Last night we took a step back into the land of Hooch, 20/20 and shell suits to make up the only three relatively normal people amid a freak show of revellers who had turned out to cheer on 90’s legendary two-hit wonder three-piece Republica.
Staged at the Islington Academy the fan-base rocketed Newton Faulkner’s appeal to dizzying heights.
One bald midget, with the face of a serial killer, had kitted himself out in a special vampire cape identical to lead-singer Saffron’s trademark accessory. I considered asking if he’d pose for a photograph but, fearing this could well have resulted in a knife to the face, instead gave him a berth wide enough to accommodate James Corden.
Supporting was a low-budget, geriatric double act, who undoubtedly spend their leisure time masturbating furiously while listening to the Pet Shop Boys greatest hits on repeat. Worryingly most people seemed to know their songs verbatim and subsequently sang along with as much gusto as a teenaged girl armed with a hairbrush.
Nearby a longhaired 30-something man, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Nigel Planer circa The Young Ones’ Den Dennis, accompanied by his EBay special-delivery Thai bride, hopped from foot to foot in eager anticipation. Meanwhile a coffin dodger, dressed to kill in a baby pink shirt, tucked into chinos and finished off with a rather pleasant tan leather belt, danced along to some other song audible only to the elderly and infirm.
And two very enthusiastic gig-goers clung to the front barrier for dear life throughout the support and set changeover for fear of getting sucked into the crazed mob when the red-headed one and co finally took to the stage. Despite their determination, and armed with plastic pint cups brimming with flat, lukewarm lager, we still managed to snake our way through the 50-strong crowd to within a stone’s throw of the stage.
As Republica appeared Den and wife were unstoppable, ditching the hopping in favour of full on jumping from foot–to-foot and occasionally even throwing an arm in the air.
A fully warmed up crowd were ready to rock, thanks to the sexual deviant Pet Shop Boys-loving support act, and Saffron could not contain her excitement, making eye contact with the sole shoulder surfer during her rendition of Dance 94 track “Drop Dead Gorgeous.” Rising to the occasion, she had wrenched her 42-year-old body into a costume more suited to her long-gone 26-year-old self.
With a glint of manic desperation in her eye, it did actually bring about some degree of sympathy from deep within. The need to cling on to the short-lived hint of stardom 16 years later, resulting in a smaller crowd than that present at a college Battle of the Bands contest in Grimsby, was truly heartbreaking and on a par with the disparity etched on the faces of most X-Factor rejects.
After Ready to Go and with talk of a new single, we were indeed ready to go, and so we went. It was at this point only that my semi-retarded friend Tom finally confessed that he mass purchased tickets for the gig after confusing the band with Elastica. Thanks Tom, seriously.
I dearly wanted to wrap Saffron in a blanket to protect her modesty, give her a mug of Horlicks and pop her in front of the telly with the Midsomer Murders box-set. She could then begin to embrace the delights of growing old gracefully in the company of John Nettles and his whinging, out-of-work actress, brat of a daughter.
