Over the last six months, the badly behaved, beer-throwing droogs from Selfish C—have been banned from
the ICA, On The Rocks, Egg and every Barfly in the country because when they played at the Camden branch they sabotaged Snow Patrol’s equipment.
Hey, if I was boss of the world, anybody
who did anything to stop [a]Snow Patrol[/a] playing music would get a million pounds deposited in their bank account every three days, but I don’t think that’s going to happen for another ten years at least. Yeah, I know, it’s a shame, but
for now Martin Tomlinson (vocals) and Patrick Constable (guitar) are just going to have to
live with not being able to play with bad indie bands in the place where former members of [a]Menswear[/a] go to die.
Yeah, bands like [a]Selfish Cunt[/a] are much more suited to venues like east London’s amazing Rhythm Factory.
This grimy, sweaty hole is fast becoming
the epicentre of London’s underground rock scene because it’s where all the craziest
urchins, druggies and indie girls and boys hang out to see bands like [a]Libertines[/a] and [a]Selfish Cunt[/a] play totally unannounced gigs with like-minded, druggy, extreme-Dickensian tinkers like Neils Children, [a]The Ordinary Boys[/a], The Left Hand and Pete Doherty’s drug buddy Wolfman. Oh yeah, that guy. Tonight he plays just after Selfish, and, although his music sounds like satanic acid jazz on crack, the moment Pete Doherty stumbles onstage to sing ‘For Lovers’ with him, the audience loses its collective fucking mind and everybody sings every word and history is made.
Even though they’re more of an art project than a rock band and only have one guitar and
a tinny drum machine that doesn’t even work properly, [a]Selfish Cunt[/a] are more heavy and intense than any fucking 37 Marshall stack BC Rich Warlock-playing longhairs who prop up dying rock phenomena like the Download Festival or Ozzfest.
The main reason tonight’s show is so
ball-tighteningly great is because of Martin Tomlinson’s wired-to the-gills, destroy-everything-now stage persona. After tearing down the camouflage drapes at the back of
the stage, he jerks around like a gay robot programmed to rape everything in his sight, alternately diving into the audience to pick
fights with the boys and girls and bouncers
and then back onstage again, grabbing his
cock and spitting on people.
Patrick’s guitar cuts out for half a song but
it doesn’t really matter, because Martin’s carrying the show on his own, ranting and
raving and twisting and shouting through angry, fuck-the-world songs called ‘Full Swing’, ‘Britain Is Shit’ and ‘Fuck The Poor’. All of a sudden he dives off the stage, marches through the crowd and disappears.
Later on, Martin mills about in the guest
area as Pete and Carl Libertine make an entrance and are summarily mobbed by the Rhythm Factory urchins. A hooded, black-
haired Wolfman limbers up for his set while bouncers and nutters and kids stagger
around while screaming, shouting, getting drunk and making out with each other.
Wow, this is amazing. London’s finally burning again.