HOLE/LINUS
CLAPHAM GRAND, LONDON
 
 

Linus are unreal tonight.

Every time I've seen them before, they've been blighted with a less than perfect PA.  Here, they can realise their full potential.  They start with "Light Blues" from the new EP, which is played extra slow and extra moody.  Despite her nervousness, Tammy's voice sounds awesome with all this room to breath.  Her words are rounded, warm and wonderful.

About 10 minutes in, some hapless bloke shouts "Bollocks".  Tammy's nerves turn to rage, and she fixes the area where the voice came from with a scary lady stare, before letting rip a vengeful tirade.  Tammy is mad now, and the songs that follow are suitably perverse and seething.  When they play "Flight" and Tammy roars, "Take your hands OFF ME!", my heart is in my throat. Later on, when Courtney thanks Linus, she notes: Linus are hot!"

She's right there - they're going to be massive.

Courtney Love, of course, should know.  She's already a media entity.  The Grand is packed full of people curious to see her prove herself.  There's always this weird tension when Hole play, a kind of "What'll she do next?" atmosphere.  People want to see this amazing witchy woman - you know, the one that "sucks the lifeblood out of our greatest rock stars", the Boadicea, Delilah, the gold-digger, the smack addict.  They want to witness firsthand all these rumours that surround her.

Courtney knows all this, and she also knows it's important to be accepted by the same people who buy her husband's records.  This is why most of her new songs are "proper" songs.  Before tonight, I was worried that this would mean they were going to be too calculated and structured, too cold and unfeeling - as compared to her old, instinctive style.  I should have known better...

She stalks onstage wearing a dark brown wig and power-dressing jacket, launching into an old Young Marble Giants song, singing, "I want some credit in the real world," before she tears off the wig and jacket to reveal her trademark peroxide hair and a little white dress.  "Now you won't respect me anymore," she sighs playfully.  Oh no?

Courtney still has magnetic, transfixing charisma.  Nobody can take their eyes off her.  She remains fully in control.  She compliments us for not shouting "Get your tits out!", before actually doing so, because she knows she has us in the palm of her hand.  And she loves it.

She is firing on all cylinders tonight.  "Violet" is a bruised blur, a violent impassioned outburst.  "Teenage Whore" is anthemic and bludgeoning.  "Penny Royal Tea", the song she co-wrote with Kurt, smolders and torches alternately.  It's incredible.  And when they play "Pretty On The Inside", I feel all fiery inside and have to take deep breaths to stand up straight, and I remember why, a year ago, this band were my f***ing life.

Her band is perfect tonight, which is just as well, because I'm sure if they were anything less, Courtney would fire them right on the spot.  Patti looks and sounds like she's drumming from the top of a mountain, Eric is his usual reticent self, while new bassist Kristen - who looks like she should be in a glam-metal band like Smashing Pumpkins (thanks Everett) - is sassiness personified.  and I love the way Courtney plays - pushing her whole body forwards, as if she can't get close enough to the mic, her head forced back.

She discards her guitar to sing "Old Age" from the B-side of recent single, and she thumps her legs as she sings, she's putting so much of herself into it.  There's no way anyone could accuse this woman of being cold and unfeeling.  The fragile, heart-rending encore, "Doll Parts", is introduced as "what Steve Albini would call a faggot or a pussy song".  Obviously she still hurts.

It's followed by a chaotic "Burn Black", and then she states she'll punch a certain Sunday Times journalist if she ever sees him and settles for knocking over the mic stand with her guitar.  And then she's gone.

Half the crowd have left, a tape's playing, and suddenly she's back again for more.  "Would it be annoying if we played another song?"  she asks sweetly.  No, Courtney, no.  She plunders Unrest's "Yes, She is My Skinhead Girl", a rampant ode to f***ing.

And then she's gone again.

The reason I still love Courtney is for the simple fact she pisses everyone off.  Everyone and anyone without exception.  Hell, she'd probably piss me off if I ever met her.

She's a piss-off machine.
 
 
 

Sarah Kestle
NME July 24, 1993