FUZZBOX
Camden Palace, London
In our Rogues Gallery of repulsive little girls, Fuzzbox must stand jointly at number three and, before all you salivating scumbags start bellowing with horror and scribbling us badly-spelt hate-mail, try for once not to think with your balls. What are Fuzzbox now that we've all got over the shock of seeing 11-year-olds in fishnet stockings, yak-yak-yakking like demented peacocks? What are they now we've realized that unsophisticates can be as boring as sophisticates? What are they now we're not surprised? Quite simply a Paedophile Fantasy For Mission Fans, capable of injecting colour, energy and sex only into the dullest and most repressed of lives.
It is for that reason the Camden Palace, a national meeting-place for the dull and repressed, was an ideal venue for the Fuzzy-Wuzzies (cute that, isn't it?). Full to its capacity with barechested grey-meat rockabillies, barebacked bloodclot dogwomen, chinless wonders with leather trousers and voices pitched somewhere between castration and lobotomy and Fuzzbox, its effect was to make one feel like Royalty on a walkabout through Lourdes. Pity, disgust and a natural superiority were stamped on every intelligent face.
"You can play with my drumkit if I can play with your violin." "You can play with my bass if I can play with your guitar." "And what would you like to play with, Audience?" "Ourselves!" What a jolly jape! What a load of bollocks!
What was once endearing about Fuzzbox was that a Fuzzbox should exist at all. What's weird is that, now that they do, they're as staid and stale as Genesis. But Fuzzbox, like all children, are naturally insensitive to a subtle shift in mood. Like all children, they will persist in discussing the colour of a passing tractor long after one's own interest has waned.
THE STUD BROTHERS
