The Food of Love

 By Otis Shaw

If I learnt anything during those long, dark and lethargic lectures at my first year at Napier University, it was to tell the truth, no matter how many tempting carrots were dangled in front of me. So, if I was to be brutally honest about Edinburgh’s music scene, I would say it sucks. There is nothing on offer and hasn’t been, since The Venue closed down back in 2003. I hear cries of defence and patriotic vomit from shady, damp closes in the Cowgate, “How dare you mock the Capital’s throbbing epicentre of Rock ‘n’ Roll?” Well, I dare, and this article would be fit for nothing more than cleaning another vindaloo from the hairy crevice of Paul Gasgoigne’s rear-end, had it not been for a glimmer of light, nay, a furnace, swallowing up every bit of talent it comes across, pulling in bands from across the globe, like a black hole from Battlestar Galactica. A rabbit in the headlights of a decomposing, corporate swindled, music scene.

Henry’s Cellar Bar sits somewhere outside Edinburgh’s aptly named ‘pubic triangle’, if it wasn’t for the cast-iron railing, one could quite easily fall into her arms after seventeen pints, a good punch-up, a lap dance and the contents of your intestines mapping your adventures up Lothian Road. If you are reading this in hope that I mention one of the many electric evenings held at Henry’s, then you will not be a part of that sad stain on Edinburgh’s subculture. You will be a proud warrior of the dance-floor, a bearer of the sodden and partially ripped uniform only to be seen in the early hours of the morning. A tribe that long existed outside the norms of banking executives, family 4×4’s, electric tin-openers and stay-press trousers. You will have memories that will keep your grandchildren inspired for decades to come, smells like teen spirit and friendships built on the battlefield known only as the ‘pit’, forged like some ancient Roman gladiator before his last attempt at survival before a blood-thirsty crowd.

Many musicians have passed through the gates of Henry’s to stake their claim as another zeitgeist in a vast pool of talent, marginally hidden from the masses. The progressive, psychedelic, love-torn sounds of Jackie Treehorn, the spinal-cracking, explosive rhythms of Secta Rouge, the drunken, abrasive tones of the Happy Spastics or epileptic fits of rage from the Voice of the Mysterons. From Monday, right through to Sunday night, there will always be the warm, welcoming smile or indeed the look of terror as the venue spills over with vast numbers from French Claire, Henry’s full-time promoter and overseer. A confident and relaxed Polish security man is barely needed in the harmonious atmosphere generated on a Friday night. I hear the non-believers out there laugh with ignorance, surely a venue so close to Europe’s most violent headquarters must experience a little bit of aggravation? You are wrong my friend, a miracle indeed, but the stigmata does not end there. A bottle of beer can be purchased for under a fiver, there are cosy tables available for the more laid back connoisseur and the venue has been known to provide biblical performances – Derek from Oi Polloi has been seen walking on waters (Carslberg to be precise), 5,000 sinners have been purged by the hands of Super Adventure Club and a plague of locusts were reportedly seen by Muz of The Plastic Adults after three nights of sleep deprivation and an unknown quantity of herbal ecstasy.

Jokes aside, it is clear to myself as a keen supporter of independent music, that Henry’s provides a service that is beginning to take shape and spread across the waters of Scotland and into Europe, America and Australia. The money that Claire takes on the door, goes to the bands and back into the venue. Their reputation surpasses the likes of Glasgow’s Nice ’n’ Sleazy, The Garage and The ABC, giving a voice that has lured legends from California, Sydney, Paris and Czechoslovakia. You don’t have to do master the art of persuasion to guarantee a good night for our friends from Europe, and where else in Edinburgh will you find a Slovakian death metal band at three in the morning?

If you live in this detached, immoral and yet enlightening world of Henry’s Cellar Bar, then welcome to the life-line, the new force behind Edinburgh’s underground music scene – the last chance of a true musical erection. It would be cynical of me to assume the reader has grasped the utopian mise-en-scene cultivated in this venue, from my feeble attempts at journalism and so I will leave you to decide for yourself. Enjoy.

http://www.theraft.org.uk/

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6 Responses to “The Food of Love”

  1. Fred Hubner Says:

    I liked the band … they remind me a bit of Whale …

    Whale

    Hobo Humpin’ Slobo Babe (lyrics)

    You hobo humpin’ slobo babe
    Get it off, get off, get off of me!
    You hobo humpin’ slobo babe
    Get it off, get off, get off of me!

    Baby, we don’t love ya
    Baby, we don’t love ya, baby, yeah!
    Baby, we don’t love ya
    Baby, we don’t love ya, baby, yeah!
    Baby, we don’t love ya
    Baby, we don’t love ya, baby, yeah!

    Seeking candy, on the shore
    Lost her eyesight, teeth are poor
    Left for dead, back for more
    Left for dead…

    Seeking candy, who sleeps around
    Araid of telling, tiny sounds
    Left for dead, left for good (seeking candy)
    Left for dead, not understood (back for more)

    But you… (back for more)
    Always came back for more…

    You hobo humpin’ slobo babe
    Get it off, get off, get off of me!
    You hobo humpin’ slobo babe
    Get it off, get off, get off of me!
    You hobo humpin’ slobo babe
    Get it off, get off, get off of me!
    You hobo humpin’ slobo babe
    Get it off, get off, get off of me!

    Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! yeah!
    Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!

    Seeking candy, out of line
    Broken kneecap, velvet spine
    Left for dead, left for good (seeking candy)
    Left for dead, misunderstood. (back for more)

    But you… (back for more)
    Always came back for more…

    You hobo humpin’ slobo babe
    Get it off, get off, get off of me!
    You hobo humpin’ slobo babe
    Get it off, get off, get off of me!
    You hobo humpin’ slobo babe
    Get it off, get off, get off of me!
    You hobo humpin’ slobo babe
    Get it off, get off, get off of me!

    Baby, we don’t love ya, (seeking candy)
    Baby, we don’t love ya, baby, yeah! (out of line)
    Baby, we don’t love ya, (broken kneecap)
    Baby, we don’t love ya, baby, yeah! (velvet spine)
    Baby, we don’t love ya, (left for dead)
    Baby, we don’t love ya, baby, yeah! (left for good)
    Baby, we don’t love ya, (left for dead)
    Baby, we don’t love ya, baby, yeah! (misunderstood)

    You hobo humpin’ slobo babe
    Get it off, get off, get off of me!
    You hobo humpin’ slobo babe
    Get it off, get off, get off of me!
    You hobo humpin’ slobo babe
    Get it off, get off, get off of me!
    You hobo humpin’ slobo babe
    Get it off, get off, get off of me!

    Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!
    Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!
    (seeking candy)
    (back for more)

  2. bones Says:

    well worded Amigo!!! Mon the underground overground scene!!!!

  3. bones Says:

    keep kicking!! keep writing!!!!!

  4. jah Says:

    Glad to see that someone is commenting on the real underground music scene henrys is the best venue to play in Edinburgh and the only place to get real “care in the community” .

  5. tamogel Says:

    No feeble attempts here, all good. You really romanticize a local sweaty dive music venue and scene. But you always were a difficult music consumer and consumer of difficult music. Grinning again!

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