Remember the time Wet Nuns averted the Rapture?

This rant is based on actual events at the Wet Nuns + Serious Sam Barrett show @ Stockroom, April 18th.

Cars were aflame. Screams and moans filled the atmosphere. The swanky buildings surrounding the Roebuck tavern laid asunder. The smell of destruction lingered as a thousand Wednesday and United fans congregated and fought, whilst police in riot gear took turns bashing skulls in at Orchard Square.

The Bus driver had stopped in the street and said “May God be with you”, as he open door and left us to our own devices. I was alone, my head swooning with the rankness of football fans turning into creatures from Hell.

But amidst that stench, I found a familiar smell. Jambalaya.

I ran downhill. A building (okay, a small triangle-shaped pub) had survived. The beasts of Hell had forgotten about it. Or maybe they were saving it for last.

I entered the place and the small crowd looked at me, sized me up then continued sipping local ales and eating dishes of Jambalaya. A handlebar mustache-wearing man was behind the bar. I asked for a Pale Rider. He gave me a shot of bloody mary and a dish of food.

“On the house. Looks like y’all coul’ use it!”

Was I the only one looking concerned? The minions of Hell had taken the chance to descend (or ascend) and take a couple of bodies in one of the most useless, stupid spectacle on Earth. But we are not talking about bullfighting, this is football and is probably as stupid.

A couple of Fallen Ones were approaching the place, staggering. The man behind the bar whistled and two fellas with stetson hats kicked the door shut, put some chains and hung a flag that said “SHEFFIELD ALABAMA – DON’T THREAD ON US!”.

A guy solemnly took the stage. He said his name was Serious Sam Barrett and had been at SXSW. After a couple of songs, including one dedicated to the South Yorkshire tradition of crossdressing (must be referring to football uniforms), he left the stage. His musical powers weren’t enough to take out the forces of evil but good enough to calm my anxiety.

Then the two guys with stetson hats looked at each other and nodded. One of them gave me a bottle and told me “don’t drink it!” and the other one pointed at the pot of Jambalaya “take care of that, boy, y’hear?”

One was a Doctor, the other was a Sheriff. And they started playing, singing about a “7 year itch” under an overdriven, fuzzy distortion. The bitching sound, the pounding drums, the hordes of hell started to tremble.

Still, the sonic attack wasn’t enough for the Fallen congregating outside. Maybe a quick tribute to Link Wray? “Rumble” was played but alas, it wasn’t enough. Even a tribute to “Death Letter” from the oldest school of blues left them unfazed. But that wasn’t enough. Even a Black Flag cover was there.

The chanting outside by the minions of Satan were horrifying. They all claimed “Feed ‘er! Feed ‘er! Feed ‘er!”. Who was “her”? Is the Beast a Female one? Was the hellforge at the leadmill now in the hands of a female Hephaestus? And why do they call this drink “Pale Rider”?

When all seemed doomed, the bearded one with the shirt started mocking the zombies outside.

“Here’s your Rogers ‘n’ buck shit song!”

He pissplayed the chords of a horrid song and the cursed ones put their filthy hands over their ears. They shuddered and lurched and once they were in the floor, they were swallowed up, screaming until their cacophony was no more.

Guess it takes a couple of pro demons to take care of some upstarts. The duo left the stage and I handed back the bottle to Doc. They both tipped their hats and I waved goodbye, walking the now deserted streets of Sheffield and whistling to myself a tune called “Laura”.



Serious Sam Barrett (Next show Mayth, Royal Park Cellars, Leeds) A full show.

Wet Nuns (Next show May 11th at the Stock Room, Sheffield)

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About the author: Nothing brings more respect to a show than a seriously good veggie jambalaya and some awesome tunes.

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