ON TOUR WITH OPUS KINK

ON TOUR WITH

OPUS KINK

AND SO! CURTAINS. Pitchforks! blood on the pages. We did embark on a tour, it was on Independent Venue Week. Enter Opus Kink, the very same, aside from, hark: there with us rode Jack Banjo Courtney, on trumpet, for the very first time live on stage with this lank and stuttering outfit. Dear scum, imagine this - the sun rose, having no alternative, on Sunday 30th January 2022, in Manchester, England.

WORDS: ANGUS ROGERS

The walls of the basement of YES were slick with passion. Filing through the swinging doors came Automotion, Priestgate, Freak Slug. Outside the rain came down like nails, hallelujah! God is both merciful and cruel. This being the first sellout of the musical tour we quaked in anticipation as the icy hands of Italian Lager From The Fucking Rider grappled our throats. Lo, my poor, poor twentyseven-year-old knee did hurt from vaulting fences the week prior; quick soundchecks give way to larger swathes of preransack sot-drinking, and before long, lo, the knee hurt no longer. We were then set to implode with grace. The hammer fell, and we played Music to the crowd, kindly surging and giggling as they were. Scream & blow. We had returned! The hot dance lights glanced off five sweltering mops and one scintillating dome. One man down front spat at us in a feral manner then shook hands thrice over after the show. We flopped like worms into The Shit. Two t-shirts were stolen from the merch stand. We were not standing there. Thus a lesson. A big bag of cans. Other people’s top-ups. Onwards to Shiv Hall for nitekaps. Airbeds; confusion. The sun was rising again! Head down for mere moments then away, away, away in the morning...

Bristol, I cherish thee. Our third time in the city. Hail to Miles! Gravy! Train! Crofter’s Rights. Hangxiety tempered by Ethiopian bean. A sellout as of the day before, Lord were we not thankful and satisfied? Through the saloon wafts a raft of pizza was lovingly delivered to the reeling group. As I drip into the green-room I see these columns of Stella Artois as though they had known we were coming. This night were we joined by the remaining skeins of Fake Turins after The Disease felled 3 of their ranks (not expired mind you but convalescing with soup, with Emily, with Paris). A crazy flame tore through their frontal lobes and staggering from the smoke came the Hand of God, knock-kneed, cursing through sludge. Most of them & some of us - eleven on stage and completely improvised incl. Dominic Rose’s vocal spasms... every soul in the room for their opening set. Hearts &

wild doors opened, revolving now until kingdom come. In short - triumph for the improv band. With the full room warmed like a bogseat from a feverish hind we took up the mantle and chalked up a favourite show to date; blessed be the Bristol fans and the makers of their evenings, promoters, bar staff. Kanpai! In the morning Jed & I were sitting beneath a belltower awaiting hot bread when a sightly couple

PICTURE: NICOLE OSRIN

“WE FLOPPED LIKE WORMS INTO THE SHIT. TWO T-SHIRTS WERE STOLEN FROM THE MERCH STAND. WE WERE NOT STANDING THERE.”

crowned in flowers approached us requesting an audience and a flourish of the pen to their imminent matrimony. An honour, said we, strangers in the dawn! We signed the papers, hallowed the halls. Devils bless you, Nick & Roisin. And Grazie for the morning time champagne & toothsome THC oil. We will see you down the line!

In the dank and dry-throated morn, we sprinted back to London to convalesce for mere moments before sucking ourselves down to the 100 Club. I inhaled some non-beige foodstuffs in my flat (500g pomodoro-bathed linguine) then limped into central were my compatriots

were stuffing Musical Equipment into a small hole in Oxford Street. Here again, we discovered a severe depletion of tickets available to this show, until, dash it all - a sellout! Fuck me. The stars glimmer, dead yet beautiful. To old friends & new, endless gratitude for making it so. Jack Flanagan & his band struck up the evening in this Hallowed and Hospitable cavern, slide guitar turning tricks, then Peeping Drexels in assorted gowns and kimonos Made it Happen in Serious Manner in the main support slot and confirmed that this place was Big & Loud. Throw your red stripes to the lions, the walls, the drains, then; Our clarion call came. What can I say about this show? It went off. We felt exalted, hosannah; we were utterly fucked too, and the better for it. All of our equipment that could break did so, but nothing could dampen the sickening flame. May the pigeonsquits fall ever around you, not on you, each soul who retched alongside us. The Quite Delightful.

One day off after that. Reader, you do not need to know if and when we rose from the ashes of our sickbeds, what went in and out of us, and where the day went in such a hurry. Get up out of bed you and clean out your cell; we away now to the streets of Bedford...

After checking into the Clean and WellLit Holiday Inn Express of dreams, we dragged our quivering carcasses to Esquires. Enter Milky, a legend among men, who supplied all mod cons, excellent psych-ups and more than one kind of bread, more than a few kinds of beer. Our first time in Bedford. This venue is a totem of glory and passion & has a pool table. By this point, our instruments and innards were running on empty and we plumbed the depths to wrench free a soundcheck from our yellowed and plaintive hearts (thank you, engineer). Fear not though, my pedigree chums, we soon found a ninth wind, and as more people than we’d bargained for began to tread the bitter soaked boards we whipped ourselves into a tequila & Las Ketchup-based frenzy. This tour being all killer and no filler I can only describe the experience of playing this show as One of The Six Highlights.

“BY THIS POINT OUR

INSTRUMENTS AND INNARDS WERE RUNNING ON EMPTY.”

Bedfordians let down your hair; we will chew, we will tipple, for many moons to come. Until next time. Haggard breakfasttime at The Inn saw us nodding into our mushrooms until we strapped ourselves back into the two trusty whips for one final and ill-fated journey.

Birkenhead beckoned. None of us had ever been close to The Head or Liverpool and Future Yard looked to be an Absolute Gaff, so we were snarling at the bit to pile out and shake our tits at the assembled. Four hours on the road later we pulled into the Parking Slot of Destiny to find there a keyboard player whose face told a thousand terrible stories. After a week scot-free and uncorona’d the lateral flow, finally and brutally - said NO. I’m amazed we made it so far to speak my own uninhibited truth. The kindly denizens of Future Yard brought us lattes and lateral flows - the rest of us were negative as fuck, but the hand had been dealt. With tears and little spurts of wee we turned right around and said goodbye for now to the Birk. An age later we

PICTURE: JAYDE RILEY

flowed back into London like the living detritus we were. Alas... the final push ended in a spurt of dust, but morale remained bolstered by the Very Good Time of the preceding days. We shall... we shall return. It is written.

So, passed the Opus Kink IVW tour. Come ye, break the chains of misery; we shall see you on the lonesome road again soon - Vielen dank to all involved, and here now we will raise a glass to those we haunted along the way. SKOL!

By Friends for Friends