THINGS THAT ARE EXCELLENT

 

























Gonzales@ Electric Stew, The Great Eastern, 10.11.01

I've got a new love! He's as tall as the empire state and he's BIG! Legs like sequoias, shoulders like rocks. Yum. Oh please, don't chastise me for girlish glee and sexual thrall - that's the entire point. This man is a god! He could induce ejaculation in a eunuch! He demands awe! You can't ignore a rottwieler. You can't deride the Himilayas. The man has wrists like tree-branches and fingers like tubes of toothpaste. And oh he's covered in hair! He's like a wild animal! He rears up before me like a bear about to tear me apart with his teeth.

Yes, of course I'd heard of him before. I'd seen him around. I'm not ignorant, you know. But the difference between blurry jpegs / smeary newsprint / tinny mp3s and having his sweat drip from the tips of his hair onto your burning drug-stimulated skin.... ohhhh, honey. When I say you had to be there, I mean you had to be there. In front of that stage. Legs a-tremble. Arms molten on top of the moniter. Eyes a blackened circle of pupil, primed to receive. You had to be me, being there, getting rained on. Getting wet.

Of course, Gonzales knows all this. He's not short on confidence. He doesn't need my respect. Tonight I am squandering my affections like so much spilled cous-cous. The front row of the gig is packed full of beeyooteeful laydeez getting just as soaked as I. (Fuck 'em.)

He steams onstage and doesn't even deign to meet our eyes for the first two songs; shielding himself from us behind the brim of a safari hat. This is one hombre who knows how to keep a lady in waiting. Eventually we get to the strip: the essential part of any nu slutz (Khan, Peaches, Gonzales) gig. Gonzo pulls off his safari suit to reveal - another suit! Now that is classy! Such chasteness at the doors of such fine booty! The second suit is pastel powdery pink; it's a tease, it's a dare. I am man enough, quoth he, to wear a clitpink suit. Come and have a go IF. Nobody does.

Oh, the music! The music was somewhat muted by the Electric Stew Utterly Crappy-Ass Sound System. It dims Gonzo's splendour somewhat for his in-full-effect rappage to be suddenly cut off leaving him mouthing soundlessly onstage like a kissing gourami. Course Gonzo's too fuck-damn cool to be silenced for long and was soon chastising "these FUCKING AMATEURS" for not 'sorting their SHIT out!' Whenever the sound gave out he would sit down at the grand piano and play like a bastard in loungecore Uber Alles mode, hands rippling across the keyboard, his spit-slicked hair drying and tipping forward, eyes closed, that big fat slack mouth open in woeful reverie. Sound on he'd snap into hip-hop demon Entertainist stylee, flickin' his head from side-to-side, coating the audience in his secretions.

Eventually the shit was sorted and Gonzo stripped down to wifebeater vest. Don't expect me to rhapsodise over wifebeater vest and thick gold chain - a girl's gotta keep her dignity - but everyone knows it's officially A Good Look. Especially for a BIG man. And its ideal and indeed ultimate accessory is surely a shiny black grand piano to dance upon, served with a dash of hard-hitting humour, Gonzo-stylee, on the side. He steps off the piano and immediately chastises us for falling for it. 'Oh dancing on the pee-an-oh! Oldest trick in the book! If I do a funny dance, will you dig that too?' Um, Mistah Gonzales, don't you get it? We dig everything you do! You are beautiful. I ain't gonna take a bath till I've managed to lick myself all over, ya know what I'm sayin?' Mmmmyou taste like ready salted crisps and the sea.

This is my gig of the year and I know for a fact that this record-company showcase poshola Electric Stew Great Eastern Hotel Bollocks wasn't a patch on the low-down and dirty 93 Feet East shindig of three days ago. People, believe me when I say: you don't have to love Gonzales on record. You don't have to have heard Gonzales on record. You can even hate Gonzales on record. You can hate rap, piano, clapping, arrogance, sex, joy, audacity, chest hair and everything else Gonzales stands for. You will still come away stunned. The future of modern music is in his hands. Right next to my heart. Gonzales Uber Alles!



Words: Miss AMP

 
 

 

 

MUSIC: FOOD OF LOVE.
NOT AS GOOD AS REAL FOOD, THOUGH.

 

rock

wHy i h8 nU mEtAl tEeNz, bY mIsS aMp

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R

 

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