Sick of being the only grey-tinged gal amid an ocean of bald blokes at gigs, Vicky Lindsay Warburton decided to start holding her own. Kind of. Grab your utensils and get ready to mosh not mash.
This month as daylight inched back into our lives, I tentatively exited my kitchen cave and popped into a caff. Immediately I knew I shouldn’t have left my nerve centre. YOUR kitchen is an area to listen to your music and to make food – usually food that you want to eat.
A cafe, however, is someone else’s kitchen – but they make you food and you choose the food. That’s the basic premise, right? Wrong. The waitress in this kitchen/cafe was hard. Tough, as in Hells Angels’ bride tough. I averted my eyes while whispering my order:
“Hi, please can I have a pot of tea and just two eggs, please. Are they poached or fried? Please?”
NB use of excessive pleasantries.
“Fried.” Her stare was a headlock.
“Great. Two please. That’s all. No bread. Thanks.” They were listed on the laminated menu under ‘extras’. My dietary requirements are such that bread kills me.
“No love we can’t do that. You’ve got to ‘ave it with toast or a bap.” She appears to be growling.
“Well can I just leave the bread and have eggs. I’ll pay for it.”
“No love. You’ve got to ‘ave what’s on the menu. I know we’re dead now but if people see us giving customers what they ask for everyone will be asking for what they want. They’ll all be doing it.”
Me and my mate stared, jaws on the floor.
“So, do you want toast or a bap?”
“Look don’t ‘LOVE’ me. I’m a customer, paying you to take my order so give me what I want, with a smile on your miserable face or I’m flouncing out now. Got it, ‘LOVE’? Two fucking eggs no bread.”
Which is what I wanted to say. What I actually said was, “Erm, TOAST?!”
I played along, mainly to keep my less-tolerant friend, who I knew was ready to bare her chest, in check. I ate my eggs and some toast (no willpower) then shuffled back to my kitchen cave with tummy ache. I trumped into my Crocs and decided to dedicate my first track this month to the bitter bird down the caff.
Could this psychedelic garage Melbourne seven-piece have the best band name ever? Get your mouth around that moniker and feel anything but bitter swinging your pants to this track. They are boiling hot on this, their seventh, all acoustic, melodically high album. They swished my mood along swiftly after my unpleasant cafe experience.
Question: what the hell is psychedelic garage? Answer: listen and find out. For my quid, it’s just a long-winded title for a blissed-out soundscape. This band have covered multiple genres and hairdos: no strangers to delivering tracks that are 10+ minutes long. They’re on the road now, so float on down – or woozle around your kitchen in your very own Paper Mâché Dream Balloon.
Simmering: Salinas by Laura Marling from the album A Creature I Don’t Know
This homegrown lass is pretty much always simmering and promising to blow us other mere mortals away with whatever folksy joy she produces. If you’ve never given her your ears you must.
Play Salinas from her 2011 album A Creature I Don’t Know and let this whimsical blonde nymph take you with her on a beautiful narrative journey. She’s got a back catalogue like most of us have skeletons in the closet but she’s proud to let her bones tumble out. Have a rummage.
Marling’s latest (her fifth) studio album Short Movie (2015) was nominated for a Brit, and sees her swap from acoustic to electric guitar. Like the Gizzard Wizards, she’s out and about this summer. If you can’t catch her live, blast her in one of your kitchen gigs and be amazed how her lyrics and music hold you in the palm of her teeny weeny hand. (She’s about two feet tall but musically a giant.)
In the deep freeze: Glory Days by Bruce Springsteen from the album Born In The USA
Love him or hate him (sorry, what?), coming out of my deep freeze this month is THE BOSS. One of the worlds’s bestselling artists, Springsteen recently announced a UK arena tour to mark last year’s reissue of his 1980 album The River.
The E Street Band and their 66-year-old gaffer will be donning blue jeans and headscarves and regaling legions of fans with lengthy (three hours plus) stadium rock shows. I won’t be there, but there’s no denying our Bruce has got carrier bags of tracks to pull out of his bottomless denim waistcoat pockets.
Glory Days spurted out of the speakers by accident as my radio dial had been meddled with. It was a welcome surprise; a true Kitchen Gig ensued – volume up, vocal chords tickled as me and the Boss crooned along together. Patti Scialfa (Mrs Boss and E Street member) got a run for her Springsteen millions, but the people I share my concert hall with just slammed the doors shut. Tell us a story Bruce!
I was thigh slapping along to this kitchen corker and managing backing vocals, whoops and the oh-yeahs. Exit kitchen stage left, smirking. You’re The Boss in your kitchen. Eggs without sodding toast anyone?1962 Views
Vicky is reintegrating back into society as her children are now in school. She teaches mindfulness to teenagers, wears trainers and paddles through the nonsense of life.