Crud World Domination Enterprises give you


Bar Blu, Rhyl

its the end of the road


(Review & pix by Neil Crud)


The Mancs getting a good kicking at home to AC Milan meant a late start for those performing their arts tonight. Gintis were originally billed but they pulled the gig a few weeks ago, as they would be in Amsterdam; although there were people in the audience who looked suspiciously like Gintis members.
This left the gap open for Jives Room’s Gwynn to put his sticks down and pick up an acoustic, tempt his mate Aled out of the Gents and strum a few tunes while everyone talked amongst themselves.
Fatman and Sync were on form, having the head start of consuming x-amount of Carlings during the first half, the anecdotal content ranged from muck spreading to fat birds to Kentucky fried chicken! Or was it all in the same sentence?
So with the lights fantastic, Liverpool’s Trip took centre stage to show us that two trip’s are better than one. They formed early last year, unaware that Marcus Warner’s Newport band sport the same name and have also played here at Bar Blu. Once they were told of the name similarity they were happy to suggest they’d fight the South Walians for the name. Maybe Rastin could arrange both bands on the bill in the future?
Trip are a very young band, and their Scouse origins were laid bare as soon as the opening number got under way. It’s that 60s psychedelic, Coral, Beefheart, how’s yer father feel that all new Scouse bands have. Not that it’s a bad thing, and even Carl Gintis, who suggested that they would be ‘fucking shite’ was nodding with enthusiasm before the song was out.
Listeners (both of you!) to my online radio show will already know that there is more than one string to the Trip bow and the field of dynamism stretches far and wide. From the choppy run-along stuff like White Noise to the jazz bar Richard Cheese-esq feel of Mr Quedate. It’s plain to see why regular contributor to this site Phil Newall has a vested interest in the band (he’s bought them all vests), and was present in the crowd disguised as a barmaid. Like a lot of young bands eager to impress, they played for far too long, which seemed to be the only criticism from tonight’s audience.
Work loomed the next day and it was way past midnight, the crowd waited and waited, bopping to ‘Now that’s What I Call Alternative Dancefloor Fillers 38’ but even the bottomless beer pits that Fatman and Sync collectively possess could hang on over the waistline of their jeans for Beat Poet. Sorry.


(Trip website)





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