandon bottle, and the lady replied, "Sorry. I only allow myself to be gored by men wielding Bollinger!"

Pretentious little slag.
(, Thu 29 Sep 2005, 14:52, Reply)

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