Dooooin' the Pagan Rock

Just returned from a spiffarama visit to ye olde City of Churches where Sir S and I sipped ales at the Exeter, nibbled on smelly cheeses from the Smelly Cheese Shop and generally ooohh'd and ahhh'd as we observed diverting things at the Central Markets, such as the amazing Mushroom Stall: big ones, small ones, ones as big as yer head; old-fashioned sweet-shops with kaleidoscopic cartwheel lollipops and twenty jars of different types of licorice; nut shops, olive shops, and shops selling extravagant English things like pheasant pate, rabbits and great big jam jars of goosefat. It would be most reasonable if Fat Lady Jennifer Paterson's ghost wandered the Markets' cholestrol-clotted aisles with a phantom fag in one hand and a venison and hare tart in the other.

Amid the feasting, Sir S and I attended a gig on Saturday night where we witnessed the tragical tragedy of the folksy Spiral Dance (henceforth "Spiral Dags") and the tragic splendour of English goth paganites Inkubus Sukkubus (henceforth "Ink Sukk"). Support act Spiral Dags hogged the stage and ran over time with their flummoxing flutings, gyrating guitars and their Dreaded Piano Accordion from Hell. But worse, much much worse - were their fans, which consisted of many a 55+ woman draped in Tree of Life velvetry, tizzy long hair and eyes pencilled so thick with black eye-liner that a timetravelling playwright could use it as a handy inkwell. Most of the men were also 55+ and many donned white shirts with frilly collars which frothed at the throat and foamed at the wrists; hairlines were commonly receded and gathered together in an indequate ponytail which wisped about over their velvet waistcoats. As a gesture to the band, most of Spiral Dags daggy fans coordinated themselves into an actual Spiral Dance, that is, gathering in several circles before the stage and skipping about in the style of islander nymphs in The Wickerman.

At this point Sir S and I were overcome by that feeling of trepidation and horror that one discovers when arriving at a dismal English country village to find that all punters at the local disco have on their face a porcine nose and perhaps a packet of fresh sausages tucked under one arm. In other words, we didn't feel particularly local.

Strangely, by the time Ink Sukk hit the stage at 10pm, the crowds thinned down to around 50 people from approx 100 (!!!), although unfortunately many of the Spiral Daggette Punters remained, with a smattering of young goths and punks for good measure. Ink Sukk were darkly splendid, cheerful and slightly squiffed. The vocalist - Candia - was most beautiful in a shimmering sea-green oriental-style corset, short black skirt and mesh. She and the band were tucking into Jagermeister between songs so it was unsurprising that Candia slipped over and landed flat on her back on more than one occassion. Sir S and I were rather embarrassed by the fact that half of the small crowd had vanished and that the audience space was only a quarter-full of punters. Ink Sukk didn't seem to mind - perhaps they were only in Adelaide for a holiday with the Spiral Dags?

The evening came to a gusset-induced climax when several of the Spiral Daggette Punters decided to down their knickers and unleash them on an unsuspecting guitarist. First, a skimpy G-string was slung quoit-like over the guitarist's instrument. Then came a gigantic pair of what appeared to be MAN's underpants (white Y-fronts as big as a tent). Then two bras - one in particular very matron-like and reminiscent of a parachute - were launched onto the stage. The guitarist shouldered this burden well and was a good sport (although a glint of terror in his eyes was duly noted). I'm not sure if he left the venue in one piece, as the Spiral Daggettes seemed particularly ravenous.

Ink Sukk rokked. But Spiral Dags were ... memorable? At least they did not fullfil Miss Violet's prediction of performing a cover of the Time Warp (as they have done in the past). Save Our Souls!