‘Twas brillig in a slithy Bangalore Friday evening it was that Adam & his Fish-Eyed Didgeridoos played to
a warehouseful of skanks & punks shooting up in the toilets and swigging their glycerol blokes in shirts carefully folding their napkins in the gentle, subtle candlelight whilst their well-cleavaged (but very expensive) girlfriends caught up on local gossip. Christ, what are these lads going to do?
Back story: Adam & the Fish-Potted Eyes are Chennai’s leading fun-for-the-family act (1,116 “likes” on Facebook!) and they do happy little nursery rhymes that everyone loves. They chalk up a favourable average height of around 5’9″, which is very manly of them, and more than you can say for most of our national treasures.
Adam & our French-Arsed Potty-mouths played for nearly two hours, and I am proud to report that the whole sodded affair was a lark, and that their electric guitars are far louder than the giggles of the socialite birds who attend things like Adam & their Incredible Exploding Eyeball shows. Popular conspiracies have it that it’s because Chennai is such a spectacular socio-cultural basket-case that cool-as-your-sister bands like this emerge from there. I’m less sure; I think they’re an act of god and Chennai has nothing to do with it, except that it’ll sit on their poor heads until they’re crushed.
But that’s for later. As for now: Adam: 1, Chennai: 0.
These four boys are among the best things the country has ever thrown up. Adam has two records worth of stuff floating about already, and there’s a third – judging by the gig, bigger & better – around the corner waiting to come into all our lives in its own groovy, clever, sharp, tuneful, intelligent, heartfelt and very fish-eyed way. They’re just getting easier and better on stage: catch them now, and you’ll tell your grandkids how you saw their favourite band before they got famous. Your Adam & the Firsthand Poo-yetis ticket is your pass to eternal cool. Go & do, and no regrets.
These cunts all around us will keep listening to their Metallica and swooning over their satay. Two things about that: 1) fuck them, and 2) go for it, boys, fucking go for it and don’t stop. Ram it into their heads what a good band ought to do. Flog your craft around the arse-end of this hopeless country; it’ll click, it’s bound to, it has to. It must, it really, absolutely must. It must if there is any justice in this world.