[B]Gregory Webster[/B], God love him. He really doesn't know when he's beaten....
Gregory Webster, God love him. He really doesn’t know when he’s beaten. Older readers might remember him as the frontman of C86 fellow travellers the Razorcuts and more recent inductees to the Camden toilet circuit might wince with embarrassment at the memory of his more recent exercise in indie-pop genetics, Saturn V.
But as the existence of Sportique demonstrates, the spirit of the champion and the long-term loser are refreshingly similar; neither of them ever give up. Including as they do among their ranks at least one ex-Television Personality, Sportique could be cruelly termed a rest home for dead shamblers, but are actually a rather thrilling assimilation of bedsit sensitivity and trebly garage bluster.
Take recent single ‘p58’ which allies Webster‘s wilfully liberated (ie, tuneless) voice to a trebly battering ram of a tune and you might get the picture. Imagine, like on the torch-song finale, ‘A World Without Pity’, that The Byrds had come, not from sunny Califor-ni-ay, but had been fished from the swamps of the Medway Delta by Billy Childish, then you might be a little closer to the Sportique sound.
So we’ll leave him. Drilling for diamonds but digging up rocks.