Pilot To Gunner @ Fenton
By Dan Kiener
It was a brisk night, a cold night, a night that flirted with rain and hail showers. The Clue Machine - part bionic, part cybernetic, frivolously journalistic - suckled upon a cigarette in his car, digesting his prior investigation of the venue. He worked alone, always alone, tonight no exception; solitude was his only companion. The remnants of two shattered heated-rear-windscreens lay on the back seat of his fiesta, the perfect metaphor for the Clue Machine's broken hopes. The evening was all set-up. He moved in.
First into the line of fire, confidently swaggering into the cross-hairs, was That Fucking Tank. Two men, a reduced drumkit, a baritone guitar, and a plethora of big brass bollocks. The Clue Machine had to marvel at their sheer tenacity. He was stunned by their convulsing demonic riffs, which shimmered between obscurity and an ingenious evil. He found himself repulsed and yet totally hypnotised. "That Fucking Tank," he pondered, arranging the words as if to recite them later, "are a most valuable asset to the music scene; challenging and inspiring, and intensely innovative". The Clue Machine chuckled before igniting another cigarette and taking a number of deep, unhealthy, drag-oons.
Within minutes, another act was up. The Clue Machine found that the silence was not shattered, but strangely magnified. The room soon became the aural home of hushed concentration and awe, as the one-woman spectacle which was the Oubliette commenced. Through the miniature smokescreen being projected from his cigarette, the Clue Machine could see a wholesome-looking lass, modest in appearance, from whom was being emitted the most dainty, pure and captivating voice he'd heard in a long time. "Almost visible, that voice." he thought. "Beautiful," he thought. He became rife with goosebumps and unveiled a broad grin.
Almost immediately after the Oubliette (woman of wonder) had un-graced the stage, the man Kenneth Ishak began strumming a well-strummed guitar. At first, the Clue Machine was wary of this onelinedrawing-esque Norwegian, but soon God (or was it the music?) warmed his bio-cybernetic heart. He could not help but let his imagination take hold. Kenneth was the sound of the Clue Machine's adolescence - all those summer evenings he had spent on sunny parks, courting friends' ex-girlfriends, playing improvised acoustic versions of Beatles' classics, and wearing oversized shirts. He liked wearing shirts. He was taken back to the years before the loss, before the cyber-implants, back to the magical happy days. Kenneth Ishak was good. The Clue Machine wiped away a tear and sparked another cigarette.
The illustrious caper had unwittingly peaked, and was now almost over. The Clue Machine drew himself up to his full height - tonight enhanced by his speckled snake skin pimp boots - and prepared for the main event, Pilot To Gunner. Five twenty-something tykes from New York City.
As they burst into song, Clue Machine was instantly shocked by their extra-accurate proximity to the exact middle of the proverbial road. He noted how impossible it was to judge them adequately; as there was nothing essentially wrong with them, but equally there was nothing fundamentally right with them either.
He'd heard this kind of rock before. Un-provocative, the same stuff dulled out by regular as sin rock clubs, and small key battle of the bands winners. The Clue Machine thought himself a little harsh thinking such negative thoughts about a band who'd travelled so far. After all, the band was faultlessly tight. But their mid-paced emo by numbers was hardly inspiring. Not dire, but unchallenging at best. Still, the kids seemed un-phased by the blandness, and enjoyed themselves thoroughly. Insatiably, in fact.
It was soon over. With the evening finished, the Clue Machine made a hasty exit. There was work to be done. Elsewhere.
