Into the Wintergardens on Friday night, we’ve been given a nice late set time, though on the echo chamber that is OlympiaII stage….
We set up as Chelsea finishes up next door and away we go! We keep checking our watches, as we wanna jump off stage and get in line to see Stiff Little Fingers, so it’s a hot short set!
We finish up and meet up with a bunch of great people still hangin the rail:
We’re always speechless when meeting the folks who come to this global event, and they tell us they traveled from Finland or Budapest just to see us!!
Of course, I hear them next go up to the Lurkers and say the same thing….
And then we shift into fanboy mode, and navigate the backstage maze of the Wintergardens like resident rats, highlighted programs in hand!
Friday blends into Saturday, which we thankfully have off. It’s time to investigate the jolly streets of Blackpool, and soak up all the cultural highlights!
We’re at the Merrie England Bar at North Pier, when we suddenly realize we are not surrounded by punkers, but a surreal tableaux of human primitivism!
The Hen and Stag parties are getting rowdier as evening darkens the Irish Sea: These Brits, when they drink, they drink!
And in costume no less!
I see a bachelorette party dressed as naughty school girls get into a switchblade fight with a menopausal group of naughty flight attendants.
At the urinals, a trio of lads dressed as Charlie’s Angels bemoan Chelsea’s afternoon loss. A gent dressed as Randy Macho Man Savage vomits precariously close to my All Stars.
It is time to get back to the relative safety and calm of five thousand punk rockers in the Wintergardens!
Once again, Rebellion is Punk Rock High School reunion for the vet set. Though we’ve met them each a dozen times, it doesn’t stop us from asking for yet another autograph from Nick and Charlie!
Saturday night and we are exhausted, blissed out on sets of punk rock and pints of Strongbow Cider.
We take to the bar in the Empress Ballroom and get ready for our farewell to Rebellion, the New York fuckin Dolls!
After uproarious sets by the Subs and Slaughter and the Dogs, the crowd huddles in the darkened ballroom, ready to worship the Godfathers of Sleaze. The band comes out, the crowd goes nuts, David Johansen looks fab!
Soon enough we’re back in the night air, having said goodbye to friends and bands, promises made to meet again in a year.
We walk back to the Gresham as the Wintergardens still pulses with live music.
A new batch of tour buses have pulled up on Adelaide St, and we tenatively knock on a few windows, hoping to shake a few more hands before calling it a night.
Just fans out after a day of music, after all.
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