Sick of being the only grey-tinged gal amid an ocean of bald blokes at gigs, Vicky Warburton decided to start holding her own. Kind of. She’s regularly sharing three of her aural findings with Standard Issue readers. Grab your utensils and get ready to mosh not mash.
I go to hundreds of intimate gigs each month – in my kitchen. In attendance there’s always me, the radio and/or CD player and maybe a child or two flailing around. Amid cooker and fridge, I can seamlessly morph into the lead singer/a band member/any instrument for that matter. Surely I’m not alone? You all have similar gigs, alone in your kitchen, right? Right?
The best thing about kitchen gigs is, because it’s YOUR gig, you can make that stage your own, even in your dressing gown, and – yes! – even with no bra on. Your audience don’t give a toss, although if you’re like me, your nipples will get cold from touching the laminate. It’s a problem. With hindsight, I should’ve gone for underfloorheating. Th’underbreastheating? There’s got to be a market for that, eh? Especially up north in December. In lieu of that, a dance to these swell tunes will have you warmed up pronto.
Him indoors blasted me with some wonderful chilled out Americana on Sunday while I was scraping a triple-strong dose of parcel tape off my PVC windows (don’t ask). Clutching an old pair of leggings and the WD40, my ears pricked up to this easy-listening bliss.
Cook’s upbeat tinkling of the ivories, harmonies and endless air guitar opportunities are to become one with. Not sure about Americana? Just give this a listen and prepare for a serotonin rush.
It certainly made my rubbing down of abused plastic an easier experience and my be-Crocsed foot was tapping away. Crocs are my recent house shoes and a shameful secret to be hidden if I have guests, which isn’t so often. Let’s be honest, guests are limited to my children’s friends, so are usually under the age of seven and wearing them too, meaning I’m bang on trend.
This week I’ve wigged out to The Dead Weather. Accompanied by my trusty sidekick and dancing MACHINE Frank, aged five (imagine a miniature Bez).
This supergroup is a collaboration between Jack White (The White Stripes), Alison Mosshart (The Kills) and two other blokes (Jack Lawrence and Dean Fertita, black-clad big guns in their own right, hailing from The Raconteurs and Queens Of The Stone Age respectively).
Sultry sex siren Mosshart belts out this dirty rock ditty, while Jack and his cronies give it plenty on the strings and skins. It’s a tune to bellow loud enough to wake the dead, and it certainly shifted this walking corpse into lead singer mode.
As usual, I made up my own lyrics: unfathomable, guttural nonsense. We all have our own imagined classic made-up lyrics. My personal favourite being my mate’s take on Jacko’s Smooth Criminal. The line we all know as “Annie are you OK, are you OK Annie?” will, to my ears, always be: “Anyway you’re walking / Are you walking? Any?”
Now, I challenge anyone who dismisses The Smiths as depressing to get their lugs involved with this bad boy. Admittedly, the title doesn’t sound very upbeat, but it certainly got me shuffling in my Crocs during the breakfasting mayhem.
The volume dial got spun right up and I was mentally transported back to a youthful time of chunky Aran-knit knee-length cardigans (always a deeply impractical cream) and swept fringes (always deeply impractical).
During this kitchen gig there were raised eyebrows from my daughter as I reached crescendo on Mozza’s classic line “There were times when I could have strangled hhhhheeeEERRRRRR”. Oh yeah! Hit that high note, baby! The crowd didn’t go wild. No applause. As an old Smiths fan I urge you to give this one a go and jiggle yourself around.2085 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.