We had a panic attack on our way to see Le Tigre at Glasgow Barrowlands and almost missed the show. Someone forgot to send a message, we were late, the meeting spot stopped selling food without warning. Minor stuff, the sort of troubles you get past every day. Still, sometimes these things add up to the point where you feel your skin bubbling on your face, and as we tried to make a new plan I could feel the air kissing up to freshly exposed skeleton.
When we finally get there the show was everything we needed it to be.
Lester Bangs stopped speaking to me a long time ago, but when Le Tigre started playing I thought of what he said about The Clash on their ’77 tour:
Nothing can cancel the reality of that night in the revivifying flames when for once if only then in your life you were blasted outside of yourself and the monotony which defines most life anywhere at any time, when you felt supra-alive, when you supped on lightning and nothing else in the realms of the living or dead mattered at all.
We shouldn’t get too caught up in Bangs’ drivel about disco being “room spray”, or his worries about politics. There was plenty of dancing and plenty of politics in the Barrowlands on the night – ‘FYR‘ and ‘Get Off The Internet‘ don’t waste time on manners – but the main feeling was of being more real than we can usually afford to be in a room full of people who were feeling the same. In a moment where women and queer people don’t need to look for their troubles, the mood was pointedly ecstatic. The sound was laptop dance music blown out to fill the room, a high scream that never seemed to end, deadpan commentary when you needed it, guitars only when they were needed, sly jokes and shared hurt jolting from body to body.
I’ve tended to stick to the first half of their debut and the From The Desk or Mr. Lady EP in recent years, but the gig was a good argument for the whole shebang. The crowd bounced along to the climax of ‘The Viz‘ like it was their own story, and screamed ‘Keep On Livin‘ like its stunted hardcore riff had given them strength to try.
To avoid another anxiety attack, I’m going to limit myself to picking three from the self titled album here:
The number one choice is obvious but undeniable, a potent mix of specific gripes (hi Fat Mike!) and portable rage (“You want what you want but you don’t wanna be on your knees”). The riff is smart-dumb rock’n’roll at its finest, and the song offers fresh details to match it every few seconds (“How are you?” “Fine thank you”).
‘The The Empty’ is Kathleen Hanna at her Bikini Kill best, total negation over a relentless three chord riff: “I went to your concert and I didn’t feel anything”. ‘My My Metrocard’ is closer to my heart for the way it transforms everyday triumphs and aggravations into something that can blast you outside yourself. Fuck Giuliani, and fuck all our messed up plans too – right now, we’re in motion!
Blue Box // Recorder 