The Beat Surrender

Sometimes you’ve just got to let bygones be bygones. The Spice Girls have done it, Take That have done it and even the Sex Pistols have done it (although it doesn’t sound like a very punky thing to do). It’s time to swallow my pride, ignore our unresolved differences and come back to The Beat Surrender.

You’ve no doubt read in the tabloids about the 18 months that have elapsed since I last did a review. That Kev said I’d gone ‘all Hollywood’ on him. But now it’s time to come back for good. It’s not the time to air our dirty linen, although you can read the truth in my Duncan Fletcher style exposé ‘No Surrender (to the beat)’ which will be published soon.

So to Preston, Britain’s newest (and almost certainly shittest) city, to see the Rumble Strips. I was accompanied by Barrie (Rumble Strips superfan and stalker) and Martyn (Beautiful South and Deacon Blue lover). The gig was to take place at 53 Degrees, a venue memorable for (and dedicated to) the shocking mass slaughter of wannabees for Prince Charles’ favourite band in the first X-factor style execution, 50 young hopefuls perished that night, and we should never, ever forget. They only wanted to be Sheila Ferguson.

First though there was an eerie moment before we had even left Poulton-le-Fylde station, one of the longest single platform stations in the UK. We were accosted by a woman who was attempting to make the short journey from P-L-F to Kirkham (the next stop). Unfortunately she had already done the round trip to Preston (the one after Kirkham) and back and was getting increasingly agitated about her situation. We offered her reassurance that the next train would definitely stop at Kirkham, although why she thought that 3 blokes drinking lager from cans were a source of authority is something of a mystery.

Happily the train slowed down as we approached Kirkham and this story seemed certain to have a happy ending. A genuine sense of relief pervaded our group. Only then it speeded up and she was off to Preston once again. It was hard to stifle a little giggle as she looked totally distraught. I imagine she may still be going round that particular circle to this day. Like an East Berliner in the 80s, continuously riding the U-Bahn, visiting West Berlin but unable to get off the train, trapped, powerless, a prisoner of a situation over which she has no control.

Any road up, enough about her, I was arriving in buoyant form having experienced a beautiful revenge in footballing terms the day before, with Steve Bruce having to endure two Everton injury time goals against his horrible Birmingham City. This seemed poetic as Bruce irritated the nation many years ago with his 99th and 112th minute headers for Man United against Sheffield Wednesday.

As we entered the student bar in Preston it was clear to see one thing immediately, yep – you’ve guess it, it was quiz night. For the second time in the evening, an undeserved sense of authority was bestowed on our posse. Although as a group of 3 thirty-somethings, it was perfectly natural for the student types to think we were teachers or letchers or whatever they call them. So we were approached as a source of information from all sorts of weirdy beardie types, and a few lads too. Pleasingly we were a hit in the TV themes round, my own Quantam Leap spot was an especially proud moment.

Anyway, to the gig. The Rumble Strips are a quirky bunch, tantalisingly on the brink of breaking through. The band they seem to get compared to most are Dexys and in fairness they have a lot in common. There are loads of them, the vocal range is vast, they have a bit of a folksy feel and also there’s many a brass instrument on display.

The two ways in which they seem to differ are that the Rumble Strips are pretty funny and pleasingly they don’t seem to have gone down that gypo path.

What was immediately apparent from the outset is that this band put a serious amount of energy into their work. This was especially evident when they played the quite honestly beautiful ‘Don’t dumb down for me’.

Now these Devonians can’t be accused of trying to get by on their looks. One of them seemed to fancy himself a bit, swanning around at the back, twanging his guitar in the style of Charlie Burchill from Simple Minds, seemingly thinking he was above the whole running around getting a big sweat on. He was like a beacon of handsomeness in a band of ordinary looking geezers, a sort of reverse Gary Barlow I suppose.

Anyway, even he started to get stuck in, one minute smacking a drum, the next playing a trumpet or trombone. The band seamlessly made their way through their collection of sprightly and sometimes silly songs, the most memorable being ‘girls and boys in love’, ‘motorcycle’ and their enchanting new single ‘time’. It was obvious within a few minutes that this was going to be one of those gigs where our expectations were definitely going to be easily exceeded, except for Superfan Baz of course.

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