The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster
Live at Cockpit on Sunday, 24th November 2002
Tonight is about no nonsense rock'n'roll. All 3 bands ply their similar yet totally different take on the "rock hard, then fuck off" philosophy. With each set lasting less than half an hour you cannot afford to loose concentration for a second - no encore - no second chances.
"There's something irresistibly cool about coming from Leeds and pretending to be French". It's almost like les Flames! hail from Reading. Though they didn't have the Cockney Geezers fooled - but security sorted them out later.
Next up an unknown three-piece are slightly less kamikaze than the other two bands, but who needs that when you've got the American-Rock-God stance - long greasy hair over your eyes - legs wide apart - bare-chest - sweatbands around your biceps - and guitars held high above your head.
After an 'interesting' musical interlude, The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster wage their no-messing war on your eardrums. It's raw, it's dark, it's an intense experience, and there is no escape - they bring it into the audience and ram it down your throat - literally. They may seem like Eighties throwbacks but, unlike some of the more trendy 'retro' bands around today, they deliver non-pretentious rock'n'roll music as it should be - simultaneously completely shit and completely fucking amazing.
These bands are just the tip of a whole iceberg of bands willing to relieve you from the tedium of the commercial pop bollocks polluting the airwaves 24/7. Long live the Guitar!