Arrival at the Hope and Anchor; The Shanners are sound checking but someone has forgotten the bassist's bass. I've forgotten to get a drink, so upstairs I leap and downstairs creeps the guy with the bassist's bass.

Soon, cradling a large merlot and now talking with bassist's bass guy, I am nodding enthusiastically along to his opening line 'bout how cool it was to travel on the underground with the bassist's bass, felt like he was really going somewhere, then he proceeds to tell me the story you've just read in the first paragraph, slightly embellished but what the hell the merlot was hitting the spot and I was keen for more.

Still, he's a mate of the band and hands me a set list on the back of a beer mat, of course:

nick
rollup
daisycutter
chickendinner
thinking about you
furio
boxer
word to the wise
headbanging

The Shanners are, according to their website "Brixton proto-punk." Later I am to find out that they're all from either Glasgow or Edinburgh. Adopting Brixton as a base and in-between chickendinners they form in 2004, this is only their 7th gig and their first North of river. Virgin territory perhaps.

Both mindful that we now have to pay the fiver to get in and the amount of women heading downstairs, bassist's bass suggests we should venture south. They'll be on soon.

Still the queue is ripe with banter, and the drummer is on the receiving end of one good review already, as one woman, while baulking at the fee praises him as a "right tight bastard."

A cropped bus-stop of a stage and The Shanners shiver, waiting impatiently for the 68, but this is no night for tights. Bassist and bass reunited, studious now - rumble into life. Voice barks orders at us and boxes our ears for coming. Lead looms, a giant, malevolent daisycutter in the gloom. Rhythm's wistful head, thinking about you, somewhere on an airbus heading South of the cosmos and drummer, just a head, feverish yet inert, dreads bouncing, braiding the sound.

Musically, The Shanners seem uncompromised by either myth or the now. The bitter bark that forms Furio punches you in the gut while the baulked glam-punk that is a Word to the wise gives you a slap round the face, squirts liquid into your mouth and then rips the stool from under you and gets you to your feet again.

That said I'm beginning to think of the Stooges when the short breathless set ends and we head north again to the inevitable bar, and a conference with bassist and bass reunited, Charlie, who studiously provides some meat on the bones for this article.

A bit of the Shanners

Shanners is a colloquialism for being a bit crap in Scotland, if someone nicks your bike (or forgets your bass) then that's a bit of a shanner, pure shanners being a stronger form of insult. The word is apparently derived from a bakery - a second day or nearly off bread is called shan bread. The band, The Shanners are comprised:

Bass: Charlie
Drums: Geraint
Voice: Scott
Lead: Daniel
Ryhthm: John-Paul

Charlie points out that during one of the songs he was so conscious of being out of tune but otherwise, it's the best they've played yet. Geraint joins us, demanding a drink and no he's not paying. That was his sister in the queue. Daniel looms in on the chorus "I need more booze." Scott is lamenting that they could have been tighter but is all smiles as he nails a breathless whisky and John-Paul owns half of Aberdeenshire, or so I'm told.

Facts and words to the wise aside I need some audience reaction and where else does one start other than the young woman eyes full of strong lager at the bar?

Vicky a student living locally is impressed, loved the music, but adds, arms full of strong lager "they need more songs." While Yann, a photographer, bobbing and weaving getting material, is more excited. "They had a good rhythm tonight."

Bob, a mate from Brixton, who's seen them once or twice now sums it up in one combination."That was a pure performance."

We head South, we've missed Solace but manage to catch the Poppy Seeds in full bloom. Bassist's bass guy is dancing furiously. I feel the night will creep on.

Nick Dockerty was born in Warwickshire, Uni in Hull then moved to South London at earliest opportunity. Been writing since 15, done various "rewarding" jobs and been working on and off as a Web editor. Self printed a "love letter" of collected poems to London recently called ‘Ncolas DOCK 17.99’.’ Copies are available if you get in touch via email and pay for postage. See website for details. Various film/TV scripts lying around in various states of decay. The novel is looming. (hmmm.) To visit Nick's showcase on this website, click here

© 2004 Laura Hird All rights reserved.