Ah, childhood. Growing up under the parentage of Ferdinand de Saussure and Roland Barthes, I realised that the punk inside me had a fairly filthy turn of phrase and the scoldings and beatings I received were mainly due to my use of hermeneutics rather than calling my two dads fist-fuckers.
Around the mid-nineties, I had broken all links to these fascists and developed an alcoholic problem, which along with three or four other dependencies, rendered me not the brightest potato in the bucket. Everyday I made an attempt to distance myself from reality and this usually involved getting bombed and going to lotsalotsalotsalotsa gigs…….ah the memories….aren’t there.
One night while drinking sodium bicarbonate and trying to float in the bath, I received a call from Monseigneur Ballantine Baines to go out and get a special type of drunk. With gusto, I cleaned off the white gooey substance and into the place they called “town” I did totter.
Four hours of banana mojitos and pecan-strawberry Brandy Alexanders later, we ended up somewhere, I can’t remember where, and saw this punk band called BAMBI. We were astounded. There was a fairly good crowd and four young men throwing shapes and producing a fresh-punk sound that I hadn’t heard before and haven’t since. There was nothing groundbreaking about it, only that it raised them above the mire of the shite that was around at the time. They were part of a Dublin DIY music scene with a lot of good bands like the Idiots, the Steam Pig, Holemasters and their quasi-anarchist supporters, all of whom probably succumbed to the excesses of horrible Irlanda afterward.
The songs were great, “Depart from the Bar” and “Messin around” and the one below “Play the Shot.” They eventually got some good support slots, like Pavement. During that gig they spent most of the time slagging off the indie crowd. Little bastards really and this is what I couldn’t understand about them. Talented an all as they were, there seemed to be little ambition. Maybe that’s being a bit too asshole rock journo about it. Maybe I’m missing the point. They did what they did, then they stopped. That could be the point. Seems a shame now though.
Still, fuck it , I’m not gonna lose any sleep over it. The album is out there somewhere to buy, May Contain Traces of Peanut, and is well worth the admission price. All I can say is that the numerous times I saw this band in the numerous states I was in, they always delivered. From Charlies to Fusion to TBMC, they released a lot of energy and remain one of the few Irish bands I can stomach. (Please don’t be confused by the New York band Bambi, who recently redefined the word “pointless”).
Stretch is now in the bath, full of bicarbonate of soda, and by allowing water to seep through my pores, I am being propelled around the bath. Now to catch those sea-monkeys! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!