Shoegazers Reunited

Went to a proper, ‘Hush Hush’ Hush Puppy Warehouse party last night in Kidderminster.

‘Shoegazers Reunited’ were having their annual convention and I thought I should at least show my face (even though nobody else showed theirs, preferring instead to gaze down at their footwear). The Bootleg Slowdive played a wicked set of Catherine Wheel numbers and ‘I Can’t Believe It’s Not My Bloody Valentine’ did a stunning unplugged set including, Blue Suede Shoes, My Adidas and A Profound Gas by The Sandals.

I tried making eye contact with the organiser, a Mr. Bata but he seemed quite intent on staring at his size ten Albemarle Brogues from Shipton and Heneage and mumbling something about, ‘Keeping it Real’. In fact no one was looking at anyone else and furthermore where they were going in general.

At least seventy gazers of the shoe all gazing at their shoes whilst swaying theatrically to ‘Destroy The Heart’ by The Bungalow Of Love (another small scale tribute band) were causing bedlam everywhere one looked – well, just where I looked in fact. People carrying pints of Tanglefoot and Dover Sole sandwiches from the bar were crashing into each other at a terrific rate of knots. Fans were missing the entrance to the WC and causing themselves terrible concussion as they smacked into the concrete wall nearby, and the DJ’s needles kept jumping as dancers went up to ask for requests, missing the booth by a few feet (arf), they continually stumbled into his decks by mistake.

It was also chaos outside as traffic ground to a screeching halt in order to miss the seven or so ticket touts wandering aimlessly on the road trying to sell the few remaining tickets for the event whilst staring at their Box Fresh Gazelles. The bouncers were letting anyone in as they had been briefed to get into the spirit of the event and keep their necks at a 90-degree angle. Not an easy task for people who lack the main ingredient for this type of task i.e. a neck.

Zola Budd, who is apparently an avid fan of the scene was jeered and booed and called a ‘freak’ by a rather zealous group outside for turning up in her usual style of undress, and a burger van recieved so many unintentional head buts from famished ‘Gazers’ that the owner had to shut up shop for fear of his hearing.

I made my excuses and left just after half ten as another collection of bruised and battered convention members were brought out by St John’s Ambulance.

Thankfully my taxi driver was listening to Ned’s Atomic Dustbin on the way home and were it not for this slight deviation in ‘scenes’ I might not have been here to tell the tale today.