NIGHTCLUB CLUBBING

Rip It Up, Issue 225, 1 May 1996, Page 9

NIGHTCLUB CLUBBING

Throw me into a cauldron of molten Green Day records if I am wrong, but is it not 1996? Not if you enter the grunge waxworks museum called Bob, it aint. A non-skateboarding, Nine Inch Nails hating accomplice and I entered the virtually all white, industrial entrails of this alleged indie sack of potatoes dive, and nearly died laughing. Some flaccid DJ was playing ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’, and a herd of lumberjacks and Alanis Morissette look-alikes were re-enacting the Nirvana video .of many centuries ago.

As I was not flagellating myself in mimicry of what I’d seen on. a Max revival show for those who had missed the grunge bus, a long-haired leper straight out of the Last Temptation of Christ shouts to me: “Get into ft, man!” He must have thought I was recreating the shoegazing movement. It is loonies like this base football player who has a few “mega” CDs by anteater droppings groups like Rage Against the Machine, the Presidents of the USA and Rancid that make me want to join a Pulp monastery. I hope he and his tribe of pierced tummy button fakes would go and join the Hare Krishnas (apparently their dancing styles are quite similar). The only moderately reputable place to go is Pod, when they show bands like Unsane. But the rest, you gotta show you’re a Caucasian with a pierced brain, Offspring kneepads, and a Farmers account to show you haven’t stolen your flannel shirts, before you get past the ugly bouncers. I just wish you could go out to a place that could surprise you with the music they play, a little Knownothings, Cable, Bluetones, Sonic Youth, Teenage Fanclub, etc. wouldn’t go a miss. And a complete ban on Ministry refuse would make the world a peaceful and glorius place. Venus De Mellow Yellow, Auckland.