Green and pink Mohawks dance above the heads of the crowd as a sweaty, dirty guy jumps on stand-up bass and slaps out a thundering bass line. The PA quivers and the air is damp with condensation, part sweat and part booze. The Grit are playing at the Three Tuns, a cellar bar in Edinburgh.
People sit in groups around unfeasibly small tables, drinking, talking and shouting. The band hasn’t started yet but no one has realized that there has been a delay. A girl does a circuit around the room, bellowing insults to her friends on the way to the bar. The gig is busy, but not completely full.
An hour after the scheduled start, two boys begin to hassle the girl on the door. Soon the rough chugging noise of a badly tuned guitar silences them and they bounce excitedly towards the front. A girl joins them, and they remain at the front of the crowd for the entire gig, dancing and laughing.
Running Riot are first to perform. Although young, they play a fast and hard set, barely pausing to breathe between songs. While most of the crowd hangs back, the three at the front wave their fists in the air and jump up and down, their spiked up hair bobbing up and down.
The frontman of Running Riot growls the last note of their set and they quickly pack up their things. The girl at the front leaves her spot and saunters over to the band. She speaks a few words of congratulation. The members of the band nod their heads in acceptance and she leaves to order a drink.
The Grit start to set up and the crowd slowly begins to surge forward. The lead singer’s English accent burrs over the PA.
“All right? Good…”
The second guitarist finishes tuning up and with a nod the set begins. Dressed all in black, one with an impossibly high flat-top, another with a pink and black Mohawk, they fill the stage. After a few songs, the stand-up bass player spills out onto the dance floor. The air is moist and the girl at the front wipes sweat from under her eyes, smearing black makeup.
The crowd press forward onto the three people dancing, and the girl continues to dance with a full pint perfectly balanced in her hand. Only a few drops spill when a bondage-trouser clad boy smacks into her.
Again the crowd surges forward and those in front must press back against them to avoid crashing into the PA on the floor in front of the band. The bass player leaps onto his oversize bass and begins to strum the bass while standing on it. The girl at the front smudges the words ‘wash me’ onto the bass player’s dirty back with her finger.
The lead singer spews spittle and sweat into the air. The drummer, barely visible, crows to begin the last song. Most people join those at the front dancing, and their feet slip on the drink-sodden stone floor.
The sudden quiet is deafening, and almost sore. Friends shout to each other, not realizing their raised voices. The bartender calls last orders.
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