We know of Dorans. We know it to be a pit, a foul piss smelling, prostitute's armpit of a place. The kind of place national socialists hung out drinking beer , eating sausages and pinching waitresses on the arse. We know all this. We'd rather be at home. And yet here we are, unsuprised by anything, again.

Music. What is it about? Who cares? They move the pool table to one side of the room and half the audience leaves. That in it's self tells us something, does it not, it tell us about the mentality of these lumberjack shirt wearing, bud by the bottle drinking urban cowboy wankers, banging balls along the baize thinking they're the good old boy from Blood Simple or something. No you're not. Dublin redneck bastards, after a hard day on the scrounge. Fuck off.

I came for three bands. Bands I knew would be easy to dismember. I got a fourth person thrown in. A man called William Wade. So obviously some kind of insane madhead. You could tell by the way he sat there, bug eyed a nutter faced. He provided the light relief form the moral artistic gravitas that was to follow, the mire of self important art noise. His insanity was quite a refreshing move, idiot savant avant from Mr Doran there. The only thing was, if he could have got the voices in his head to add some backing harmonies, we'd be going places.

Enough of the small fry. Up came Mr Egan. He sat there and wistfully strummed some mumbled mutterings that couldn't be heard over the fizz of my pint. He's a pretty little boy who sounds like a wino asking for some odds, so what are you going to do. I'm essentially an romantic person, as we know, so I felt moved to indigence by his off key "I need nurturing " nurdlings. Fair play. Don't give up the day job, packing bags in Dunnes or what ever it is you do.

Then we have the Satan Coleslaw or what ever they're called. Here's a tip, boys, don't try to play guitar like thurston Moore. He can't play guitar. It's like trying to get dancing lessons from Stephen Hawking. The Satan Coleslaw are two boys and a Chick. Yes, we noticed. A Chick. Stand up and be counted boys. They either played about ten songs that sounded the same or one song with about ten breaks in it. Either way it was akin to sticking a vibrator in your ear. Unnessacary. In a word.

Finally, thank the lord, we had the Jimmy Cake. They use to annoy as the pointlessly named Das Madman. Glad to see they've changed their name to some thing that makes sense. Yes the Jimmy Cake. A frivolous morsel. Quite appropriate. What did they do? Well first off they have seven members. What the fuck is this? Seven fucking members? This is music, boys, not volleyball. Seven is far too much for a band. Three to five suffices for most of the reasonable world, why must these art ponces try to be clever like this? After listening to them, I decided they could lose the two clarinets. Clarinets have no place out side of gay opera, boys. So now we could have a five piece. But hold on. Who is the chimpanzee banging on the bottles, the buckets, and some contraption made of elastic bands? Listen pal, don't make your own instruments. All the worth while instruments have been made. Yours is crap. Get rid of him, and you have a nice compact four piece. But hold on again. Who's the specky guitarist? You can't fucking hear him for a start. He's obviously pointless. Probably someone's little brother and their ma made them bring him (ah let him play with yis). So if we dump him, we're down to a power trio. I like it. Except, the other guitarist can't play to save his bloody life. Dump him and we could be going somewhere. But what is the point of having a bassist if he just plays the same cod porno music all the time. Get rid of him. He's pointless. So you're left with the drummer. He was quite good but who want's to listen to a drummer all on his own. Fuck off, Jason Bonham. Ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. So when you break it down, ever element of their "music" was absolutely pointless. Bah. I'd rather spend my money to watch monkeys shelling peanut, or NATO shelling some monkeys. Music for chimps.

Hector Grey