ALARM live. Gaze and the frame freezes
into a gaudy, dust speckled canvas. An
old boxing painting. Sluggers with
knee-length shorts. Smell of sweat and
rough tobacco. Muscles in permanent state
of flex. Fists forever raised. Cries of
"Hey-ay-ay" from the crowd.
seen the Alarm for some time. About a
year ago was the last occasion. The first
had been a year before that. By dint of
their cynicism lacking' freshness, those
far off occasions offered something
exciting and positive. The Alarm were a
thrilling antidote to the prevailing
blandness, although still a long way from
being a total remedy.
their optimism all else paled. Yet they
rode that attribute with a wide-open
naiveté. You could see clear through to
to the pitfalls waiting ahead. The future
would be a tricky business.
time I saw them I was haunted by that
opening image. The heroics wore
paramount. As the fists gaily punched at
the empty air, the guitars were held
aloft in some tragic salute to pithless,
pointless nostalgia. And it rained
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