Crime Through Time: Newport

You know us Yanks, we love to flaunt the old we’re number one! tag to the world with a giant foam finger aiming to the heavens, all the while shooting our precious revolvers into the sky.
(That we are the world leaders mainly in child illiteracy and used motor oil dumping be damned, we still are the best at something, motherfuckers!)

But surely, when it came to murderous creeps, I thought we had a lock.
I mean, John Wayne Gacy, Jeffrey Dahmer, Richard Ramirez, old Chuckles Manson, the list goes on.
We could proudly point to those loons and say, hey at least those are our own goddamn homegrown psychos, world.
What you got?

The UK responds: Hold my beer mate.

Fred and Rose West, have you heard of these folk?
Those charming Brady/Hindley sweethearts? Yikes.
Seems the Brits prefer their murderous nuts as icky suburban couples, not content to feed their dark needs with the usual monthly swingers meet up at the local Embassy Suites.
No, with a body count of about twenty poor souls tortured and killed between them, they put our own murderers to shame, all the while knitting cat eared teapot cosies and professing their love of the Queen

You’ll find them and more—so much more!–in the wacky Crimes Through Time museum at the LittledDean jail, right there in the Forest of Dean, West Gloucestershire.

TourMan Davey has insisted on a 10:30 lobby call, no time to stop off at the steaming lobby breakfast spread.
We are up and out, and rolling through the emerald countryside once again.
I refer to the daysheet and see that it is a rather short ride from Cambridge to Newport today, no rush. I mean, it’s not like we’re gonna get there early enough to soundcheck or any of that real band nonsense, eh?
When I question Dave as to why the fuck we aren’t back there at the HI, sweating over a plate of beans and bacon, he only turns from his (right side) driver’s perch and gives me a leering wink.
Announces he has a special stop planned, then goes back to blasting his George Formby playlist of demented seaside carnival music.
Should’ve tipped me off right there.

At the end of a lovely country road looms an abandoned jail, its weathered stones mum to the past and present horrors held within.
Soon we wandering a dizzying labyrinth of mayhem, ranging from ghastly Nazi tableau to endless tabloid posters, highlighting the equally brutal regime of the British press.
The serial murdering couples, the dashing gangsters of the Krays era, the disgraced members of Parliament, they are all here. There is a tentative thematic sense to the place, although in the end it resembles nothing as much as an eccentric Aunt’s attic, the one who hoards specifically horrific artifact.

At one point Dave comes and finds us standing before an exhibit of sham mermaids and fur bearing trout, his face white and sheened with sweat.
He tells us he has just left a room featuring a video exhibit of beheadings and begs us not to go in there.
Of course, we demand he lead us back to the room immediately.
He was right; no one needs to see that shit.
Merch manager Briony becomes quiet and eventually leaves the exhibit, as we all do as well in turn.
It is all a bit much.

Out back, there is a baffling exhibit of Mod culture with some of the kitted out scooters used in the Quadraphenia movie.
What this has to do with the sickening display inside, I have no idea.
But the brief dive into the world of soul music and needless sideview mirrors is a welcome respite.

Back in the van, all us are silent, each of us considering the absolute horror of the human species.
Not even Dave’s loopy circus music can lift us out of our quiet reverie.
He switches playlists, and XTC’s Dear God comes on, a far more suitable soundtrack.

Though no one has much of an appetite, lunch is called at one of those Toby Carvery joints you see dotting the country, a perpetual Sunday Roast restaurant chain that would have Morrissey screaming into the night.

And soon we are each seated before smoking piles of gravy and bone, surely reminded of the dismemberment we have just witnessed.
But you know us, and we soon fall upon our platters of disjointed meats, suddenly crazed with the bloodlust it seems we all have the capacity for.

The Cab in Newport turns out to be a charming storefront space, with living quarters above and basement rumpus room below.
It is loud and cramped, sweaty and slippery, just the way we like it!

The whole thing seems another old school DIY affair, and we are pleased to see our stateside pals Potbelly on the bill as well as old friend Chris Redman’s band Bad Blood.

It’s another great gig, that’s 3 for 3 on the road to Rebellion so far.
The real highlight of the night is catching up with friends, and finally meeting more of those digital acquaintances finally rendered in flesh and blood.
I get a chance to finally meet up with the accomplished local writer Tim Cundle as well as @RusselTaysom, an artist who supplied San Francisco’s Thee Parkside club with those wicked psychedelic flyers all those years ago.

Local Welshman Dave can’t get 4 feet before greeting some old chum and introducing us all around.

We leave the gear in the club and have a late night wander around Newport after the gig, finally ducking out of the rain into a noisy pub.

Newport’s youngsters are here, are drinking their way into rightful oblivion while yelling along to their oldies, Blink 182 and Fallout Boy.
Who are we to judge? Put on some Prince or Cheap Trick, and we’d be singing along as well.

It is Friday night and the crew here is cutting loose.
And I remember those days.
Not a care beyond who pays for the next round.
What girl here has the worst taste in men and may take a chance on bringing home a stranger at the closing bell?

But out there, outside in the dark streets, we know what lurks, for we have seen Crimes Through Time.
And that shudder that shakes me involuntarily wards off not only the early morning chill, but a black cold that lurks within as well.