In a vertiginous room above Mare Street, a bunch of queers
settled in for an evening of music, comedy and cabaret from the
Wotever gang.
The event pulled a nice crowd. It was refreshing that it hadn't
been billed for either lesbians or gay men so everyone (the gays,
grrrls, butches, bois and bears) mucked in together in true Pride
spirit.
First up was four-piece 'Spinster', who launched into what proved
to be a really enjoyable set. Their melodic, shoe-gazey sound,
buoyed up by syths and electric ukulele did plenty to coax a smile
and even got three people dancing, albeit self consciously. The
opener, 'Village Slut' was Jammed with Pulp-ish innuendo and
encouraged a hint of nostalgia for that clever, sarky pop that
petered out along with the brand indie.
Spinster held the crowd with their insta-hummable songs and quick
fire charm. Frontwoman Sadie (who incidentally, was wearing an
outfit straightoutta other Sadie's wardrobe - all black velvet,
razor fringe and red lips) worked wonders with the audience. 'So
this Wednesday is Independence Day… If you're a spinster everyday
is Independence Day'. Prior to a jangly version of Britney's
'Toxic' (a lot of gay-shoulder-wiggling for that one) Sadie queried
"Does anyone identify as a small man?" and then gifted a coy and
grateful guy with a Spinster emblazoned tee.
Sadie's deadpan delivery and cerebral patter got far more laughs
than the comic who took to the stage in her wake. Enter Stephen
Bailey, a young buck in a spotted bow tie. The lovely Stephen
dished up stories of hobnobbing with Katy Perry's grandmother,
imitating Cheryl's choreography and unashamedly flirting with
Vodafone for a discount. His style, which was tangential and high
pitched didn't quite manage to rouse the Wotever punters. There
were polite grins and the occasional laugh but a good portion of
the audience decided to resume their own convos. Stephen had to
rush off in a taxi to the comedy store, which made sense as his set
smacked of a warm-up gig - all unapproved punchlines and chaotic
joke-to-joke chat.
Wotever's grand dame Ingo hosted the night with beautiful
eccentric-isms like 'now to play the golden hits of the golden era
of the golden day of 2012…' before introducing the DJ.
After some wonderfully well-picked words from Ingo, headliners
Slapper entered stage left. Their entourage included a prosthetic
penis, numerous wigs, several circus batons and a pair of
moccasins. The keyboardist was dressed only in a studded jockstrap,
with tattoos exclaiming things like 'PORN' scrawled in sharpie on
his chest. Paint dripped from the face and hair of our front man
and guitarist as they stormed into their first song, which from
what I could gather from all the plastic-cabbage-toting going on
had something to do with green veg. The following song featured a
cameo from a Sweeney Todd like dentist with a mirror and bloodied
mouth who succeeded in mounting the guitarist. This track proved to
be one of the more comprehensible of the Slapper hits "WEIRD TEETH,
BAD TEETH, ROTTEN TEETH, YELLOW TEETH".
Slapper's strange concoction of gargled French phrases and
nonsense, dada, caberet and live sex all spat from the mouth of an
obnoxious punk had me mystified. I knew I wasn't enjoying it but I
couldn't look away. The definite high point was when the front man,
post rubbing a baton between his arse cheeks, completely forgot the
name of his bassist mid introduction.
This truly rag tag gaggle of performers gave the Wotever evening
an air of real acceptance. It felt like a hark back to the golden
age of gays (just speculating here) where misfits, freaks and
outsiders found each other and carved their own space because one
was never provided for them. This anything goes vibe seems at odds
with the new rash of nights now catering only to cookie cutter East
London lesbians with tongues permo-glued to their cheeks.
It was sort of great to see Slapper peddle their noise and
nonsense with such boldness. They seemed like a solid gang, yeah
one you'd cross the road to avoid but a group nonetheless. Maybe in
an age of nuance, sub groups, splinter factions and too many labels
the gay scene has fallen out with itself?
That said don't expect me to become a Slapper fan girl overnight,
that emulsion must be a bitch to get out of your hair.
PHOTO CREDIT Alex Cat
