What I Did on Monday Night: The Chills & Rafts on Rats at The Cluny

     

                             

'                                             Tell me a story. Let me drift..' Frantic Drift

The wonderful weather continues. So does my year of gigging recklessly. Last night was the twelfth by my estimation. I need to start looking for some more. The Chills are one of the most important ones of my year thus far. They take me back. Back to The Eighties. They're high on the list of bands that are absolutely sacred to me. When I listen to them, I'm transported back to my past, when I was discovering adult life for the first time. Monday night was like time travel. And judging by the faces of some of the people at the Cluny when they finished, I was far from alone.

I started late. I had my Sunday spent with Pete Astor and Nev Clay to itemise on the blog  here. I'm having so many of these incredible gig experiences in 2023, it would be rude not to tell other people. So it was past four before I was done, had given mum a call and was able to get out and enjoy the sun. England is uncommonly good at this weather thing lately.

First I went to Beatdown Records opposite me. Sam was there. I love the other guys in the shop but I'm always so pleased when Sam is there. He's like a great big oversized kid, or doll. With his floppy hair and oversized dead mens charity shop suits, the way he's always studying something. Scrutinising some piece of paper without being able to work out quite what it is. He's always playing Syd Barrett whenever he can. I heartily approve of this.

Sam's my Rock & Roll friend. He's lead singer and guitarist for local band No Teeth. Ludicrous Geordie Dadaists who I saw giving their new album's launch party at The Cumberland Arms a few weeks back. I tell him about my night at Bobik's, show him my copy of C-86, signed by Pete Astor and describe the scene.

I flip through the book, remarking on how may of the bands might be of interest to him. There were so many bands at that time who wanted to be what No Teeth want to be. Ramshackle, chaotic experiments in living and gigging. In honour of Syd Barrett, Captain Beefheart and The Fall. Stump, Cud, Age of Chance, Bogshed. They couldn't play, they didn't make sense, they didn't care. You could make a good argument that they were totally crap. a waste of electricity. Again they didn't care. It was what being young was all about.

Sam is living that dream now. He wrote down the names of the bands I mentioned. Then in return told me his tale of overdosing at 18 on Jack Daniels and goodness knows what else at The Dog & Parrot, Newcastle's home for youthful over-indulgence. He almost died. Got rushed to hospital and got the telling off of his life from his mum. The wonders of youth.

Then onto The Dog & Parrot itself which is a stone's throw from Beatbox. More youth. The pool table, tattoos and an indie soundtrack over the system. A coke and basket of chips. But I'm running out of time. Onwards for a quick cider and songs on the jukebox with Chloe at The Telegraph. 

This is Chloe's last night. She's bored and feels under-appreciated here, She can't wait to leave. She has plans to go to Australia. early next sure. I'll miss her though. Chloe's sweet and smart and I'll be sad to lose her bored look and her big bug eyes as she slumps across the counter mournfully as if she's at a wake in the invariably deserted Telegraph in the afternoons..

I haven't had time to swim or eat properly so I feel restless. I'm definitely one for routine. Aren't we all. So along the Quayside into the hills and down the slope into the Ouseburn Valley. The half mile stroll to The Cluny I've been taking so often recently. The Yellow Brick Road.

I'm thick with wonder and anticipation of what awaits me this evening. Because I'm going to see The Chills and they're one of the great loves of my musical life. The Chills, The Go Betweens, The Clean, The Triffids. Vistas of Antipodean experience and happiness. Some incredible pain too. That's what life has to offer you. Don't kid yourselves. It's all part of the package. There was more, the whole phenomenal Flying Nun  roster, but this was at the core of it for me. A promise that is wonderfully only being fully realised now right now with all the great music coming out of New Zealand and Australia. The colonies revenge..

I wander down the slope and there they are sat around the table with beers and soft drinks. The Chills. And there he is. The man himself. Martin Phillipps, the band's guiding visionary. He's a large man and he has a large face. I know his story and he's experienced a lot of pain that often goes along with the gift of remarkable creativity. He's been compared with Brian Wilson and Syd Barrett and there are certainly parallels.

I'm lost in emotion. His songs have meant so much to me over the years. I think he's a complete genius. I'm not exaggerating. I'm really not. My eyes begin welling up, I approach him and his big face turns to me. I say something to him about how much his band and his songs mean to me, how they're one of the very best. He's obviously appreciative of my praise and thanks me.

I'm not sufficiently immersed in the history of the band to know which of the others gathered around the table are Chills. They seem a happy crew, basking in the sun like happy seals. There's a bearded American in a Scars T-Shirt who I'll chat to later. A pretty slim blond lady in a lovely coloured dress who looks like a New Zealand cousin of Amanda and Lindy from the Go Betweens with the loveliest beam of joy on her face. A thickset broad shouldered man in fabulously managed dreads which stretch down to his waist. I'll see them all later. Get to know them better. 

Still shaken by the unexpected experience I wander into the venue, Walter, the guy from Wandering Oak who organises half of the gigs I go to, is there at the door. Exchanging tickets for a black stamp on the back of your hand. Next to him the merch table manned by a doe eyed young woman. The table is covered with fabulous product for The Chills and Rats on Rafts all of which I want instantly.

Next to me at the table are the strangest young couple. He's a tall slim man boy. Taller than me. He's wearing a Television Personalities T Shirt. The 'Mummy Your not Watching Me' sleeve. There's  a small blond girl with him in blond ponytails. She resembles no-one so much as Jaws elfin girlfriend in The Spy Who Loved Me.

They are both frothing uncontrollably at the mouth in manic fervor. And when I write fervor, this does their condition no justice. We're talking Beatlemania. I'll refer to them as the Beatlemaniacs from now on. What are they frothing about? About The Chills and how they're their favourite band ever. About The Television Personalities and how they might be. About goodness know what else. I can't keep up. Still, I'm touched by them. They remind me of myself. Of how I was in my youth. I was never as bad as they are. But I remember my first beer. My first kiss, We'll stop there.

I tell Daniel and Catherine that The Chills are sitting outside and they start frothing again and rush outside to greet their heroes. I buy a Chills T-Shirt from the doe eyed girl and chat to those around me about how I love the Flying Nun label and The Chills particularly. Daniel is back and lends me the pen which Martin has used to sign his product. I go out myself. I'd like to get my t-shirt signed myself. Martin is otherwise detained so I chat with a Scottish guy who lives in Darlington,  who I'd met up at the Pete Astor gig last night. Then I get in the queue to see Martin. I don't plan to talk to him. I know he's a sensitive man who's been through a lot. A signature will do me.

I'm confronted by a strange apparition. An intense, but clearly shy young woman lacking in confidence and rather full of herself at the same time. She says there'll be plenty of time for that after the gig when they'll do a meet and greet. I say I only want to get my shirt signed. I don't want to hang around after the gig, though I don't say that. I'm confused. She won't let it go. There will be time after the gig. I'm a bit lost again. 'What's it got to do with you.' 'I'm the tour manager' she says. 'Oh that's ridiculous' I tell her. She's a bit stunned. She doesn't know how to speak to people of my age. I slope back into the venue, determined not to lose my temper over such a trivial matter when I'm in such a good mood. She's hardly Peter Grant or Epstein.

Rafts on Rats are just on inside. They're five impossibly young Dutch people. Immaculately dressed in a cool for school way. Mostly in black. I've been very impressed by their 2022 album, Excerpts from Chapter 3; The Mind Runs a Net of Rabbit Paths. would you believe it and have been looking forward to seeing them.

There is plenty of room, the gig is well populated, but certainly not sold out. I plant myself at the lip of the stage. Initially I'm not as impressed by Rats on Rafts, apart from their look and stage manner which is intense and committed. Intensity had been what I'd been roused by in their record. The way they babbled frantically. Not unlike the Beatlemaniacs who are next to me. Leaping around like deranged escaped members from a cult..

It turns out that The Rats are largely trying out material for their forthcoming record. This is admirable though I'm not sure it's all worked out yet. Suddenly though, they click into gear and I get what I'd been hoping four. The four front people, the two young guys and the two girls flanking them start yelling at the top of their lungs.

It's apocalyptic. It's also brilliant and original. Most of all, the descriptions that fit best to Raft on Rats are apocalypse and dystopia. Think of the mood of The Clash's London Calling, (the single) meets the War of the World soundtrack and stretched out to a 40 minute set of Post Punk friction, melody and terror. It's the end of the world as we know it and the carnage stems and spreads from Rotterdam. I think they're terrific and tell their lead singer, who looks like a young Robert Forster, with a splendid perched hair do, just how wonderful they are. I mean highly promising really, I think they haven't quite realised the greatness within them yet, but they're on the way.

I switch wings of the stage and fiddle with the camera on my phone. I've been given advice in The Telegraph and am determined to get some half decent snaps this time.

The Chills slowly gather onstage and they're off. There is a keyboardist and drummer at the back and the three pronged front line of the blond lady, Martin and the braided prop forward. The feeling that they gave me when they started to play was one of the most extraordinary emotions I've ever had at a gig in almost forty years of going to them. I'll never forget it. I was finally getting to see heroes of mine after all these years of loving them and hoping to see them play. They were all I ever wanted and more. It was all going to be alright. I was bathed in light.

With The Chills, much of the wonder they create is anchored by their bass sound. It's like an undertow, an anchor around which their glorious melody and tales of escape into childhood love nd joy, gather and bloom. As someone said to me after it was over, they're like a perfect marriage of Joy Division and The Byrds. But they're also so distinctively New Zealand. Nautical wonder. You're swimming in clear water. Exploring the coral.. 

The prop forward and a fabulous whirling dervish drummer are in charge of the engine room. Martin and Amanda's cousin provide the melody and light. A keyboardist flits between defence and attack. They're a band who know exactly what they're doing and how to do it. It  really doesn't matter what songs they play as I reflect with the Scars T-Shirt guy who is standing right behind me grinning from ear to ear. They have the formula, the sound and they're casting their spell. The story is about to be told. 'Show us the castle. Show us to their lair.' Rolling Moon.  

They play plenty I knew. Plenty that I need to know. The Chills recording history goes back forty years now and contains plenty of wonder. They do Submarine Bells, Doledrums, Kaleidoscope World, I Love my Leather Jacket. Chills staples. What you'd expect. As part of the encore, they play a new song Counting which is about advancing years and appreciating the wonder. The man is a genus though it's not as widely appreciated as it should be. His band are one of the greats and I'm so glad I'm getting to witness and experience them in full flow.

There is more. Of course they play Pink Frost mid-set. It's one they really have to play. It's not necessarily their best, I love so many. But it's a song apart and one that has to be heard and fully appreciated to understand their wonder but also their pain. It's a narrative. About a death in the forest. A murder of a young girl. A moment of intense and ultimate dread. When they play it I'm taken to an incredible place. I'll never forget it.

But there are other blissful moments. Martin is wonderfully garrulous. He teases the Beatlemaniacs who never stop shrieking and babbling and  appear to be speaking in tongues by now. But he's wonderfully indulgent with them, like a father with beloved, possibly spoilt children. Their youth, their sincere love. There is a banter back and forth but it's clear that he is always in control.

There is a questions round where Martin elicits stuff from the audience. 'Why can't you get Submarine Bells on vinyl'. I shout out at this point, 'You should have bought it at the time.'  I'm naturally shy but I don't care in these situations. People laugh I'm pleased to say. I did buy it and played it earlier today. Then I ask a question, 'Who apart from you were your favourite band on Flying Nun?' Martin considers. 'The John Paul Sartre Experience were pretty good.' Then he says, 'that was the best question' and with a smile chucks me The Chills t-shirt that they're offering for this section of the evening. It feels like a bridal bouquet moment. I almost blush. Middle aged blokes and the Beatlemaniacs are looking at me. Sucks to you, officious and self-important Tour Manager lady. I have two Chills t-shirts now. Neither of them signed. I couldn't care less about that. Sucks to you.

There is one more moment I'll cherish. The chiming, celestial opening chords of Heavenly Pop Hit from 1990's Submarine Bells. The Chills hit that never was but damn well should have been. Their Streets of Your Town. Simon Mayo, who was Radio 1 Breakfast DJ played it relentlessly and I listened in my university room in my last months as I came towards graduation. It stalled midway in the forties of the UK singles charts. A crime.

I ask the American behind me if he's in a band. I'm fairly sure he is. He says 'Yes. I' in a band called The Brian Jonestown Massacre.' The Brian Jonestown Massacre. That must be some band to be in. 'That guy,' I said. He smiles. He says they're The Chills are the most wonderful, modest unassuming people. He lives in their vicinity' Tell them for me what a truly wonderful band they are. One for the ages '  'You should tell them yourself.' He says. They'd appreciate it. They're hanging around  after the gig.' I can't do this. I'm too modest. Shy essentially. I get embarrassed. Telling my heroes how much they mean to me and have meant. For so many years. I'd start crying and I don't want to.

I'm content to walk home. Down the Quayside which is utterly serene and almost deserted. I've had the most wonderful evening and I'm really happy..