SEVEN SOJOURN IN WC2

16/10/1999

As witnessed by Stuart Hall

The seven gilt, glowing, but gaunt gladiators strode purposefully onto the flouresecent spotlight-drenched stage that was to be their battleground, their dojo for the evening's onslaught.

Iffy Voice, brazen, blond and bronzed Adonis, a veritable Rock Of Gibraltar, lead the troops from the front for their ambush of Covent Garden's finest.

Oh, that titan Trumpet to his right. Wealding his aching axe like the oft-recalled hammer of the gods. But this heavenly hammer was honed in Hades and would laugh and spit venom in the face of the musical muses, presenting the most demonic diatribe that WC2 had ever seen.

Baby Talc, prominent, prowling and proud in the third frontal  attacking position. In his usual guise as sexual protagonist - lurking, leering and lunging at the ladies while strumming harrowing hypnotic rhythms.

But wait! Can it be? Prowling behind the sacred skins! It is Telstar, once proud bearer of the standard, and pounder of the kit for the Ant  Man - now happy in his role as Rockfather of The Seven. Superstardom lays easy on these worldly and proud shoulders.

The ungodly clarion of a wanton, wailing sax wafts into the ether. Custer may have fallen and Chief Sitting Bull triumphed at the first attempt, but the seven's own Lil Big Horn would have casually blown all asunder with the sonic sway that emanated from his sultry, silken lips.

Fantastic, fuelled and fancy-free, Fruitums delivers the band the bassy bottom that only a skilled engineer like himself could.  Mischievous, molten and magnetic - the glue that melds all sections into one triumphant team.

And Sticky Moan on keyboards.

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