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Goldie Lookin' Chain : Bristol Bierkeller

You knows it makes sense...

Goldie Lookin' Chain : Bristol Bierkeller

Opinion is divided at NME Towers about Goldie Lookin' Chain: 99.9 per cent agree that they are the comic, shambolic future of all music, an accidental stroke of genius and the best thing since sliced Streets; 0.01 per cent (sitting over by the window) thinks they're a novelty on a par with pulling a Christmas cracker with The Darkness. But that's democracy for you: if this was communist Russia, we'd pull Mr 0.01 per cent out by the scruff of his neck and shoot him in the temples. Instead, all we can do is to try to ignore the imbecile and hope he'll go away.


The Chain are, you see, utterly fantastic. On paper, it's going to take some convincing of getting-a-small-child-to-eat-sprouts proportions to convert anyone. GLC are a
mutable collection of Welsh lads (we count nine tonight) who rap about robots, roller discos, famous suicides ("Michael Hutchence died wanking on the loo") and, erm, John Fashanu ("I'm like John Fashanu when he goes 'A-whooga'/I'll appear in your dreams like Freddy Krueger").


They've got silly names like 2Hats and Adam Hussain and Mr Loveeggs and MC Flatpress. They dress like their mums have just kitted them out for PE, except with gold accessories. Their stage presence lies somewhere between looking like they're making it up as they go along and looking like they've spent the last three years insanely practising in their living rooms (which, head honcho Dwain Xain Zedong tells NME, they have). And, most crucially of all, around 85 per cent of them will be stoned out of their boxes at any one time.
The driving force behind the GLC, you see, is The Reefer. Your resident NME journo, slightly unsure what to expect on top of the stoner-heavy GLC in Amsterdam feature last week, pretty much had it sussed by
the time he walked past the tourbus and almost passed out from the smell.
As Phil Collins sang, there's most certainly something in the air tonight.


Yet onstage, you wouldn't necessarily place da herb as the GLC drug of
choice. Instead, they perform with the energy of a wheelbarrow full of Extra
Life Duracell batteries, a-rapping and a-raving like a class of infants after too much orange squash.
It's like stand-up comedy set to music with the acumen of modern hip-hop. '21 Ounces' sends up So Solid's '21 Seconds' hilariously, 'Shit To Me' outlines the boys' views of American music down to a T, even Vanilla Ice gets a piss-taking with an 'Ice Ice Dildo' interlude. Debut single 'Half Man Half Machine' tells the story of going down to the shops to buy ten fags dressed in tinfoil, name-checking ZX Spectrums, Donkey Kong, smoking draw, vests, Robocop, Bill Gates, masturbation, plugging your knob into the electrical socket in Currys, wet dreams, Terminator and fucking the fridge along the way, all in a Welsh-robot voice. Need we say more?


It's funny, it's fast, it's furious, yet it's amazingly professional considering that GLC haven't even released a record yet. And to be honest, that's all they need. Tonight's Welsh-heavy contingent know all the words and are having the time of their lives. Once the GLC have their tracks committed to record and their lyrics committed to memory, the GLC sing and jump-along experience will be available to all, and we'll all have to prepare to bow down in the face of (stoner, Welsh, fly-boy) genius. Safe as.

Rich Pelley

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