part seven - live actions 86-97

live action 86


hinoeuma - london, uk

william bennett, peter sotos, philip best

tit pulp, thank your lucky stars, rock and roll, dance the desperate breath, dedicated to peter kurten, worthless, movement 2000/private, a cunt like you

notes: audience 280 / support groups dachise, kraang + wertham / live action videoed and filmed

I could have danced all night. I could have been shafted all night. By the Bennett himself, and still I'd have begged for more. Look, I'm not a homosexual. Faggots are maggots. I'm not a gayer, despite my cunt fag fucking Bon Jokey cunt fucker looks, a look I'm accused of by people supposedly living on the fucking edge of musical appreciation ... oh man, you're all so bleeding alternative arn't you!? Poseurs! No, I'm not 'puffy' as they say in El Escorial. No, not much. At least I didn't think I was, until ...

The evening began nicely, very nicely. First stop the 'Manowar pub. It's not really called that. Steve, my friend of 23 years from East Ham College (studio crap-fucks department) and I (Withnail?) named it that when we were both seeing U.S. HM band Manowar on an unhealthily regular basis in the early 1980s. Well, it looks like the sort of place Manowar would drink in, sword fight in, rape and pillage in,etc etc. It's actually called the Cittie of Yorke and there's been a pub on that site since 1430. Hey, directionless arseholes,why not go check it out? An easy 1 min walk from Chancery lane station. Alas, 20 mins worth of being surrounded by Friday night city bastids was quite enough, although some of the girls set my cock ablaze (with matches, lighters... and, considering the ultra-high level of excitement 1 had worked myself into, to see Whitehouse that is, I fucked off.

Next stop. Met Stevey baby outside the Dominion theatre in Tottenham Court road and from there to Euston station and a pub called the "Head of Steam" We yakked away about the Timo 7" I'm financing and of which, hopefully, Steve will be doing the sleeve artwork for, using one of my Nagasaki photos. Along comes Chris, Steve's fiancÚ (of 13 fucking years, don't rush into it loves!) and so we, that is I, Gregory, Steve and his old trout Chris smecked away, govereeting and paid regular trips to the toilet the door of which had a combination lock so as to stop 'drifters' as Steve so politely put it, er ... drifting. . If you want the code number and can't be fucked to ask for it at the bar it's CX28 as of 13.10.2000.Good luck and now sod-orf back to your cardboard box. Then it's gone 8:00pm, time to leave the miserable couple ano' see if I can get myself to this Red Rose dive I've heard so much about this summer.

On exiting the tunnel (of love) from Finsbury Park station you are faced with the nuclear wasteland that is in fact the Seven Sisters Road. Bring back the Marquee club in Wl for god's sake! I'm all alone in a part of London I never visit, hope the venue isn't too far. Thankfully it isn't ... a 10 min walk and there before you is the oasis of the Red Rose in all it's splendour. After a quick look around to see if I know anyone (I didn't) I got myself the obligatory pint and made my way back to the front garden' to, perhaps, make friends. I spied two guys who looked approachable, sensible chaps you know, one with a Coil t-shirt, t'other with shaven head except for a patch of long dready-weds. Charming gentlemen they turned out to be but they hadn't heard anything by Whitehouse, only heard of them at the Coil gig I think. Hmmm ... 'To the curious', those were such great days ... and we're going to see great days again! Sitting on a bench in front of us was a fuck I later found out to be called Ian. Let's call him irritable Ian, for such he was. Irritable at being alone, irritable at not having seen or heard Whitehouse before, irritable that his sister is a successful porn actress ... well, he bore a striking resemblance to one I've seen having the arse torn out of her and irritable at my clothes, accusing me of being a Europe fan!!!! 0k, perhaps he wasn't so wrong, I fucking saw them circa 1986 or 7, with Steve because Steve's bitch at the 'Lime blew him out and I got the spare ticket for free. That's my excuse so fuck you, I fucked all your mothers and each one was complete crap. Still, at least Joey Tempest (Troy's brother) looks remotely attractive to the opposite sex, more specifically, to the 12-year-old rock chicks of that time, which is more than I can say for irritable Ian. Maybe your sister will screw you ... for a price, though I doubt you could afford her these days, fucking human toilet. Moping old sod. I fired back, it passed the time, psychiatrically and sarcastically, telling him he looked like a rockabilly, even though he didn't but it was the nearest I could get and, besides, I was running out of patience. He went fucking mad, obviously a sore point. I gave up with Mr.Worthless (2) nobody likes him, end your life, end your life now, do it now! Later though in the Hinoeuma, we shook hands, kissed and made up. Even though by this time irritable Ian was already dead.

I joined the queue in the corridor and got talking to a 52-year-old geezer called Buffalo Bill! He was only in the Red Rose for a drink, definitely not a Whitehouse fan. We spoke about Bob Dylan of all things and how Buffalo Bill had seen him in concert at Wembley not so long ago and what a disappointment Dylan had been! I've got a couple of Dylan records myself, old, old, old ones ... 'Highway 61 revisited' and 'The Freewheelin' Bob Dylanl (3). Highway 61 is a superb song, makes all the malenky hairs on my plot stand endwise oh my brothers! Go seek it out, so called noise freaks! Ha! Ya fucking tunnel-visioned pussies, eat me, eat my snatch or don't you like your faces covered in pussy pus? You wankers! And, and, and, blow me down, Buffalo Bill went away and came back with a pint for lil'ol me! Cheers man, happy days! I owe ya one!

So, the doors open. In we go, into the warm cosy darkness that is the Hinoeuma (it's also a comedy club on other nights). I had to pay a visit to the Cheeses International stall (4). This is a little mail order firm specialising in noise, weird and experimental music etc that I have been buying from for 9 years or so. Run by the trustworthy Sfeve Fricker I finally got to meet the man himself at long last, face to corrida splattered face. Amazing how you have an image of someone in your head and yet when you meet them they are completely different to how you had imagined! Steve thought that 1 looked a cunt too.

I made my way to the bar area and got chatting to a very talkative bloke from Arizona no less! I can't remember his name but he showed me his Circus Freek show t-shirt and described some of its extreme goings on, live maggot and fly-eating and the likes! I find the idea of a girl eating live maggots particularly appealing, see my infamous and rejected everywhere Mira Calix - Oneonone review (5). Hey, Arizona man, if your illicit video came out then I'd love to have a copy ... get in touch!

Then I saw a girl. A real live girl. Don't get 'too many of that lot at Whitehouse shows (according to Richo of Fourth Dimension Records and mail Order (6)and a man of whose opinion I hold in the highest regard, we're, that is him, me, are in the 'sad male geek domain. So, it's official. Off I go, like a fly to poo poo and plop plops. I buzzed around Ami for some time, asked her about her smell (but not her quim, ha, ha! Get it, noise freek fuckin' bastards?!) "It's Jean Paul Goatie-hay". Oooohhhh dear! Yes, very extreme, very experimental, very arty-farty-skinnyhead-hermaphrodite- woofter! Darling, must you do what the glossy ads tell you to do and wear that over-designed bottled up over-priced piss? Why cover up your very own girly smell? And why shave those miraculous little armpits? I love to see a smattering of hair. There. Like two extra honeypots. Come on sweetheart, you're the one, that I choose, it's your lucky day, you don't have to say please!

Guess I said the wrong things to Ami, sick and wrong things, from start to finish ... the final straw being my admission that I'm not one bit interested in 'girls' of my own age, 41 that is, and by referring to these said 'girls' as wrinkled-up old sows, the Citroen Ami 8 got all defensive and made her escape at the next opportunity which from her point of view wasn't soon enough. I have a way with women. Cheque!

Anyway, Ami's departure did me a great favour(not really, but I have to put on the brave face) for I was able to sit on the table by the wall which she had unwittingly been buttock heating (like Duchamp's Mona, she has a red hot arse) and began talking to a brilliant couple from Rugby ... I forgot the guy's name but he was without doubt the 'coolest dude' that I'd spoken to throughout this whole sordid affair. We watched the support band together, aaahhh GeroGary made a friend. Dachise-Vex I think it was. Not a bad band at all, projected back-drops of the usual imagery that you'd expect on such occasions, close-ups of stitched-up lips, 1950's futuristic machines, beaten-up bods coughing up blood etc. Musically I guess they've played the odd Whitehouse record, old Ramleh (where are you Gary Mundy?) and all that cal. Mr.Rugby and 1 enjoyed it until we got bored and wanted them to finish so we could watch Whitehouse of whom Mr.Rugby had never heard or seen ... so many innocents awaiting defloration! Not like ultra-seasoned 'Wreck of Rock'n'Roll Former Self,(7) GeroGary (in a white wine sauce with shallots and herbs).

And now is the time. Whitehouse come forth. To London. Has it really been 4 and a half years? We stand, on the table against the Hinoeuma wall. The view is outstanding. I steady myself by holding a conveniently-placed length of pipe. LA86 begins ... Philip Best screams 'Tit Pulp' (8). I scream along. Well, I attended sing-a-long-a-Johnny Rotten time in 1983 so why not sing-along-a-Whitehouse? Oh yes, you know it's gonna be alright, you know it's gonna be just fine. I make Whitehousian gestures in the traditional fashion. Raised fist, shaking fist, " ... and the next one's you!" Pointing finger. Where is Mary Dowd these days anyway? I want to see the untitled short film from 1982 in which she lies buried in soil while snails, worms and beetles crawl over her partially exposed body (9). I'd love to see all those old films, someone stick 'em on DVD please! Well Mary, what are you up to now anyway? Fat? 40? "Do you believe in Rock'n'Roll? (10) It's William. Just William. Just William with Philip and Peter. Peter Purvis. Peter Pervert. Blue Peter. Pornographic Peter. But it's just William if you want it to be. Sexy. I never noticed that before. "If you believe in Rock'n'Roll ... ?? Must have been subconscious in there all the time in the back of my head. Dormant. William, tall, slim, dominant, cool shades, rock-god shades, good-looking. Tne Master... "Then why don't you stand up for what you believe in???!!!" I dance. 1 tell you while I dance. Told(ll). I hold the pipe tighter. Ihe pipe. The pole. Pole dance "... You wankers!!!" I wish I was a girl. "... You wankers!!!" I wish I was a 14 year old girl, hormones seething, with all those teen clothes, those uniforms, those Trevor Brown drawings, just for tonight. Just forever. Just for William. Does he see? Does he see this? Rock god William. Cooler than any fucking ponced-up rock fag. Rock hag. Rocked sag. Indie slag. Now I see why my ex wife got home after LA78 (London 1996) yelling "I want William to fuck me!" Does your bitch do that? Did she? Has she? Fucking pig. Fucking whore. She made me a Slutmaster(12). A sick fuck. I kill for pleasure. I,live to hate whores, cheap sluts fucking cunts! You live to die. Human toilets. And now it's me. Me waving at Sotos, Sotos waves back. We did this before, LA78. That fateful night. My bitch broke lose. My cunt. And I want to be that cunt. That bitch. That girl. Wanna be Bennett's Lolita. Bennett. Humbert. Quilty. Wanna whore myself, be used. Abused. Pull my mouth apart just like Trevor's 'Just like a cunt'(13) painting. Fill it. Split it. Japanese porn mag violence. I was born for this. If only I didn't have this stubble, these chest hairs, leg hairs, slug between my thighs. If only I wasn't 41. If only, if only, if only. And where are they now, the years, the years?(14). The Pink Fairies did a song... 'I wish I was a girl'. Never heard it. Robert Silverberg's 'Son of Man'(15)had our descendants, aeons into the future, able to change sex at will. If only. And my panties are wet, though not from that. From pissing my strides after putting it back too soon in my rush to get back to the hall and from not wearing sensible trousers. Home made lace-up fly you know. Awkward. William reads from letters received. I can't hear. A recipe. A pinch of salt. Cook for me babe. Ply me with fine wines like at the Ideal Home exhibition. You don't need that slut. That Barbie. Barbie is a slut. "bear the breast from her heart, nail her cunt to the wall, scold her stinking orifices, convulse the body in pain. Undress me, caress me, love me, don't let me die. Mine is a heart that breaks in no time or place. No soul, no love, nothing" (16). SPK's Sinan, on TV's 'the Tube" in 1983. I want to be dressed the same, 100% the same, be the same. Be her. Then.1983. Now a new song? I don't recognise. Philip's solo. Guitar solo. Drum solo. Yamaha solo. Rock god. What's the difference? I liked your long hair around 1995 Mr.Smoketoomuch. Better cut down then. Teenage runaway. The audience goes for it. Don't fuck with Sotos. You fuck with him he's gonna fuck with you, that's what he'll do. Yeeaahh! Monster. A writer of subversive literature. Rock god.

I'm too busy trying to get my 'Live at Tabula Rasa T-shirt (17) onto the bootlegger's video to notice 'Hinoeuma Girl' waving at me. She who I met a couple of times at Gossips nightclub's Goth nights and who recommended this Red Rose place to me. On the table I was high above her, she came to me. She said I looked as if I was ... really enjoying myself. Yeah, Whitehouse are my favourite band, the best band in the world". She seemed confused. I don't think she agreed. I bent, held her perplexed face and smothered it in kisses. Sort of. I think she was with a guy, probably Peter Perfect. Wacky.

'A cunt like you' (18) gets its London debut. Bennett and Best take it in turns to sing ... "You look like a fucking bat you old slut!" That's no way to speak to a lady. "I really loath vulgarity!" [No way to treat you. Baby. "So common!" But I'm only 14. "Fucking stereotype, fucking stereotype!" Well,14 going on 41 ... oh,thee fucking majik ov thee numbers man. What's it mean, Gen? You take, you ache, you fuck just like a cunt. The fire in my pants is about to explode, feel it's gonna blow another load. And I'm the kinda girl who wants to take that chance ... with G.G. (19) with 'William. Take a chance on me, I'll be the first in line ... a cunt like me, a fucking mess, a fucking disgrace! Here's a thrilling piece of observation on my part; Bennett and Best don't just hand the microphone to each other ... they snatch it. Snatch. Snatch. Bennett, snatch, cunt, Best, Sotos ... I'm delirious, alive, alive! Listening to the sound of being alive'(20), listen to it you old fools, listen to it(21)! On and on and on it goes, cunt after cunt after cunt, snatch after snatch after snatch ... a heroic rendition of the most vicious song ever conceived. 'The end of all music' (22). More 'if only's'. If, only it could have been the mythical and frustratingly unobtainable (Unrecordable?) 'Never-ending version' because then William, with Peter and Philip pinning us down floorwise, really could have shafted the lot of us all night long, never-endingly.

He knows what to do...


I left. Shagged and fagged and fashed. I'd love to have seen Kraang + Wertham but 1 had a train to catch, had to get home, had to write this reviewl. Had to get it out of my system. You don't really want to hear about the fight I almost got into with a cunt (Ha! Yet more cunts. A whole night of 'em!) half my age on the train, only to be spared the aggravation by yet another fight (ongoing) which spilled into my carriage. Hoping to survive to see Whitehouse again some day I used the ensuing mayhem to flee to cars further up-track, thus rounding off a fucking brilliant evening! So satisfiying in fact, that I didn't even bother to do sad and lonesome onanie.

And that's really saying something.

(Gary Simmons)

A word of warning to anyone planning a first time visit to the Red Rose - don't sing in the bar area. Narrowly avoiding being chucked out for yelling a few Irish rebel songs with the regular locals, we had to scarper into the backroom, where Ilse Ko...er, Gaya Donadio was overseeing the removal of banknotes and the systematic stamping of hands. New Britain, we love it! The support group gave 'art wank' a bad name, but the drinks in the Rose are ultra-cheap - just a shame some of the pensioners in the bar weren't allowed in for free.

'Tit Pulp' kicked off at 10.30pm, Phil Best hollering and chain smoking, William Bennett grinning in the background, Peter Sotos gobbing beer onto the front two metres of audience and some geezer (possibly Glen Michael Wallis?) standing erect, lips pursed, by the edge of the stage, like a pervy old schoolteacher. The sound was more than impressive, though not the eardrum-cauterising barrage I was expecting. Just one PA criticism - Whitehouse should have tried to do more with the actual microphone, as at times the vocals came out a little flat and dull compared with the electronic showers spitting venomously from the main amps. But even that couldn't negate the pleasure of seeing Bennett snatch the mic from Best as the sonic tornado bled into 'Thank Your Lucky Stars' and 'Rock and Roll' (still sounding like a nuclear powerplant on meltdown) and you realise just how sweet life could be if all gigs in London had this much black humour and passion.

A short porn story followed, read out over a crackling chunk of pink noise, 'Mindphaser' style, before Bennett and Sotos stomped off, leaving Best to torture his effects box for ten minutes or so. As for the finale, 'Just Like A Cunt' saw Sotos really getting into the beer-slinging, Bennett and Best fighting over the microphone, and Bennett eventually flashing his bare chest and joining in the aerial lager attack mission. Thank Christ Best and Sotos kept their shirts on! Some genuinely imbecilic abortion down the front row with a videocam took the song as his cue to start shoving people around, including some Asian chick. Luckily this specimen got his comeuppance later, when he made the seriously ill-considered mistake of parking his arse on the front of the stage, only for Sotos to boot him soundly to the now beer and phlegm-drenched floor! Nice one, Pete.

So what can we conclude from this live action? It was a great homecoming, and well worth entering 'arsenal f.c' scumbag territory for. It was also extremely funny at times, the mood and expressions of the group verging on the completely bemused and absurd. And while musicologists can all wax on about the 'implications' of the lyrics, the value of this night out has to be measured in the sheer ecstasy of laughing like a demented hound in the faces of Victoria Line passengers, splattered in Becks, tearing back down to Kings Cross on the tube and wondering why techno clubs were never this much fun. Happy 20th, lads.

(Martin Conway)

After having hosted the Extreme Music From Women launch event earlier this year, and been graced by William Bennett's presence as a guest DJ on several occasions, it seems that the London industrial club Hinoeuma finally managed to persuade him to break his resolution for Whitehouse not to play in the UK again. Not surprisingly, the gig announcement caused a sensation across the European scene, and the atmosphere in London the day before, when the first of the associated events took place, was already more that of a festival than anything else.

Thursday saw an impromptu gathering at The Plough, the central London pub favoured by the Great Beast, Aleister Crowley, in order to celebrate the 125th anniversary of that great man's birth. A small upstairs room accommodated an uncomfortably large crowd notably including Karl Blake of the Shock Headed Peters and a Swedish contingent lead by Cold Meat Industry associate Marten Sahlen. After a slow set up due to technical problems, John Murphy's Ministry of Love, Knifeladder noise side-project AntiValium and rising dark ambient prodigy Andrew Liles played intensely atmospheric sets, the small smoky room being totally dominated by the full size PA. Most memorably, all doors and windows were closed for Liles' set, which took place in complete darkness. I was lucky enough to acquire a scarce CD-R of the material he presented, which will hopefully be reviewed for Audioghoul in the near future. A progression from his set supporting Schloss Tegal, his threatening dark ambient drones were now enhanced not only by sudden high-end attacks reminiscent of Stratvm Terror, but by chillingly distorted maledictory vocals. Unfortunately the sub-bass rumbling was too much for Knifeladder's PA, which promptly blew after about half an hour. Worryingly, this was apparently the back-up system for the Whitehouse live action!

On Friday afternoon I picked up my house guest for the weekend, Thomas Ekelund AKA Mr. Winquist of Winquist/Virtanen. After introducing Thomas to feline industrial stars Cleopatra Velvetpaws and Galaxy Glitterpants back at my house, I received the generous and very welcome gift of a copy of almost every release in the Winquist/Virtanen discography (again, reviews should follow in due course). Preparing ourselves for the evening's insanity with a few drinks, we then rendezvoused with John, my bandmate in Maruta Kommand, for the journey to the venue.

When we eventually reached the Red Rose club at 8pm (no thanks to London Transport), we were greeted by the novel site of a huge crowd of industrial types drinking merrily in the beer garden, and soon found that the bar was crowded beyond anything ever seen at Hinoeuma before, even for the Genocide Organ performance earlier this year. Locating Elisabeth and Mason of RECTIVE, I was soon busy introducing people to one another and trying to get served.

Joining the huge queue into the hall at the rear of the building where Hinoeuma performances take place, we soon discovered just how many people had been drawn to this much anticipated event. When we had managed to get in, it was to a room crammed to capacity. This time, the program of events for the evening had been posted by the door, so when the harried sound crew lead by the redoubtable Knifeladder gentlemen were replaced on stage by a band, we knew that this was the Dachise/Vex collaborative set.

Despite what I'd heard about Dachise being a harsh noise unit, the two noisicians on stage presented an effective power electronics assault. Nothing particularly original or remarkable, they nevertheless provided suitable preparation for the main event.

An eager surge toward the stage heralded the coming of Whitehouse. The film screen behind the stage was shut off - this was one act who neither wanted nor needed supporting visuals. The sound was immediate and overwhelming, a relentless, spastically rhythmic bulldozer of thunderous earthquake bass and sizzling high-end squeals that drove the crowd back from the overloaded amp stacks on which the warning lights of the limiter glared throughout the set as never before, while the sound team fought bravely to ensure their survival. With the looming bearded presence of Peter Sotos hunched over an equipment table at stage right, and the ageless and perennially cool William Bennett, in leather coat and shades, similarly lurking at stage left, it was the small, bespectacled and unassuming figure of Philip Best who took the mike. Triumphantly celebrating his return to the band earlier this year which had ensured its future, the opener was the notorious 'Tit Pulp'. Those Whitehouse virgins in the audience who had been fooled by Best's unthreatening appearance got a severe shock as the one-time teenage mastermind of Consumer Electronics let loose with the tightly controlled rabid snarling vocals for which he is renowned. Already it was evident with this fast-paced, passionately hateful track that Whitehouse were on excellent form tonight, an impression reinforced by the obvious excitement of the crowd and the enthusiasm of the innocent Goth friends I had lured into attendance. Appropriately indeed under the circumstances, 'Tit Pulp' was followed by 'Thank Your Lucky Stars', William Bennett bantering lightly before the audience before the surging, shrieking synths and thumping rhythm of this old Whitehouse hit kicked in. His gutteral, sarcastic Scots-accented howl and barborously sexual stage presence were as highly charged as ever as he strutted and posed for the numerous cameras in attendance. Meanwhile Peter Sotos was providing his usual ogreish cheerleading, exchanging taunts and thrown beer with the crowd and calling for applause. By contrast, during the pauses in his own instrumental contribution, Philip Best restricted himself to casually smoking a cigarette. Next up was the even older hit 'Rock and Roll', followed unexpectedly by a new track. Clutching a wad of papers, Bennett read surprisingly intelligibly, given the volume of the 'music', from a long and casually sadistic story apparently concerning the mistreatment of an anorexic girl. The most bizarre part of the experience came with a detailed recipe including a full list of ingredients, with one of the most notorious figures in industrial music making a most unlikely Delia Smith. At the conclusion of the story, he tossed the redundant script into the audience and left the stage. Somewhat surprised by these events, we were then treated to a lengthy, crushingly loud solo instrumental by Philip Best, with Peter Sotos whooping up rounds of applause. Eventually he disappeared too, leaving the smiling Best to hold the stage alone against the hecklers calling for more active sonic violence. Finally Bennett and Sotos returned for the grand finale, a chaotic extended version of 'A Cunt Like You'. Now stripped to the waist and with 'scapegoat' scrawled in red across his chest, Bennett took turns with Best to rant the familiar lyrics over the rapidly stuttering spastic rhythm. Amusingly, I noticed a woman just in front of me was actually dancing, while others confined themselves to thrashing convulsively to the merciless waves of distortion and drunkenly singing along. Jabbering hysterically in their differing and complementary styles, both vocalists did their damnedest to shout themselves hoarse for the appreciative audience as they rampaged across the stage. Incredibly, the speakers lasted right up to the end, as glasses smashed and the threat of violence briefly hovered in the air. In the event, this was to prove to be a Whitehouse performance with no obvious injuries, although my right ear, too close to a speaker stack, was numb for the rest of the night. As the crowd thinned out, broken glass and spilt beer were revealed underfoot.

Intent on staying to the end, we stocked up on Whitehouse CDs at the Cheeses International stall before settling down with fresh pints for the final performance. Faced with the ridiculously unfair challenge of following up what we had just witnessed, Wertham/? acquitted themselves strikingly well. Over a backing film of ethnic persecutions of every type and era, choice scenes from Pasolini's 'Salo' and anti-Semitic propaganda, they delivered an impressive TESCO-style political power electronics set with declamatory vocals, in a similar vein to The Grey Wolves or vocalist Marco Deplano's collaborative supergroup with them and Con-Dom, Death Pact International. At any normal Hinoeuma event, this formidable performance would easily have been the highlight of the evening, and they quickly revived the interest of what remained of the vast thronfg that had gathered to witness Whitehouse's return to the UK live scene. Additional kudos must be granted to Marco also for his stylish and amusing 'snuff'' T-shirt.

Following an enjoyable day at the shops, Saturday evening saw Thomas and myself heading to the old Horse Hospital for a literary soiree organised by Creation Books, Peter Sotos' publisher, to see the great man deliver a rare spoken word performance. Immediately upon entering the bar-windowed room set up for the evening's proceedings, we spotted Messrs. Bennett and Best among the small crowd. Just as we had hoped, Creation had a stall present selling Sotos' much sought-after novels, and at reduced prices! Pleased with our purchases, we fortified ourselves with alcohol before the program opened with Sotos' reading. Clad in a raincoat, the highly notorious author first appeared to be an absolute pussycat, extroverted, jovial and very funny, before revealing a severely caustic wit as he bantered with us, asking us questions and gently mocking the responses as he regaled us with self-deprecating, satirically presented readings of his acid printed observations in his heavy American accent. As smooth and assured in his performance as the great Henry Rollins, he revealed himself unexpectedly to be a natural at this type of performance. Most interestingly, he revealed the carefully crafted satirical intent of his work, often overlooked in the sheer traumatising vileness of the content.

After Sotos concluded to enthusiastic applause, we were treated to a riotously comic and grotesquely obscene story from Zodiac Mindwarp's Mark Manning, intense s/m erotica from Mark Hejnar and some excellent short films by the gentleman who had filmed Whitehouse the previous evening, including a collage biography of Jeffrey Dahmer. Eventually the whole crowd, including Messrs. Sotos, Bennett and Best, retired the nearest pub, until closing time finally sent us all regretfully home to sleep it off.

(Andi Penguin)

live action 87


jh de limerick - antwerp, belgium

william bennett, peter sotos, philip best

tit pulp, princess disease, thank your lucky stars, rock and roll, dedicated to peter kurten, a cunt like you

notes: audience 125 / support groups rectal surgery, mmvp / live action videoed / whitehouse moved the location within the venue from the cavernous hangar used by the support groups to a much smaller room where the audience had to pack themselves in


"I've just seen our boys live in Antwerp Friday night... Beautiful. Very short set (20 minutes), in a living-room-sized venue (crowded with pathetic crypto-gothic posers, though). Sotos asked the audience to approach as much as they could. We were surrounding the group. Very close, personal, intimate contact wit the musicians. Beer flew from and to everywhere. Powerful set, very professional."

"Like in 93, whitehouse are still a very rock'n'roll band beer and drunk people, shoutings of "feminists!!" "mindphaser"..angry posers who just sit back and let the crypto-punks fascist saluting their masters. Sotos was very fond of the whole thing...that's what he told me happily after the "show" anyway. Some people will never get it." (Anon.)

"Electronic KO.

"The venue - irritatingly located in the far southern suburbs of the beautiful city - is the kind of large scale `urban' youth centre so favoured by Northern European liberal democracies. The concrete bunker-style concert hall is massive, as Philip Best comments; it is the kind of place to see indie bands on break-through tours. The venue appears to have a capacity of around 500+ people or so, not the 100+ people who have travelled to see Live Action 87. The PA is a minuscule piece of shit.

Whitehouse appear severely pissed off that the venue layout precludes the possibility of any kind of `atmosphere'. After much debate it is decided that the dressing room - actually a far smaller hall - would make a better location for the performance. The equipment is stripped from the main hall and we relocate it to the dressing room. The only problem is that the entire power has to run from one plug socket.

The largely patient audience wait whilst Whitehouse re-sound check. When the doors are opened it is left to Sotos to call in the audience "come on you fucking cunts". Mixing caustic self-baiting humour and thinly veiled insults ("Anybody want to hug? What is this a stand up routine? Come in here you fucking cunts") he `befriends' the entire audience until the stage arrival of Bennett and Best. The group plough into a supremely aggressive version of Tit Pulp. Sotos clapping his hands and gesturing at the audience, demanding a response. Best howling the words and cock-rock hammering the microphone into his groin. Uber phallus style. Beers start to fly at the trio. As the song ends somebody shouts out "feminist" at Sotos. Audience tension mounts.

William Bennett takes the microphone and Whitehouse kick into power-electronic life with Princess Disease. The small room allows no escape for the crowded audience. More foaming beer is thrown into the air. Two industrial-goth types begin to douse each other in beer, kiss, punch and (semi) fight. A girl begins to dance. Bennett-as-Caligula (as Billy Spicer has suggested in Panik magazine) thumbs up prowls the stage and gestures, his movements punctuating the power electronics, he swings around 180 degrees to face a smiling Best whose keyboard issues a savage cry in response.

Then silence. Best leaves the stage and approaches me, telling me; "Jack, we have no juice". I run to the single plug socket and push the extension lead back in. Sound explodes. Fists soon follow. Sotos threatens somebody. Beer soaked audience members engage in ultimately timid mock confrontations. Suddenly something potentially dangerous erupts as two audience members begin to fight, most of the audience jump back. Sotos is grinning. William sprayed with beer. Best laughing. Somebody panicking steps onto the power cable. pulls it out.

I try to push it back in, but a girl is standing on it. I gesture. She won't move. I push her off. The power surges and suddenly I recognise A Cunt Like You. Power. Glee. "You fucking cunt". The tensions of the day erupting into the vocal screams. But this isn't catharsis. This is pure celebration. The cable is yanked out again as somebody else leaps back from the periodic maelstrom at the front of the very low stage. It crackles when I push it back in.

The momentary silence is ignored, sucked into the swirling vortex, the audience are too charged on power, adrenalin, fear, excitement, and thrill. Suddenly it's over. Twenty minutes. It was enough. It's never enough. Raw fucking power."

(Jack Sargeant)


live action 88


stellwerk - berlin, germany

william bennett, peter sotos, philip best

tit pulp, thank your lucky stars, told, dedicated to peter kurten, rock and roll, worthless, my cock's on fire, just like a cunt (new extended version)

notes: audience 320 / support group rectal surgery, mmvp / live action videoed / the fact that the sound 'engineers' in charge of an 8000 watt PA were sacked afterwards for their incredible incompetence was scant compensation for the big crowd who had travelled to this ill-fated live action - this was apparently the third time this scenario had occurred and mirko, one of the main organisers, had failed to act in getting rid of these disgusting hippie chums of his by the time of the whitehouse concert - we trust future acts and audiences will be less forgiving / william bennett, who was scheduled to DJ after the show, refused to work with the people responsible for the original debacle


live action 89


roxy - ulm, germany

william bennett, peter sotos, philip best

tit pulp, princess disease, thank your lucky stars, rock and roll, cruise (force the truth), dedicated to peter kurten, public, a cunt like you

notes: audience 140 / no support group / local radio interview conducted / no recording made

live action 90


prague, czech republic

william bennett, peter sotos, philip best

tit pulp, princess disease, thank your lucky stars, rock and roll, cruise (force the truth), dedicated to peter kurten, public, a cunt like you

"So...last night, dark dank basement, on me own (one lad said he didn't like the sound of a hardcore band with "white" in their name, another x-punk was too tired after a hard day's work). Support band, two blokes in black, one with his head painted metallic grey. Noise. Fucking loud noise. Slight variation, got a glimpse of what people were paying for. Break. Three blokes come on. Fat balding bastard starts screaming abuse at us. About fifteen Concordes take off somewhere very nearby and then crash. Simon Le Bon's EXTREMELY evil brother spits beer and venom. Bloke the size of a tree, (and this has just occurred to me) looking a lot like the big mute bearded fucker in Superman 2, wades into the tiny crowd carrying a bottle and tries to start a riot. I was FUCKING SCARED. Stood in the middle and took it though. Did it for you lad. Actually, I'm really glad I went because it was like nothing I've ever seen. I only had enough for one beer and I went straight from work, otherwise I would've been a bit less like a rabbit in headlights. I don't think they were very pleased with the audience, not many people moved. Anyway, if you come here I know where to take you. Yes, there were a few birds there. No, it wasn't a very big place but it was full. As regards the audience, I was stood next to a terminally obsequious English music journalist who looked and sounded like he'd just oozed out of Eton. Thought better of engaging the cunt in conversation but he certainly seemed to know a lot about whatever the fuck kind of music that was, in fact he was telling some Czech meat-head that he was close personal friends with everyone involved. Rimmer. Yes, I'm still glad I went - nothing will ever scare me again (unless it's imminent civil war in my immediate vicinity...)."

notes: audience 110 / support groups v.o.i.d., rectal surgery, genetic transmission / live action videoed / the schedule was changed whereby whitehouse performed second on the bill owing to a threatened visit by the much-feared czech police kommandos (specialists in combatting terrorism and riot situations)

live action 91


das rind - rüsselsheim, germany

william bennett, peter sotos, philip best

tit pulp, princess disease, thank your lucky stars, rock and roll, cruise (force the truth), dedicated to peter kurten, public, a cunt like you

notes: audience 200 / support group / live action videoed

live action 92


ak47 - düsseldorf, germany

william bennett, peter sotos, philip best

tit pulp, princess disease, thank your lucky stars, rock and roll, cruise (force the truth), dedicated to peter kurten, a cunt like you

notes: audience 110 / support groups rectal surgery, mmvp / william bennett DJed after the concert for a couple of hours / two guys with pants around their ankles make out near the front of the stage during performance

live action 93


hinoeuma - london, uk

william bennett, peter sotos, philip best

tit pulp, princess disease, thank your lucky stars, rock and roll, dedicated to peter kurten, cruise (force the truth), movement 2000, public, a cunt like you

notes: audience 285 / support groups anenzephalia, con-dom / live action videoed / full reactions and reviews

live action 94


termite club - leeds, uk

william bennett, peter sotos, philip best

tit pulp, princess disease, thank your lucky stars, rock and roll, dedicated to peter kurten, cruise (force the truth), movement 2000, public, a cunt like you

notes: audience 100 / support groups anenzephalia / full reactions and reviews

live action 95


batofar - paris, france

william bennett, peter sotos, philip best

tit pulp, wriggle like a fucking eel, thank your lucky stars, rock and roll, dedicated to peter kurten, movement 2000, bird seed, cruise (force the truth), a cunt like you, princess disease

notes: audience 200 / support fred nipi / review

live action 96


slimelight - london, uk

william bennett, philip best

tit pulp, wriggle like a fucking eel, cruise (force the truth), philosophy, bird seed, a cunt like you, princess disease, movement 2000

notes: audience 300 / also dj russell haswell, djs surgeon + regis

live action 97


bilborock - bilbao, spain

william bennett, philip best

tit pulp, wriggle like a fucking eel, cruise (force the truth), rock and roll, philosophy, bird seed, a cunt like you, princess disease, movement 2000

notes: audience 200 / support nad spiro, cat hope, sonar

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