Okay, so the title of this blog is the title of a song by a band which I am shame-faced to admit I have become more than obsessed by over these past months – The Midnight Beast. If you are unfamiliar with said band I’ll give you a brief synopsis:
The comedy/lyrical genre singer/songwriters from London, consisting of Ashley Horne, Stefan Abingdon and Dru Wakely reached their present level of notoriety/celebrity after their parody on Youtube of Ke$ha’s ‘TiK ToK’. Having had (understandably – it was pure genius) more than 7 million hits on that particular song, gave them the confidence in their already existing fan base to start producing more and more parodies, mixed in with the occasional original ditty. They have now started hitting the mainstream, with their debut single ‘Booty Call’ being played on Radio 1, and having made appearances at the Reading festival.
My opinions of the band up until this point have been nothing but glowing, and a close friend and I (who incidentally shares my passion for all things TMB) have managed to listen to their entire collection of songs at least once a day – without fail. This is not including scouring Youtube for little titbits of interviews, behind the scenes band footage and tweeting them incessantly. In fact, as shameful as this is to recall, it comes as a major relief to write a candid admission of such an addiction. Bit like the AA, really..
Anyway, I digress.. What I was trying to say, was that The Midnight Beast are currently enjoying their first UK tour, and the Monday just gone my friend and I were coaching up to Bristol to see them live for the first time. Now, you can imagine, having read the previous paragraphs how ecstatic, anticipatory and elated we were in the knowledge that we were going to be meeting our future husbands, it was built up beyond belief. So we arrived at Thekla in Bristol at around 7pm, all psyched up, only to be faced with a queue lining up the whole street, heaving with squealing 14 year olds drinking alcohol out of coke bottles and spinning around. We knew it was a 14+ gig when we booked the tickets, but we weren’t prepared to be faced by so many of our former selves.
However, outside was just the tip of the iceberg.. It was when we finally managed to squeeze in to the venue, that things started to go wrong. The warm-up band was Aggro Santos, who incidentally was absolutely marvellous – but after he’d finished his set, it was like a man-eating rhino had just made an appearance at the back of the venue and suddenly everyone scrambled, pushed, elbowed, poked and surged in an attempt to reach the front of the stage.
I know what you’re thinking, “That’s what all gigs are like, man up..” Well, no. I won’t. It was absolutely impossible to enjoy the occasion whilst you were closed in by sweaty bodies, writhing and grinding, to the point of complete incapacity. The worst thing was, however, and this is going to make me sound hateful – but it’s that my friend and I felt a certain superiority over these little girls, we were their true fans – we could relate to them, we felt as if we knew them.
Their set lasted around an hour, the fact they had executed all their songs to perfection, entertaining and as gorgeous as ever only made it all the more heart-breaking that I couldn’t enjoy them to the full extent. I should’ve realised they were just a band who played songs, and had worked hard to get to the point they were at now. Even if it meant they had to cater for a prepubescent, irritating fan base.. Some strange part of my brain feels as though the amount I value and adore them makes me entitled to special treatment, which I am struggling to realise is very far from reality.
On a closing note, the title of this blog has more relevance than you may have realised ’til now. The lyrics of the song in question, are scathing about the stereotypical boyband ethos. During live performances, the gimmick is that one of them fucks up throughout the whole song, which inevitably has comedic value, but ultimately – the joke’s on them, they are a living oxymoron, don’t they realise that they’ve fallen into the trap of catering for the mindless, ubiquitous mini-fan, when their appeal should be aimed at the discriminating adult.
About the Author: Just an opinionated 18 year old, residing in Oxford.
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