Biro's Inspiratos

Journeys on the underground can be insufferable, especially if they are subjected to delays that are the result of someone committing a deed as inconsiderate as throwing themselves onto the railings or inaugurating a tasteless event such as a terrorist attack. The latter act would strike one as being particularly vulgar in cases where the name of a reputable and influential person (although I am suspecting these characteristics do not necessarily apply to Allah) is dragged into it.

This neatly brings us to the evening of the 17^th of November 2004, at the Marquee in Leicester Square, London (a venue who’s owners have the audacity to describe as ‘newly renovated’, when, in truth, it possesses the charm and elegance of a nomadic hut), where a certain Franco-German, male/female musical duo termed Noblesse Oblige (or is it Oblesse Noblige?), during the second song of their show, shocked an assemblage of innocent spectators into speechlessness by declaring their hate for Christians, Muslims, Jews, and Communists, as well as the audience itself (the topic of the opening number eludes me, but it involves guitars and a high proportion of grimacing).

I found this nihilistic delirium very confusing, especially since it was accompanied by a rather worrying display of violent spasms by the German male on the one hand, and intense, almost disfiguring facial contortions by the French female on the other. I privately concluded that this form of behaviour must be symptomatic of a severe medical condition, such as a seizure, a brain tumour, epilepsy, or another form of mental derangement. At any rate, I can imagine the prejudice both these individuals must confront on a daily basis due to their underdeveloped cognitive awareness and hence their tantrum should be viewed in light of the isolation, anger and desperation that is brought about by being made to feel unwanted.

The chaos of the band’s performance stands in stark contrast to their strict, uniform-like appearance. Both individuals are sporting elongated black boots, coupled with braced dark-coloured trousers. Needless to say, this type of attire harks back to an era and ideology that a lot of people would regard as deeply offensive, although I hear that the pro-hunting faction is becoming more accepted nowadays.

Special reference ought to be made to a musical piece that chronicles the defloration of a young boy by his father (along the lines of “Daddy, don’t touch me, I feel funny in my tummy”, or something of a similar note), for the duration of which the German specimen of the ensemble sneered, snarled, scowled and even went so far as to bend himself over in an effort to simulate the aforestated sodomy. My co-listeners watched in silent shock.

The audience’s reaction left me wondering whether their apparent revulsion could be attributed to the fact that conducting an affair with someone so much older than oneself is such an appalling display of bad manners and certainly not an appropriate theme for a song, or whether the former was simply due to no reference whatsoever being made to the use of prophylactics in the said act. It should be noted, however, that using one’s art as a means to catharsis is a noble cause, and hence, the young man’s attempt to own up to his juvenile faux pas, taking into consideration that this effort was carried out in the presence of what I assumed to be complete strangers, ought to be applauded.

A few more minutes into the set, and the aggressive, hammering staccato of a drum machine provides the foundation for the next composition, ‘Fashion Fascism’, the genre of which I would characterise as ‘industrial cabaret’. The forceful (or should I say enforced?) delivery of the song is truly captivating, despite this achievement being somewhat diluted by the delusional chant “We want to be better versions of ourselves”.

At the end of this number, a piece of percussive equipment was hurled off the stage by the aforementioned Teutonic character, and while this unpredictable outburst ought to have alarmed me, the thought of a fellow audience member injuring him or herself actually added to the excitement. Unfortunately, the strength with which the instrument was propelled was so meager, that it barely made its way to the floor.

As this lurid spectacle approached its final phase, the female singer’s rage had channelled itself into the baritone chorus of “I’m a bitch, bitch, bitch, I’m a rabbit on heat”. At this point, I was secretly anticipating that their act would escalate to a level that would involve both these angry performers being set on fire by spontaneous combustion. Instead, the pair left the stage unscathed, the faint, reluctant clapping of the befuddled crowd providing an unfitting epilogue to what I would nonetheless define as the most brilliantly degenerate pantomime I have witnessed in recent years.