THERE’S something intrinsically sad about tribute bands. All they really manage to do is provide a (usually) imperfect soundtrack for nostalgia.
And nostalgia, while it can be harmless, is often depressing ultimately.
Nevertheless, I cheerfully went off to see a band called Jeepster recently.
Yes, older readers will have guessed, they were an ersatz version of T Rex.

When I was at secondary school in the early 1970s I was mad on T Rex, who were led by the preening, mascara-wearing Marc Bolan.
Even back then, when I was aged 14 or so, I think I realised that the lyrics of such hits as “Ride A White Swan�, “Get It On (Bang a Gong)�, “Metal Guru� and indeed “Jeepster�, were lacking in meaning or substance and displayed a childish tendency to go for the easy rhyme.
They were rather like the offerings of today’s pathetic rap stars in that respect.
But the crap lyrics of T Rex didn’t matter at the time because the overall sound was good, I was young and daft, and lead singer Marc Bolan was excellent at all the pouting and posing. Besides, I had one very good reason for being a fan … my mum and dad hated them.
Mums and dads of that era could be so annoying, making bitchy remarks about your fave stars as you watched Top of the Pops.
They’d snort remarks such as: “Is that a man or a woman?�
Hardly any youngsters had TVs in their bedrooms in those days, so you just had to put up with ma and pa’s fatuous commentary while Marc and co were having their three minutes of glory, after being introduced by some ghastly middle-aged disc jockey called the Hairy Cornflake.
There was, however, the consolation of ogling at dancers Pan’s People as they gyrated in impossibly small bikinis.
That was the only sex education I ever received.
Anyway, I was not impressed by the live tribute band, Jeepster, as they performed recently in Birkenhead at a strange bar called Motel Montana (not its real name, but, hey, come on, figure it out).
Sadly, the illusion that this was 1973 all over again and I was young and carefree did not come about.
Especially when between songs “Marc Bolan� pleaded into his mike in a broad Yorkshire accent: “Can you ask ‘em out t’front if they’ve got a spare t’lead.�
The real Marc was too cool and too posh to do anything like that.
I stood motionless, arms folded, in the mosh pit, looking like a disgruntled Harry Cross from Brookside. Definitely not amused.
I went to the gig with a party of lively people I know from Hell’s Waiting Room, New Brighton, including Dr Gyggle, the psycho-therapist, Litherland Lou from across the water (a regular visitor to Madford-on-Sea these days) plus Duncan Kindlyface.
So the evening was far from being a wash-out, despite the dire quality of the live music.
Besides which, the Motel Montana’s bar specialises in a large range of fancy foreign lagers on draught.
Now, I am not one for strong lagers, but I consumed heavily of them that night, and I believe I paid the penalty in pain and toilet excesses the following day.
I don’t know. Maybe it was the variety of pilsners etc that I downed that caused my tummy upset.
Come to think I think I tried a couple of pints of that cloudy beer that’s made in Belgium.
It’s meant to be cloudy, I know, but I am a bitter drinker usually so I have a natural antipathy towards cloudy beer.
If that is what made me ill, I have no-one to blame but myself, because I distinctly remember ordering it.
I thought myself highly amused when I said to the young barman, in what I imaged to be a witty pun on the title of a famous Clint Eastwood film: “Pour misty for me.�
He understood me, but he didn’t look amused.
Anyway, I can’t be entirely sure it was the misty beer that made me ill. Earlier in the evening some of us had gone to a curry house known as The Saucerer’s Apprentice. I over-indulged there too.
* Gotta go now. Late knockings beckons at Hell’s Waiting Room. Another update soon, including what Mandy Mobiles did when she threw a wobbler with her boyfriend…

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