The natives are getting restless. Inger's late. Rumour has it that she can't find her favourite floppy stage hat. Truth is the kooky broad and her anonymous henchmen haven't even arrived yet and it's gone 10:30.
Latest rumour is that their taxi has got lost! Yeah, and YNGWIE MALMSTEEN makes avant garde, minimalist dance records.
Anyway THE NYMPHS finally stumble onto the stage near eleven. Inger's draped in a pink feather boa. Very cute. Very kitsch. Their music, by contrast, is a slow blur of turgid swamp rock, with Ms. Lorre's vocals coming over as a doom-laden wail. Not too surprising, considering the depressing mood of the album. But at least the album fitfully pulled you into its dark emotional swirl. Tonight it's just leaden and the sell-out crowd, already peeved at the long wait, are in no mood for this.
Still, Supersonic and the slow/fast cover of the ancient classic Hit the Road Jack starts simmering things up. Inger even apologizes for being late, something to do with menstruation...heh! Splayed out on the stage, she starts screeching like a wounded cat. The cat proceeds to perform fellatio on the mic stand. And, before you know it, they're gone. Twenty five minutes, eh!
"This is not the future of Rock n' Roll!" yells a disgruntled punter. Yeah, but maybe the present.