In the sequel to the ear shattering terror and shock rocking adventures of the first Worcester Bus, Alteye’s two less than capable journalists - Ainz and Ant- were there to record the events of that fateful night.
In the wise words of Weird Al Yankovic, "Another One Rides the Bus"...
It was around midday that I went to pick up Ainz. There he was.sweet mother Jesus! I had never seen anyone so handsome: those long blonde locks, muscular arms, and a dress sense that could easily put Nataniel -our hero- to shame. We were off for a few beers.with some bands.in Worcester, but to get there we had to catch a bus.
It was the second of its kind. The first was held on the 13 th of May - it was a cool show, held in and around this weird independent cinema. There were three mighty bands: Mind Assault the strong, Antipathy the toffee-nosed, and Fokofpolisiekar the, well, Afrikaans.
I try not to think too hard on those dangerous and painful memories: our boozed and bruised faces peering helplessly back at our own camera, and my dictaphone giving a clear indication of us, at some lost and bewildered moment, torturing an ape. At this show our heads would be clean, our palms less hairy, and our stomaches pumped. I mean damn; there were going to more than three bands this time round!
We got to the Mercury, parked the car, and entered the bus with a minute to spare - 2:59 PM. Inside there were familiar faces, mostly metal heads. With a beer in hand, we slammed into two empty seats upfront, and relaxed for the journey ahead.
INTO THE BELLY OF THE BEAST
It’s just after 8 o clock. Bursts of guttural mayhem are shattering around me, while I stand sheepishly at the corner of the stage, scripting frantically on my memo pad. What had happened to the last two hours? My photographer Ainz is weaving his way through the fuzzing and grinding taking place on stage, trying to get the perfect shot.
The mind Assault front man, Jacques, hadn’t had any supper -wors-, and he was in a nasty mood -spitting out a gut wrenching, Sepultura-esk clamour. The crowd below were fucking loving it. How primal I thought. These were not your model rent-a-crowd metal heads you find at a Toyland show. These were ferocious beasts, brought up on pap and beer-bread, and they were starving for something loud, tormenting, and anything that could coax a fight.
By that stage the mosh pit was erupting. Inside Worcester locals, other bands, young kids, and familiar faces from the bus, were all ritualistically convulsing to the merriment of Mind Assault. Ainz and I targeted one fat bastard; we had to take him down. I mean c’mon he was hogging all the limelight. "Gimme a wobble baby, just a little one" I thought as we charged him: Ainz ten paces to the left, me ten to the right, this beachball had seen his last Sunday roast. In seconds, I was flat on my face, seeing three small Michael Kanes flying about my forehead, screaming back at me, "your tits, my mouth, right now, RIGHT NOW!"
NEVER, NEVER LAND
When we arrived -in the evening- we had one objective in mind: to get into the VIP room. On the last Worcester bus this was easy; we just walked in. This time we had two military styled motherfuckers on the entrance to the VIP room - walking in was only an option if you had steel kneecaps.
A select few had VIP tags. We needed one. All the interesting individuals - not to mention the bands - would be backstage, and we if didn’t get one we would be stuck with these half-breeds for the rest of the night.
We met up with our pal Fred - a short, bald, Portuguese speaking, educator of doom metal. He looked happy. This was his first bus, and he was coping well. The significance of our communion, however, was not the irrelevant small talk that transpired, but the fact that our friend Fred was wearing a VIP tag. We didn’t care where he’d got it from, we just wanted it, if only just for a moment - just to touch it. In seconds, happy Fred, reluctantly, became worried, tag less Fred.
Ainz got to wear the tag; he is big and stupid, and it’s for that reason people take him very seriously. When approaching the bulky figures at the entrance to the VIP room, for a moment, I felt like they knew what we were up to. I looked away, diving straight for the door, mumbling useless crap as we passed security, and arbly taking photographs. Two for the price of one. Not bad i thought.
THE CHURCH OF DEATH
There was something about the venue for this gig that urked me. It was called Kleinplasie, but ’klein’ was it not. It was a big white piece of shit in my mind. "It’s used for private functions," claims Andy Hawes - bus coordinator. If this is so, the only possibility is that these private functions are strictly military. Maybe the event organisers TG (Antipathy) and Ernie were actually trying to sign us up - by getting us drunk first, and putting us in the killing mood. There was a rumour that they expected three thousand attendees. Thank God the hippies drove them off.
I felt reluctant to socialise with the Worcester locals for two reasons: they didn’t speak my home dialect of dreadful English and they came in numbers (over half of the crowd). I knew that when Fokofpolisiekar started playing, rubber bullets would be necessary. And, my precautionary assumptions were not far off: at the very first ’piep’ out of Francois throat, the crowd synergised, and went for the stage. As their tight set began to orgasm, and spurt out confused Goths, the monitors got bumped across the stage, which ultimately caused Fokof bassist, Wynand, to clamber to the ground. A crowd of sympathetic females tensed. Ass grabbing became easy at this point. Final score: Ainz 26 arses, Ant 22. Thank god Neshama bailed on the gig.
MOTHER. TELL YOUR CHILDREN NOT TO WALK MY WAY
The bus ride back was a blur, as you could expect. I drifted in and out sleep, trying to forget the self inflicted terror posed by a Worcester gig. Memories of the event organiser smashing bottles against the wall, drawing blood from the cranium of an innocent bystander; the Black Indian guitarist rambling on and on about Radiohead, as well as inspiring us to visualise a goth helping an old granny across the street; and Donovan with panties round his head, all came back to me in a weird and uncontrollable way.
Wind began to blow frantically through the bus. Andy, the bus co-ordinator, was running rampantly down the isle screaming, "Don’t smoke on the fucking bus, next time we want to use the fucking bus company they wont let us use the fucking bus!" I closed my eyes and then we were in Cape Town. "Mommy" I cried.."oog", said Ainz in agreement.