Of all the early 90s indie CDs I own (and believe me, it’s a lot…) Eat’s ‘Epicure’ is one of those I still play a lot. It’s on my iPod too and there’s not a track on it that ever gets skipped.

Sadly the follow-up album never materialised and as the horrible UK indie musical wasteland that was the mid/late 90s dawned, with all that Blur vs Oasis nonsense and little else, my musical interests began to wander as the old guard collapsed in on itself.

When Pop Will Eat Itself briefly reformed in 2005, I met a lot of people I hadn’t seen for a decade; kit-baggers from the Levs, Stuffies, Poppies, Neds and EMF. It signalled the start of a great renaissance in gig going thanks to a bunch of bands doing one off shows and reignited my passion for a lot of old favourites.

There have been some cracking gigs since, with ‘4 for Wiz‘ probably the highlight, but despite other great shows from The Wonder Stuff, EMF, Cud, Levellers and more, discovering Dolittle was probably the second best outcome of it all.

After Eat split, frontman Ange Dolittle dipped into a couple of musical projects (namely Weknowwhereyoulive and Big Yoga Muffin) that passed under most peoples’ radars, before (unbeknown to me) forming Dolittle.

And so I find myself in The Fighting cocks in Kingston for what has become an annual pilgrimage to deepest South London.

While a more central location would be preferable, we’re just happy to be here at all after last year’s show was snowed off. And in fairness, ‘the Cocks’ is a cracking little pub: nothing says ROCK like a leopard skin pool table and a sign announcing ‘Our house wine is Jagermeister’.

With the help of ‘Mr G’ (guitars), Rich (bass) and a drum machine, Ange has re-imagined a bunch of favourites from all three bands that works surprisingly well, despite their disparate beginnings. What you get beautifully represents the songs you once loved, but is very much a thing in its own right.

Because, a lot of the time, it’s all about the lyrics. It’s not that Ange particularly speaks to me - to be honest, most of the time i haven’t got a clue what he’s going on about (which might well be a good thing). But the lyrics run the gamut from comedy couplets to heart wrenching honesty in pretty much every track.

And, better still, the whole thing is delivered completely without pretension. This isn’t about reverence and detachment; the band are in the pub chatting all evening and enjoying themselves as you would in your local. this is about celebrating music from both sides of the venue, the stage and the floor.

In truth though, the same can be said of most of the indie bands of that era: Miles had been in the local pub pre-gig the night before at The Wonder Stuff, for example. There’s a mutual respect that I guess comes with time and, I guess, age.

Tonight, as usual, Dolittle are supreme. Self-deprecating, highly amusing, enthusiastic and musically on the money, it’s a great show (broken in half by the traditional fag break). And while old Eat favourites tend to swim to the top for me (‘Epicure’, ‘Shame’, ‘Bleed Me White’ and more), there are so many highlights.

Big Yoga Muffin’s ‘Tragedies of Life’ and ‘Me and Libby’ plus WKWYL’s ‘Confessions of a Thug’ are also highlights, but tonight, as always, ‘Don’t Wanna Go Out Like Presley’ is the track that really stays with me; passion and pathos in spades.

The night closes with a promise to do more gigs in 2012, and I hope to bring Dolittle back to Cambridge for a second show in the summer. But whether you want to catch up with these bands again live, or just to remember the good times, I’d highly recommend joining the fortunate few and checking them out (linked above).

What makes it all the more remarkable was how nice an evening it was despite half the audience being horrible hung over from The Wonder Stuff the night before (and for quite a few a couple of extra nights before that too). Not to mention the usual group of no-marks who decide to stand near the front, despite having no interest in the music, and talking loudly throughout. Nice to see Ange dedicate ‘It’s Not Much Fun Being Dumb’ to them though.

As an aside, Eat might well be the greatest word in indie. Seriously. Apart from, well, Eat, we’ve got Pop Will Eat Itself, Jimmy Eat World, Cymbals Eat Guitars, Eat Static… that’s a cracking gig right there. Eat Static on first, obviously, but the order beyond that? Tough one…

Thought I’d embed this too - made me giggle.

Back in November I blogged about going to see Pop Will Eat Itself with just one original member. A month on, I’m blogging about another great grebo success story, The Wonder Stuff, and once again the story is the same.

Well, the outcome is the same: I’m on the balcony at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire watching original frontman Miles Hunt lead a band still called The Wonder Stuff despite the fact he’s the only original. But the road to this situation is very different.

While the Poppies have stuttered along with various members coming and going since they split in ’96, the Stuffies have been beset with two tragedies that saw original members Rob ‘Bass Thing’ Jones and drummer Martin Gilks sadly pass away. That just left Miles and guitarist Malcolm Treece (if you don’t count Martin ‘Fiddly’ Bell, who came on board in ’89 and parted company again in 2000).

The past few years have seen Miles and Malc making hay with anniversary tours or the band’s first two albums, ‘Eight Legged Groove Machine’ and ‘Hup’. But just weeks before third album ‘Never Loved Elvis’ rolled into town, the latest Miles and Malc bust-up put the shows in danger.

Luckily for Miles, and us, former Jesus Jones guitarist Jerry De Borg stepped into the breach to join the current line up of former Pop Will Eat Itself drummer Fuzz Townshend (they’re an incestuous lot, these Midlanders), long time Stuffs bassist Mark McCarthy and violinist Erica Nockalls and make it happen.

And yes, I was on the balcony. What can I say - Shepherd’s Bush Empire lets too many people in downstairs and I’ve seen The Wonder Stuff enough times to know it’s always rubbish up the front, so no biggy. As always I was right about the former - but tonight, no so the latter. Cracking view though.

The gig was fantastic. Miles has got his hair back, the crowd was right up for it and despite housing my least favourite single from the classic albums (‘Size of a Cow’) it was great to hear the likes of ‘Mission Drive’, ‘Inertia’, ‘Here Comes Everyone’ and ’38 Line Poem’.

The encore was awesome too - classic after classic played to a crowd that absolutely lapped it up. Oddly they’d had trouble shifting tickets, but you wouldn’t have known it from the reception they got. By the time ‘Don’t Let Me Down, Gently’ hit near the end, it was a sea of dancing right back to the sound desk - something I haven’t seen for a while. I think Zoe (my better half) enjoyed watching the mosh pit from above almost as much as listening to the band.

At the after show there was, of course, many mutterings about what will happen next. Was this the end of The Wonder Stuff? If rumours are to be believed (and they came from reliable sources), making these shows happen meant Miles etc could keep going as ‘the band’ - which may not have been possible if they’d been forced to cancel the shows. But would they?

the general impression seemed to be yes, mainly because it’s Miles. Whatever you may think of Mr Hunt, from his arrogance to his somewhat uninspiring solo material to date, he clearly absolutely loves getting up there and fronting the Stuffies. And, better still, he’s great at it too.

Sure, when Miles is singing ‘It’s Yer Money’ and ‘Give, Give, Give Me More, More, More’ he probably means every word. The Wonder Stuff keeps him in red wine and stops him having to get a proper job, after all. And why not? He’s written some truly breathtaking pop songs over the years, so why shouldn’t they earn him a living?

But that’s where things start to get a little foggy. I’m certainly not the only one that thinks Miles’ creative juices pretty much ran dry after ‘Never Loved Elvis’, so how far can you take a band (no matter who’s in it) that is surviving almost exclusively off of three albums written 20 years ago? Pop Will Eat Itself proved this year that you can make a new album in the spirit of the old ones that is worth the CDs its printed on. But I really don’t get the feeling Miles and co can do the same (although I hope I’m wrong).

So where does that leave The Wonder Stuff? Some think they should just plough the festival treadmill, taking the pay packets where they can and not over-egging the pudding - just add a few Christmas shows and the odd anniversary. It’s certainly worked for Carter USM this year, but that said it won’t pay the bills for a five-piece.

The other options are new material (which hasn’t really been working) or constant touring, but where would that end up? Friends at the last few shows before the Never Loved Elvis tour spoke of lacklustre gigs in front of poor crowds. That just leaves the ‘where are they now?’ tours, stuck on a bill with Chesney Hawkes and doing ‘Dizzy’… While Miles way want to keep things going, I’m sure the man has his dignity.

Which would seem to just leave sticking at the Miles and Erica duo that keeps him gigging at smaller venues all year round, but that again hasn’t really captured the imagination beyond a small following.

Wherever Miles decided to take The Wonder Stuff, tonight at Shepherd’s Bush Empire showed that people will come and that it will be a great show if the enthusiasm is still there. I for one hope they take the festival/occasional show route, but either way I’ll be showing up when Miles rolls into town. It may just be my money he’s after but hey, that’s entertainment.

(EDIT: Erica spelling typo - oops!)

In the past, when trying to describe the joy of live football to someone who hasn’t been to a match (or at least a big game - you know, like Peterborough fans), I’ve used the analogy of a gig (because everyone I’ve spoken to has been to one of those - if not, I probably wouldn’t be talking to them).

At a gig, you’ve got a bunch of surging, chanting, raucous fans facing the band they love; let’s say, for example, Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine. It’s fun and exciting, but misses a certain edge - because they’re all on the same side. What if, on the other side of the stage, there was another band competing for the right to play - and their fans over the other side, supporting them? It’s that tension that makes live football so exciting on its day.

But this has nothing to do with anything. The only reason I bring it up is because, in terms of gigs, Carter fans are the Scotland, the Newcastle, the Liverpool, or whoever people are saying has the best fans this week. Going to a Carter gig is the closest you’re going to get to that football crowd atmosphere (although honourable mention to The Macc Lads of old and of course Half Man Half Biscuit).

I’m always up for a good sing-a-long. Well, I am if its at the top of my voice in a crowd of 5,000, drunk and happy on a Saturday night. And, as ever, neither Carter themselves or their ageing, tubby fan base disappoint.

I’ve long thought now that gig capacity should be decided on total mass, rather than a simple number of people the local fireman thinks can get out in a hurry if things go tits up. Seriously, if somewhere like the Shepherds Bush Empire went woosh with the likes of The Wonderstuff in town, we’d all be buggered - not so if it had been some foppish little teen band and their skinny, pubeless hangers on.

Not that I mind of course, except for the queues at the bar. There’s a really lovely atmosphere, lots of familiar faces and the buzz you get for a band that only plays once in a Harvey’s Bristol moon. And it’s at Brixton Academy, which never seems to crowded.

While we may not be much more grown up, we’re certainly older and a little wiser now - both band and fans know what’s expected and are happy in the knowledge it’s going to be a safe bet (it’s more honest too - they don’t pretend to split up after every show, only to pop up again the following year like The Cure).

Carter were in their pomp almost 20 years ago, but still we come in the knowledge that there will be no terrible comeback album, no new members, no reworking of old favourites - we’re going to get the hits on a DAT tape plus some jokes and some swearing and some singing - plus some flashy lights. Marvellous.

Not only that, but we were treated to The Frank and Walters and The Sultans of Ping. Thankfully too they were on best ‘blast from the past’ behaviour, dolling out the ‘hits’ with godly grace. ‘After All’, ‘Where’s Me Jumper’, ‘Happy Busman’, ‘Stupid Kid’ - the perfect way to warm up for more 90s nonsense.

Personal highlight was Sultans frontman Niall saying, “I’ve got a lot of love in my spleen that I want to share with you tonight.” That and the fact he didn’t strip down to his skinny little torso for a change. No ‘Turnip Fish’ though, sadly.

As for Carter, the only real change from the norm was the lack of Jon Fat Beast introducing them to the normal torrent of abuse (apparently he’d phoned in sick) - but everyone gave the abuse anyway, which was recorded for him to enjoy anon.

I won’t bore you with a list of songs they played; if you care you’ll know what they were and if not, well, why list a bunch of titles you’ve never heard of? They have got some good ones though, for the record: ‘Twenty Four Minutes From Tulse Hill’, ‘Midnight on the Murder Mile’, ‘Bloodsport for All’, ‘Prince in a Pauper’s Grave’.

And it’s on that last song I’ll leave you. Whatever you may think of Carter USM as a band, Jim Bob as a singer, the 90s as a musical decade, Marmite as a toast topping, it’s impossible to get away from the fact that ‘Prince in a Pauper’s Grave’ is a moment of genius.

Musically subtle, but also explosive; lyrically and emotionally perfect; momentously epic and eminently singalongable - it really does have everything. Then add massive blinding light show for added goose bumps. That’s entertainment.

Prince in a Pauper’s Grave

In a bar Johnny drinks
Johnny drinks Johnny Walker
till he runs up a bill he can’t pay
He’s drinking to the memory
of a prince in a pauper’s grave

And it’s go Johnny go
where the bruises don’t show
in the churchyard where the nervous get wrecked
And turn off your wireless
for two minutes silence
Cough up and pay your respects

And go to the park
where vicars and tarts
prey for their tormented souls
By the american graffiti
from Elephant and Castle
in Ford Capri Orange
Volkswagon yellow and gold

Johnny drinks Johnny drinks
Johnny drinks Johnny Walker
cockles his muscles alive alive ‘o
smashes his bottle of unholy water
and it’s go Johnny go, go, go

Back to the churchyard
where day out day in
those original sinners
are religiously praying
And where there was muck
there’s a brass band that’s playing
playing to the memory
of a prince in a pauper’s grave