Surprises happen. Yesterday evening, with almost no promotion, Flogging Molly played their set in Prague. I fought with certain suspicion as the gig hadn’t been mentioned at the band’s official website and the venue – a small club in the middle of nowhere – seemed a doubtful location at best. Yet I obtained the trustworthy-enough-looking ticket and only spent some time pondering the mysterious guidelines at the back:
The neighbourhood where the gig was supposed to take place wasn’t much less mysterious. Strahov Stadium in Prague, by some sources referred to as the biggest stadium in the world, was once the site of huge mass-gymnastics events, but for the past decade or so, the monster with the capacity of 250,000 has been dying a slow, but probably inevitable death. Giant dark pillars soaring to the sky, trash, overwhelming air of desolation. The only inhabited structures in its vicinity are a few blocks with dormitories for university students – however, inhabited only throughout the school year. In summer, the whole place turns into a strange black hole with no living souls in sight. But one of the student hostel’s blocks is home to 007 Club. And that’s where FM were expected to play.
The way the gig was kept almost secret from public made me wonder whether its existence wasn’t one big secret even for the band itself. But a small crowd of punks and guys in FM t-shirts messing around the door of the club assured me that I wasn’t the only one who came to at least try. And also helped me to locate the entrance to the club – shabby door, seemingly leading to a cellar of one of the prefab blocks, with absolutely no sign or whatsoever. Door which was still closed, so that people were left to stand and sit on the expanse of concrete and spare patches of wilted grass, in the merciless rays of the sun, which lashed the days temperature to 35ºC. Drinking, chatting, watching a charming pair of dogs – one dark and huge, the other one tiny and white – at their little game of war. As the beginning of the gig drew near, the crowd thickened a bit – but still didn’t seem enough to fill the club’s alleged capacity of 180 people. The strangely low price of the tickets (less than 8 dollars – price suitable for a the gig of a local folkie playing in a civic centre, but hardly for a foreign band of some fame) only deepened suspicion, but the disharmonic sounds spilling from inside the club gave hope that some performance would take place.
Shortly after 8 pm, the time when the gig was supposed to start, the organizers let people (and the dogs) in. Walk down a dim narrow stairway, emerging in a small stuffy room with low ceiling (probably a former cellar indeed), bar on one side, small stage in the front, couple tables in the back and three or four slightly raised platforms in front of them. People rushed to the bar for refreshments, occupied the tables, sat on the platforms; the standing area in front of the stage remained strikingly empty. The minutes dragged on. The room with hardly any ventilation or air-condition turned more and more stuffy and hot, new and new clouds of smoke filling the air. A guy appeared on the stage, messing with the instruments, taping setlists to the floor. Then long period of nothing happening. By 9 pm, occassional impatient shouts were heard from the audience. Waiting for FM slowly started to resemble waiting for Shane. People finally moved right in front of the stage, creating something that could later turn into a moshpit. Probably there were those 180 by that time – the club finally looked full. At about 9:10 or 9:15, the first chords of
London Calling suddenly boomed from the loudspeakers. The song was played in its full length, stirring the audience to life. And then, finally, the long-awaited „heroes“ took the stage.
Starting with Pogues-reminiscent
Another Bag Of Bricks, they made the moshpit mosh and jump properly from the first ear-shattering chords. A propos sound – loud to the utmost, a few more decibels and ear drums might have burst. A bit of a pity that the traditional instruments – violin, accordion – were somehow drowned in the wall of noise, but at least the whistle was given the privilege to sound clearly and sharply over booming drums and electric guitars. The band plunged from one song into another, with almost no breaks, just a few sentences or jokes from Dave King, or rushing right to the next number without missing a beat. The energy and speed was incredible. In
The Lost Decade, Joe Strummer described The Pogues as playing „at 900 miles per hour“. FM were not a mile slower. Bottles of beer clinking in the audience, occassional showers of the good stuff raining down. People jumping and dancing with abandon, despite the stiffling heat and lack of air that turned the club into a sauna. The wet floor at the end of the gig might have been the result of not only spilled beverages, but also the litres of sweat pouring from the audience. But no inconvenience could spoil the fun. The band were playing with all the vigour, Dave singing his lungs out. (Or shouting – but who cares.) After the last encore,
Seven Deadly Sins, dedicated to Joe Strummer and Johnny Cash, the band disappeared backstage for good, and the fans rushed to the bar to give themselves first-aid with anything liquid.
It was over an hour and a half of joy, of non-stop rush of energy. Hats down to a band which – despite their international fame – don’t hesitate to perform in a tiny club for a handful of enthusiasts, and play at full blast!
Setlist, grabbed from the sound engineer:
Eagles may soar, but weasels don't get sucked into jet engines.
Thu Jul 20, 2006 9:33 am
I'm goign to seem them in 2 days time and I'd like to at least be familar with some of the songs. I have 3 or 4 of their albums but I'm not a big fan tbh, I reckon they sound like whiney American gobshites a lot of the time - but the craíc as they say, should be good.
