Buckle in, you magnificents, Mrs. Pelican Tangerine and I have just returned from Fontaines D.C. at Exhibition Park in the wonderful city of Newcastle, and holy fuck’a’doodle do, it was a spectacular thunderclap of love, sweat, idiocy, more sweat, existential love jams, and unhinged catharsis. This was not your common or garden gig my dear listener, it was a nugget of purest fucking wonderful. A surrealist nuclear reactor style meltdown on stage and off, all gift wrapped in mania, joy, peace, love and whoopsie.
FONTAAAAINES D.C. are now in the big league and here they are. So embrace them. Right now. A sold out park in the well to do Notting Hillesque part of Newcastle that I didn’t even know existed, with a brimful of 10,000 joyous souls and sunburnt backs, roaring with rage, hope, poppers, Madri, those 8 quid gold vodka cans that you can get for a quid apiece in Home Bargains and that dissociative anesthetic that has hallucinogenic effects that all “the kids” are taking nowadays. My only visit to Exhibition Park was a 2007 Chumbawamba gig. Now I cannot abide Chumbafuckingwamba, however, I fancied a beautiful young lady who was a member of my local branch of the Socialist Workers Party, and she…(difficult to say whilst being sick in my mouth), well, she liked Chumbafuckingwamba. She was lovely, a good good soul but let’s play protesters cliché bingo, eyes down for a full house. Hairy pits, white dreadlocks, called Gaia, had a mate called Sage, wore ethically-sourced, oversized knitwear and patchwork dungarees, claimed top rate D.L A, smells of woodsmoke and Patchouli, she had the full house, but she was an absolute fox. Mrs. Pelican knew about it, but we had an ‘open relationship’ at the time, besides, she was knobbing a bloke who was a member of the BNP. But that didn’t last long. Initially, it was the muscles that turned her on, the weightlifting and the high protein diet, but maybe not the farting. Or the stupid ideology. But the shiny bald head and the tight fitting white t-shirt ensemble definitely pushed her buttons big style. However, the angry, rage-filled repressed homosexuality soon wore off and she fucked him off. Anyway, they were dogshit, Chumbafuckingwamba. Champagne socialists with a rider of chai seeds, soya milk and the breathe of a West African dwarf goat. We didn’t last long. Me and the socialist worker girl. She was too busy protesting about the plight of a bloke from Addis Ababa who lost his Aldi job for shitting in a carrier bag whilst serving on the tills.
Anyways, doors at 4pm, with luscious supports from the earthy Crows and ethereal English Teacher that stoked us into a moist, bizarre preheat haze. But, but, but, in actuality, it’s the Dublin Jacks we’re here for, and at 7:55pm on the nose, it was Go Go GO: “Starburster / In Heaven” looping from reel-to-reel tape, like a 4D Dali painting on visual search. Whatever that means. I start crying, then laughing. Mrs. Pelican grabs hold of me. She shouts at my big face but is looking tawards Grian, “Get a grip ya stupid-faced idiot”. Snot starts running out of my nose I’m crying so hard. I wipe it away and shout “I will love, I will…” back at her pixie-like face. Jesus I love that woman.
Myself gathered, we pile in to the vast open space. The carefully manicured lawns were now a 1970s pub football pitch, damp with spilled lager, piss and over-enthusiastic Fontaineistas, erect with hormones and excitement. There were older giggers there too, pink with sunburn and grey with regret. We step in something unholy. It could’ve been hummus, it could’ve been heartbreak. Or dogshit. But who really cares anymore anyway, Fontaines D.C. are here to save us all from the shit and the sin.
And they’re very bloody good too. My old Catholic priest, who also happened to be my English teacher, were he to have ever listened to the shambungcious Dublin lads, would’ve said, “They’ve got the devil in ’em…”. And he would’ve been right, because they have. They create an almighty, unholy noise. He would’ve ended that sentence with the following: “Now young pelican sir, undo my trousers for The Lord Our God, you know the drill…”, but we’ll skip that. For now. Anyway he’s long dead, the dorty fuppin old baxtad. But he still speaks to me.
Total Chaos, True Euphoria. Mushroom pizzas.
“Here’s the Thing” hit me in the sacrum. My spine melted right there, right then. I yelp “I AM ALIVE, I AM DEAD” and someone near me responded with a round of applause, a fist salute and a show of raunchy lung power. A dude wearing bondage braces around his neck climbs the PA stack like a pissed Spiderman, but uglier, and clumsier. He falls. I think he survives. Just. Thanks be to Jesus H. Christ.
The Fontaines swagger into “Jackie Down the Line“, the bass lines so deep they actually make me shit in my pants. The crowd, well they erupt like Mount Etna, spraying molten love, bukkake style, hither and yon. I felt my soul wrench forward, choking on chords like spiked nicotine on semi-subconscious. That line doesn’t make any sense, but who’s bothered. Then the bombfest “Boys in the Better Land” thunders into view like a big fucking war bastard. Let the pogoing begin. I’m violently laughing. Young and old are bouncing like wizzed up ADHD diagnosed 8 year old truant kids on nitrous oxide, arms flailing, faces gurning, unhinged reckless abandon longing for nowhere better, even if that nowhere place is just their own embarrassment. We’re already sweating cobs, but we’re cool as cucumbers, the Fontaines boys create ice cool heat hotter than hades.
“Televised Mind,” is three minutes of holy electrified, pre-post punk bass heavy road rage, with an intro’ that would be too short if it were two hours long. Some cat nearby tries to pick a fight with his own reflection. I laugh, egg him on and applaud his confidence. Were those mushrooms on my pizza psilocybin or Shiitake cos things are kicking in and fucking up, real fast but slow like. Mrs Pelican tuts and looks at me funny. She just fucking knows ya know. She’ll never forget me hiding behind those fucking trees.
“Roman Holiday”, “It’s Amazing to Be Young,” “Big Shot” each blast ushered layer after layer of the collective psyche to drip away. By “Death Kink,” I was sobbing with laughter and fury. I don’t even know if I was violently happy or violently pissed in the sun but that choppy guitar intro slashes the delicate skin on my big fucking face like a bikechain.
Nicknames. Years ago when I lived in Chester I was into combat sports, as a way of getting to know people and get myself out of my dingy depressing rat-infested bedsit craphole. Anyway, I did reasonably well at said combat art form so, after a few brutal, blood an’ guts battles I was given a ‘fight’ nickname that my manager liked. Personally however, I wasn’t too keen. So for a year, every time I entered the ring, I was known as and greeted to chants of ‘The Chester Molester‘. Times were more innocent back then but soon enough along came Stinson Hunter and his ilk and they became the new online sting ting’ so I dropped the name. Didn’t want to get jumped for texting my 10 year old nephew. And I hate it when he calls me “uncle” when we’re out on a bike ride an’ all.
Anyway, Love, Flights, Wig-Outs.
Somewhere along the way “A Hero’s Death” kicks in. And every single fucker in the place starts singing. 10,000 souls creating a beautiful noise. I tenderly kiss a stranger’s shoulder. She mumbles “chill out, mate,” but the steely glint in her eyes and the firm handshake later confirmed it was mutual scaffolding of our desperation. Next was “Before You I Just Forget”, a lullaby drenched in trembling feathers. I hitchhike on Grian Chatten’s guttural whisper for 90 seconds; he gave me permission to feel dangerously, tragically alive. Or summet. I literally have no idea of what I’m actually talking about. It’s just guff.
“Motorcycle Boy”, I managed to mosh. Again. I give my t-shirt to some random kid and shouted “TAKE THIS, FOR YOU. REMEMBER ME“. Then he left. No refunds.
I’m now in the ‘circle‘. The centre of the mosh. It’s carnage, it’s chaos. It’s blood and guts, just like being back in Saigon. It’s a traumafest and I’ll be chowing down on psychology and a PTSD sandwich if I make it home. But despite all this, despite all the metaphorical bullets wizzing by my large cabbaged ears, the centre of the storm is beautiful. Serene almost. And as the youngsters, the oldsters and the ner’do’wellers push, shove and jostle, I find myself in an almost Zen like state. I’m at peace. I’m outta space. I have found my Vega, right here, in Newcastle. I am a fucking geordie, if only for a night. Fog on the tyne is all mine all mine, and it’s absolutely fucking fine.
THEN BLAM!!! I see a renegade elbow careering recklessly towards my chin…the mosh is over, the circle jerk is no more. That was unison, a world in motion, but this is undeniably not. But it was beautiful whilst it lasted.
Out of nowhere, someone offers me a bag of Salt & Vinegar crisps. Random. I eat one. Then another. These are the best crisps I’ve ever fucking tasted. I finish them by crushing them up and emptying them into my gob.
“Horseness Is the Whatness” made zero sense but everything felt cinematic. During “Big“, I saw a man in a sun hat passed out on the grass. He looked like poetry in slow-motion. People walk solemnly by, like he was a fallen head of state. I sprinkle the remnant crumbs from my crisp packet over his face, hair and neck and wait for the pigeons to arrive. Evil personified.
“Nabokov,” “Desire,” “Bug“, the sun glinted off guitars and sweats like divine shards. I screamed “FUCKING YES” at least once. Probably twice. My voice is now a croak of gravel and beautiful regret.
Three-song encore, “Romance,” “In the Modern World,” and “I Love You” (dedicated to me) then “Starburster” crashed in like fireworks set off in the gob of a fuckwit looking for TikTok clicks. Final note hit, the park trembled, and I wept. Mrs. Pelican tutted. Again.
Rambling Reverie & Dribble.
I stepped in someone’s leftover kebab. It was fine. A bloke tried to start a conga line. It disintegrated within seconds. Someone called him “General Disaster.” I flirted with a pigeon, probably a metaphor or a literal pigeon. Mrs. Tangerine got lipstick on her cheek from the dude who bawled “I Love You” like a proposal. It smeared; I called it abstract art. At one point I shouted “WE’RE ALL FUCKED, BUT TOGETHER!” Someone near me high-fived, spilling cider in celebration.
Pelican Tangerine’s Love-Hate-Love Verdict
They didn’t play, they exorcised. This was not a performance; it was a ritual of reclaiming warmth, youth, rage, love and sex on a beer damp Newcastle lawn. They shredded everything that’s numb in our guts and poured fire in its place.
19 songs of pure jolting thunder and lyrical absinthe.
Final Roar
I walk the long journey home to South Yorkshire as Newcastle turns into headlights and after-party kebabs. My voice broken, my sky blue Crocs missing, my heart pulsing. I am a wreck and a warrior. I gave them my breath, my spit, my tears. They connected directly to my brain stem and gave me primal belonging.
I went to see Fontaines D.C. at Exhibition Park. I came back dirty and reborn.
I am Pelican Tangerine…and I am the egg man.
Fin.
Setlist
Starburster / In Heaven (Lady in the Radiator song)
Here’s the Thing
Jackie Down the Line
Boys in the Better Land
Televised Mind
Roman Holiday
It’s Amazing to Be Young
Big Shot
Death Kink
A Hero’s Death
Before You I Just Forget
Motorcycle Boy
Horseness Is the Whatness
Big
Nabokov
Desire
Bug
(Dedicated to Sam Fender)
Favourite
Encore:
Romance
In the Modern World
I Love You
Starburster
