No time to rehearse for this one, despite our best efforts. All sorts of things conspired against us, but we set off to Nottingham a bit late, negotiating traffic and the heat with our customary good nature. It's a long drive down.
We were the last of the performers to arrive. Tripazoid's three VCS3s were already in place on tables set in a triangle configuration so each of the players (Jez, Steve and Stevo) could face each other.
We were informed we'd be playing last, so we set our stuff up and pushed the table against the wall until the other performers had finished their sets. Obviously we had the traditional technical problems: A missing lead that no-one else could lend us and a shortened version of the video instead of the one we were supposed to play to. Apart from these slight oversights, everything was hunky dory.
Tripazoid's three VCS3s swooped and whooshed as though their electronic souls were sentient in themselves. As if even without the players manipulating them they would have still performed of their own accord, but probably spiraled off into an unknown sonic abstraction beyond human comprehension. The band seemed more like lion tamers trying to keep these unruly beasts from running wild and destroying everyone's fragile minds.
Tripazoid's three VCS3s swooped and whooshed as though their electronic souls were sentient in themselves. As if even without the players manipulating them they would have still performed of their own accord, but probably spiraled off into an unknown sonic abstraction beyond human comprehension. The band seemed more like lion tamers trying to keep these unruly beasts from running wild and destroying everyone's fragile minds.
After the freeform tide of analog plasma that Tripazoid exuded, the precision and clarity of Secret Nuclear stood out in stark contrast. Crystal tones of bright neon created a kind of cold war digital sense of paranoia. Alpha. Beta. Gamma. Delta. A machine voice against a grid of shimmering fluorescence.
We played a set which varied between abstract, ambient dreaminess, clattering, metal rail-track sounds and motorik beats with a propellent bass moving everything onward. Considering the technical issues, it hurtled along nicely and we arrived at our final destination without major stoppages. There were no leaves on the track.
It finished with me lip syncing to the voice of an old fellow summarizing the devastating impact of the Beeching cuts to regional railway lines. The End.
From a personal point of view I was dead chuffed to see my good friends Aubrey Eels & The Baron (Ian Hamilton and Richard Hart) had come to see us. I've been in bands with Ian and we've written songs together which are still being performed live by the pair, although in adapted and updated forms. I don't know what they made of the evening, but I was gifted a tiny remote camera as a prize from Ian, but I can't make it work yet.
The journey home was blighted by road closures, detours and sat nav fluctuations, but we were home by about bleeding 2am and nobody died.
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