Norn Iron born again

Kharma 45 (pictured) launched straight into ‘Come On’ – as did the heaving compression of word-perfect fans crammed hard up against the Nerve Centre stage.

And there was me thinking I’d come to check out a bunch of unknowns.
Think for a second you might be on to something first and then discover you’re second-last to know.
Kharma 45 are from the seedbed of stardom – guitarist Peter Doherty and bassist Shane McDevitt from Strabane, singer Glenn Rosborough and drummer Phil Curran from Derry.
‘Come On’ is a tune and a half, big chorus that sways you as it demands you join in, then stays in orbit in your head for a week. ‘Angels Ain’t Worth It’ is extravagantly riff-rich and jiggling with wit (“I got the devil in my head/’Cos the angels ain’t worth it”). ‘Political Soul’ is a polemic that Bono should listen to in order to learn how to do it unpreachy. ‘Luchia’ is razor-sharp and sumptuously swathed in atmospherics. ‘Asking God’ is beatific. And there’s ‘Ecstasy’, a mesmerising evocation of the giddy joy of the high – and a reminder that it can be hard to curtail the descent when your head’s upside coming down. “On my knees singing /I won’t breathe and I/Can’t sleep in this/Hotel room will just/Fall apart she said/Come to my door I’ll/Give you some more if/You’ll go easy and/Feel the beat coming/You give me sweet ecstasy /She gives me sweet ecstasy.”
Altogether, the set had more hooks than you’d find in a coat-rack factory.
‘Ecstasy’ will be released as a single in April, the album in May. Distorted, thudding bass, righteous riffs, beguiling melodies, anthemic choruses. They buzz with exuberance, walk the stage like proper musicians. They have all the credentials. The least that can be said for them is that they deserve a clear shot at it. All the evidence at the Nerve Centre suggests their aim will be unerring.

Next night, we’re back in the Magazine Street mecca for The Undertones, about whom little more can meaningfully be said. Apart from that they sound fresh as ever, which is fairly amazing, and that the Dig Yourself Deep stuff stands up straight alongside the back catalogue, which is totally amazing. As well, Paul McLoone is singing better than at any time since the distant days of The Carrellines at the Dungloe.
Pity they don’t do more from Sin Of Pride, though. Maybe that’s just me.
I have it on authority that That Petrol Emotion, Steve Mack and all, will be on the festival circuit this summer. Band before their time. Always remember: no Petrols, no Stone Roses. Maybe they’ll coordinate their schedules in the summer so John and Damien can hither and thither and deliver two bands for the price of one and a half.
The Undertones had given the support slot to Triggerman, which was a gesture, given that the genre gap between polished edgy pop and heads-down stoner rock must be accounted considerable. Triggerman are very, very good at what they do. Don’t be afraid to catch them at Katy Daly’s in Belfast on Saturday afternoon, February 9.
Actually, do be afraid. But catch them anyway.
We left 40 minutes into the Undertones’ set for a 50-yard dash to the Dungloe and the controversial partial re-birth of Red Organ Serpent Sound. Only Rory remains from the original intergalactic country-funk acid quintet.
What they have preserved for present generations is their three-dimensional theatricality, the blistering tunes – ‘In Search Of Orgasmuz’ remains among the songs of the millennium so far – the Berlin-cabaret sleaze and dark energy overload of Rory, as he risks life and limb (occasionally his own) to dispel any doubts from the blackened souls of his audience.
Sober judgment was hampered by the lack of sobriety and the fact that anywhere with 10 yards range of a Red Organ stage is a physically hazardous place to take a stand and the distance between the front of the stage and the back wall of the Dungloe is nine yards (approx).
Anyway. Red Organ are back. And so will we be.

And now for the Masturbating Monkeys. Not a band, but monkeys which masturbate at Belfast Zoo.
I had forgotten about the masturbating monkeys until I accidentally chanced upon Derek Dean’s unputdownable memoir, The Freshmen Unzipped, and was reminded that Sammy Smyth and the simian onanists were once close. The Floral Hall – of which Sammy (this was years before he became the charismatic multimedia superstar we know and love today) was manager – ranked as Belfast premier dance venue. It was situated in the grounds of the Zoo.
Some time in the early ’70s, the Floral was the setting for auditions to find a new drummer for the Freshmen. Lead singer Derek was present but had no clear role in proceedings. So, after sharing a bottle of whiskey and a rake of reefers (tells you how long ago this was), Sammy “invited me to accompany him on a visit to see the masturbating monkeys... They sat in a row on a branch of a tree and, with their tiny hands, pulled their little willies... I swear they were all smiling. Chug, chug, tug, tug, grinning from ear to ear at the two frenzied men...”
The question which leapt to my mind upon reading this passage was: frenzied?
Frenzied?
“Bemused” I could understand. Or “bewildered” or “dumbfounded” or even “entertained.”
But we have Derek’s word for it that the sight of the masturbating monkeys sent the pair into a “frenzy.”
I’d say Sammy owes it to the vast audience he has attracted to Today FM’s Sunday lunchtime programme to elaborate on this revelation.
Has he had help in the meantime? Or does wanking wildlife still agitate his passion? Is there a name for this disorder?
The tale of the masturbating monkeys is not the only reason, and by no means the main reason, for getting your hands on a copy of The Freshmen Unzipped.
It is among the best accounts that’s so far seen light of the era which gave rise to the showband phenomenon. Along the way, you’ll learn more about the making of modern Ireland than from a shelf-full of tomes taken seriously in The Irish Times.
And you will learn something of the late Billy Browne.
When, years after his disturbing relationship with masturbating monkeys, Sammy and I worked with the Sunday World, Billy penned a punk anthem referring to our newsroom colleague, Judith Elmes. ‘Never Heard Anything Like It’ charted across the water, was John Peel’s record of the week and hailed in the NME as one of the rock songs of that particular year.
Billy’s other great song of the period was the lovely, languid, lyrical ‘Cinderella,’ which Derek describes here, accurately, as “a masterpiece... If you die before hearing ‘Cinderella’ you have lived in vain...”
I’d hazard a bet few hotpress readers have heard it, or of it. But it was and is a timeless classic, about a pick-up bandsman encountering opera, and love.
“I wish you coulda seen me diggin’ Rossini/Most beautiful sounds, beyond my wildest dreams.”
Billy died eight years ago. There must be a 45 or a tape of ‘Cinderella’ lying around somewhere.