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Quireboys

Glasgow G2, 9th December 2005

'We're the Quireboys, and this is rock'n'roll!'

Another night in Glasgow, another Quireboys gig. That's three this year, if anyone's counting. The 'Boys have been touring almost constantly during 2005, and to be honest, the late nights and long, long boozing sessions are beginning to take their toll…

Things get off to a good start as they launch into a raucous version of one of my all time favourites, 'Mayfair': yup, we think, this is rock'n'roll, and it sure is good to see ya. But then, well, it kind of becomes apparent that all is not entirely well. Spike's mic is turned way down and it's hard to hear what he's singing. When we can, we discover he's doing that Vince Neil trick of only actually singing two words in every three. And those words he's getting in the wrong order.

Now, anyone who's seen a Quireboys gig before will be aware that Our Spike likes to take a drink, and is generally ever so slightly the worse for wear when on stage. Tonight, however, he's positively reeling, and whilst he can clearly still strut his stuff and throw those hyperactive Mick Jagger shapes when wasted, singing is another matter. 'Hey You', 'Long Time Coming', 'There She Goes Again', 'Misled', 'The Finer Stuff', 'Black Mariah' ('Hey, you guys have written a song about Mariah Carey. I didn't know she was black…'), 'Lorraine Lorraine', '7 O'Clock', 'Take Me Home' – the songs we want to hear are all there, but, um, they sound a wee bit crap.

'Are none of you tight gets going to buy me a drink?' Spike hollers from the stage, dropping the mic stand with a resounding boom and sending anxious roadies into cable detangling overdrive. Eventually the JD and coke begins to flood the stage – ye gods people, don't give him any more, he can barely stand up as at is. We paid £11 to see this shambles of a gig – you buy us a drink, why don't you?

And then, things start to go really pearshaped. As the band return for their encore, who should lurch onto the stage but Fin, the frontman of support band Waysted, whose uneven mix of prog rock and bar room blues opened the show. He's dressed like Spike (ie like David Essex) in waistcoat, granddad shirt and bandana, and he's very, very, very drunk. So drunk, in fact, that he can't actually stand up unaided, but must cling desperately to Spike and Nige like a pissed fourteen-year-old at a disco. I think he's supposed to be joining in with the longest ever version of 'I Don't Love You Anymore'… but he doesn't seem to know the words. Nor does he know the words to what is mercifully the final song, and there are only two to learn: 'Sex Party'. It's like watching an embarrassing drunk uncle sing karaoke at a wedding: so cringey we can hardly bear to look.

Eventually the rest of the band shamble off, leaving Fin alone, propped up on the mic stand, yelling for more. The lights come up, the audience turns away, ignoring Fin ranting like a Special Brew jakey on a street corner. The spotlight goes down. The gig is over.

A couple of hours later, the 'Boys roll into the Cathouse, just as we lightweights are leaving. Just as well, I think, otherwise I'd either have had to lie to them or give them a piece of my mind.

Okay, having praised them to the sky for their selfless dedication to the rock'n'roll lifestyle, it's perhaps rather churlish of me to turn round now and complain when these 'genuinely drunken, disorderly yet lovable rogues' act like the alcoholic bums they are. Don't get me wrong, I love the Quireboys, and I love their music, but tonight's descent into chaos was plain embarrassing, and if I'd wanted to cringe with embarrassment, I'd have stayed at home and watched Space Cadets. For me, the 'Boys embody the spirit of rock'n'roll – just a shame that tonight's performance was more the fried peanut butter sandwich, dead on the toilet spirit, rather than the rhinestone Vegas jumpsuit…

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