...And out again

When Brighton's notoriously sticky and sweaty Free Butt finally closed its battered doors after many many years of hosting some of the finest and most frenzied gigs I've ever attended (take a bow, Man or Astroman), I thought live music as I know and love it (small gigs by up-and-coming/down-and-dropping bands attended by people who care about music and haven't had any cocaine and so won't talk inanely and loudly to their mates over the music) was over in this town. And it did tail off a little for a while, until the Green Door Store opened eighteen months ago and revived us all. It's another comforting dive of a venue, located in a disused railway shed round the back of the train station, with a brick floor, peeling paintwork, and a sweatbox of a live music room at the back that has surprisingly good acoustics. No visit to this preening ponce of a town would be complete without a visit (they don't have a 'no hipsters' door policy as such, but they're definitely in a minority here.). It'll make you like the place more.

I went along twice this week, on consecutive nights (my hedonism apparently knows no bounds) to take in shows by two definite survivors from earlier eras, who, had they met (and they may be chums for all I know) would certainly have had some fascinating conversations. On Tuesday night, former Can front man and legendary head Damo Suzuki was in town. Damo is on a never-ending tour, a bit like Bob Dylan but without the ghastly noise and awful songs. Wherever he pitches up, he is joined by a fresh group of local musicians, and with minimal preparation they get together and knock out a new and unique version of his repertoire each time. This means every gig is a completely fresh and original musical experience, and as I've seen a few of these now I can say (with a great deal of love in my heart) that some ensembles have proved more successful than others. Which is, of course, inevitable.

What is undeniable is Damo's enthusiasm and passion for what he does; his tiny frame tense as wire and his face squeezed into a simian grimace of concentration as he pours forth his unintelligible lyrics in what could be English, German, Japanese, or a fusion of all three. I made out a few words, which were 'why can't you' in one song and 'boogie woogie' in another, but quickly forgot about straining to listen and just let it all happen on the stage. He was ably backed by a tight trio of electro-droogs, with very deft use of a theramin and melotron adding to the spaced-out vibe, speeding and slowing as his voice veered between monastic whispers and what often sounded like credible Louis Armstrong impressions (trust me, this was way better than I'm making it sound.). The audience were captivated, as witnessed by the almost total absence of inane chatter during the songs, and Damo appeared to notice us all for more or less the first time as we burst into an explosion of cheers at the end, opening his eyes and beaming in happy surprise. On the way out I noticed several people who'd been at Moon Duo the previous week, which made perfect sense. All of us getting back to prog roots that we never knew we had (and which I'd have scornfully derided in my teens.). Anyway, if Damo's coming to your town, do pitch up and give him your support. If you bring your flugelhorn you might end up getting a gig with him, whether you've ever had a flugelhorn lesson or not.

Things got much more confusing the following night when I turned up for Lene Lovich. Lene was a heroine of mine back in the day; she arrived in my life via the slightly more trendy kids TV programme 'Magpie', which ran on British TV once a week as a rival to the hugely popular but far more priggish BBC front runner 'Blue Peter'. Blue Peter's version of youth culture would have been a feature on the Cardigans of Roger Whittaker; Magpie was much more down and dirty, had presenters who wore jeans and had hair like Brian May, and had its nicotine-stained finger much closer to the youth pulse. Thus there was Lene Lovich, in her massive black lace headdress and layers of rags, swinging her thick knee-length plaits and rolling her wide eyes while making the most amazing vocal noises on 'Lucky Number', her novelty hit of 1978. Sexy but not sexual, strong but not aggressive, she was a great role model who proved capable of so much more than that one hit, duetting superbly with Nina Hagen as well as penning some more fine songs of her own before vanishing from public life to raise her family and run an antique shop in Norfolk.

I was thrilled to discover she was performing again, only I made the mistake of not reading the small print in my excitement, and so found myself seeing Lene as part of an ensemble show themed around Kurt Weill (ok in small doses as far as I'm concerned) and free jazz (a problem area for me.).  Lene arrived looking splendid in her Edwardian bonnet and black lace, and proved that her voice is as strong as ever by belting out a creditable 'Alabama Song' with a male singer whose voice was painfully flat and a good semitone out of tune with hers. She was as lively and charismatic as I remember, still wide-eyed and quite beautiful at 62, and I was ready for more when she left the stage and the free jazz ensemble got going. From the rapturous reception of most of the audience (some, who had been lounging on the floor at the front pretending to be Greenwich Village cats from 1961, merely adjusted their facial expressions) this was clearly a hugely respected and talented group of men, and I could tell that great skill was required to make some of those trumpet noises sound like more than just a duck being drowned in a bath of hot soup, but...it was the ten minute drum solo ( done mainly with beaters and brushes) which segued into an eight minute double-bass solo, after which I just knew that there would be an equivalent length discordant keyboard solo, which finished me off. I had to high-tail it. I'd given them twenty minutes and they were just getting into their stride; I couldn't handle any more, man. I am simply not mature enough to embrace free-form jazz. And this wasn't the first time I'd tried; I just can't do it. And yet, I mused later, I have no problem with stoner prog-noodling of the kind I'd lapped up last week with Moon Duo, the previous night with Damo, and will be lapping up again in a week - in Hamburg, folks! - with the wonderful Wooden Shjips. What interpretations is my brain making when it hears an atonal trumpet solo, and I have to leave the room?

We're strange cats, us humans. Have a good weekend, man. Here's Damo in his heyday to give you some inspiration.