The Misfits: Gig Review

My husband & me.

OK, so I haven’t been to a gig in years, so I was giggly school-girl level excitable about this.

It was amazing. I had been worried they wouldn’t live up to my expectations and I had no clue as to what impact the fact that my favourite albums had been made when they had more members and a different lead singer would make.

Thankfully however, they played songs from pretty much every single album they have ever made (the only one missing was Project 1950 – I think – which in my mind is just as well).

This photo is stolen from http://inquisitiveelks.blogspot.co.uk/2011/01/it-was-best-gig-ever-pt2-misfits.html but its exactly how he looked and it's a crackin shot.

The day before we went, my husband announced that – shockingly - this will be his first rock gig. Crikey. I’d spent all this time thinking it was pretty much ‘my’ night, this was a band I’d loved for a long time, but now it was definitely ‘our’ night; his first proper gig, my first time finally seeing the ‘fits.

And I’m so glad it was him I got to share it with. He’s one of the few people on this planet I can be completely myself with. I knew he wouldn’t mind how badly I danced, how excited I got, he’d always love me more for it.

The Misfits. 6/4/13 Manchester Ritz.

we were so rock'n'roll, returning our plastic cups to the bar and the only thing we sneaked in were sweeties.

We spent most of the night on the edge of the mosh pit, which was great because as the pit crushed in on itself, we got the best view of the stage. There were a few moments I could feel him tensing up as the pit got a little over-excitable. I hadn’t considered until then that he didn’t have much pit experience, but it was one of the friendliest pits I’ve seen, everyone picked everyone else up and the lad who got knocked in the jaw was given the space to leave.

There was one hilarious moment when the tallest teenage boy in the world came hurtling uncontrollably out of the pit straight at us. I caught him as he passed us, and once he’d got his wits back (he was completely bewildered), he went back in.

The topless encore.

They played ‘Scream’, the very first song I ever heard by them, about 3 or 4 songs in, and then saved all my favourite songs for the encore. And they played song after song after song. No stopping for a chat, no imposing their views of the world or anything. When they stopped playing at 9:40pm, we all knew there’d be more. They returned to the stage and Jerry Only had finally taken his top off (it's not a pervy thing, it’s the Misfits, it’s just part of the image), and sang my absolute favourite songs, including ‘Saturday Night’, which Jerry dedicated to all the girls. I don’t care what anyone says; he totally waved at me at this point. I was the only girl standing right in front of him, flanked by a bunch of student lads on one side and rocker boys on the other, the pit was still crushed up and there was this expanse of space in front of me. The wave I got wasn’t nearly as good as the wave someone else kept getting to the left of the stage, but hey-ho, no matter.

I sang at the top of my voice until I thought I’d choke and danced like no-one was watching.

Not to self for future gigs; wear ear plugs and don’t arrive on time. The doors opened at 6:30 and the ‘fits weren’t on til 8:30pm. One of the support bands was so bad we hid elsewhere, drank gin and ate the sweeties we’d stashed haha.

Me after the gig.

We both wore clothes we hadn't worn in years, decades even. I was super pleased to be wearing my old bones necklace which used to be a staple item, but somewhere along the line, along with any sense of individuality or style, it got sidelined. We're thinking it's time for a change now...

The Misfits Dream

I dreamt that my family and I drove to Manchester with my Mum in her sports car (it's not actually physically possible to fit more than four people in her car, so already it's odd) to go watch the Misfits. Mum didn’t come to the gig; I’ve no idea why she was there. We’d obviously been staying over somewhere because the boot of her car had to be rammed closed for duvets and clothes.

We went to the gig and after sitting through the lameness that was the support bands*, the Misfits finally came on stage. 

Bean then decided he needed the loo, so I went with him and after much messing about; having a poo, not having a poo, having a wee, having a poo, we returned to find the Misfits leaving the stage. 

I stood there hoping against all hope there’d be an encore, but none came.

I felt like the world was against me.

I’d come all this way.

I missed it.

Again.

Once again, because of Bean’s toilet habits, I’d missed out.

(To explain; last summer I missed the more poignant parts of both Nana and Granddads funerals because I was in the bathroom with Bean).

Deflated, we returned to the car, parked just outside.

I mentioned to a few people as we passed that I’d missed the gig and they, like me, were horrified. Then one of them turned out to be a member of staff at the club, and she said she’d do her best to make up for it. 

I didn’t hold much hope, I just felt screwed over.

Then all of a sudden, that was it, I was going backstage, in like, 20 minutes. That’s how long I had to prepare myself. I was grubby and sweaty after the long drive, my clothes were all wrong; I look frumpy and daggy, I really wanted to brush my teeth and my hair was tragic but I couldn’t fix any of it.

I was about to meet the band that I adored for 12 years.
The whole fan thing doesn’t come naturally to me, if at all. But this band is the one constant in my life. 

The one band that I’ll listen to on a regular basis. 

The one that whatever mood I’m in will perk me up and get me boogieing and singing along at the top of my voice again. 

I haven’t done anything for as long as I’ve been listening to the Misfits.

I’d had tickets to go and see them in the Summer of 2007, but we didn’t go last minute because I was pregnant with Ed, so very nauseous and completely exhausted.

I had been so excited to see them, now I was just freaking out.

They called me in, walked me up, then left.

I knocked gingerly on the door, but as I did, it opened to reveal the kind of madhouse I’m very much used to, but not the kind I was expecting. Instead of instead of punk rockers with tables full of snacks and beer, taking shots through the eye, I was met with two double beds covered with kids of various ages, playing computer games, reading, drawing, relaxing. Dogs were running about, there was one causing a to-do in the en-suite and on the floor there was a bowl of manically escaping guinea pigs. One by one they’d hop out and be quickly plonked back in by one of the wives. She seemed a tad stressed about it all.

I introduced myself to the room; ‘Hi, I’m Cat’ I say, waving my hand in the air self-consciously.

‘What a donkey you are’ I think to myself.

But then Jerry Only hugs me in a great big embrace, and I can feel every single muscle on his body, all hard a pokey and not sexy at all, but comforting.

We chat awkwardly.

Dez stand in the corner looking surprisingly normal but still like an old man out of his depth**.

Suddenly I realise there’s a big bowl full of eggs on the floor and one of them is jiggling about – it’s hatching. One of the wives grabs it and opens it up – I’m thinking; ‘shouldn’t you leave it to hatch on its own so it’s strong enough to take on the world? Or is that just birds?’ – and inside there’s a baby guinea pig. She explains that they breed them for meet and I babble about having three cavies of our own and how we have spoken about breeding chickens.

I don’t know what to say, what to talk about. 

There are too many uncomfortable silences. 

I feel like I’m intruding, in their bedroom, in their private space. I realise that I never knew anything about them, about their family lives.

This wasn’t what I was expecting.

I want to say that I’d listened to the new album and that I really liked it, but I don’t want to seem lame. I don’t want them to know I only just got it, 18 months too late. Like it’s not bad enough I’ve never listened to the pre-1995 albums, that I don’t know anything about Glenn Danzig.

I wish I was cooler.

Jerry Only stays close, always touching, his hard arm always against mine.

It’s not weird, just over-friendly. But it makes me wonder if after 35 years in a world famous band, maybe it’s been a while since anyone said 'no' to him. But there’s no groping or anything so I figure he’s just one of those people.

I realise I’ve been standing here for over an hour and my family are downstairs waiting for me. I need to drive the boys home and get them into bed.

Then I wake up.

I feel I should point out, my husband and I are going to see the Misfits tomorrow night, and the boys are being babysat by my Mum.

I cleaned out the guinea pigs hutch yesterday.

I do over-think everything.

Lately I realised just how much of my rock chick self I let go when I had babies and I would very muchly like it back, hence the constant worry throughout the dream that I’m just not cool enough.

*although I have investigated the support bands on YouTube, I don’t actually know in real life if they are lame or not, so no-one get offended, OK.
**I probably shouldn’t say that about him. I’m sure he’s an amazing musician and a legend, but to me, in my humble opinion he does seem a little tiny bit awkward on stage (having watched a few recent YouTube videos). I look forward to watching him prove me very wrong tomorrow night when they rock the Manchester Ritz.

Please note; these images are not mine.