I spent most of Saturday night trying my best to feel 15 again. Donning my Doc Marten's boots, a hippy skirt and plenty of black eye-make up, and accompanied by Ant, Rob & Sarah, I finally got to see The Wonder Stuff live. I had waited 15 years for this night! When I was 15 (half my lfe ago!!), I'd wanted to go to their gig at the Brighton Centre, to which lots of my school friends and anyone who was anyone was going. Unfortunately, the evil tyrant Howard, my mother's boyfriend of the time, was still living with us, and forbade me to go. I fear he judged all men by his own standards, and thought that I would end up being corrupted, molested or worse still, might even have enjoyed myself.
Giddy with anticipation, I entered the Concorde 2 and promptly ordered myself a pint of cider. Well, I was trying to be 15 again. It certainly got me in the mood for a mosh, and once the mediocre support band were out of the way, I was raring to go. Their set-list was a mixture of recognisable classics, new material and more obscure backlist. The strangest thing was seeing the once iconically-floppy-haried Miles Hunt with short, neatly slicked-down hair. Thankfully though, the ballsy attitude was still firmly in attendance. When asked by one of the audience how he'd hurt his finger (as it was quite obviously bandaged up) he sneered back "It got infected after I stuck it up the arse of the last bastard who didn't mind his own business" or words to that effect. Same old Hunt.
The band played a tight set - I would say their talent as musicians has strengthened over the years - and although the new material didn't have the same familiar-catchyness of the old favourites, there was some interesting stuff. Plenty of po-go-ing, moshing and stomping ensued as we all enjoyed our own personal teenage reminsicences to classic such as 'Circlesquare', 'Radio Ass Kiss' and 'Size of a Cow'. Two ethusiastic encores later, the last 15 years started to catch us up. Ant's knees couldn't handle the po-go-ing and I was suffering from a stitch in my shoulder. As Hunt himself said (possibly in reference to his evident paunch), time hadn't been kind to any of us. True, the venue was packed with ageing 30-something hippies, indie-kids and goths, showing each other pictures of their kids on their mobile phones instead of snogging each other, but the atmosphere was bouncy and upbeat. As the band left the stage after the final encore, I was exhausted but elated. It had been worth waiting for.