The Horseshoe is a pub about a hundred metres along the road from me and is about as traditional as it gets. With an interior that refuses to let go of the Seventies, the walls are covered with paintings often found plaguing car-boot sales, decorative plates and basically anything which can be stuck to a wall.At best you can expect to see about a dozen people in there at any one time yet when I walked in to watch Bath four-piece The Bohemian Embassy I was greeted by at least 30 youths drunk on cheap vodka and lager. However, they weren't there solely to see the gig. They were from the local private school; the boys were getting drunk trying to forget the promises they made with their form-masters whilst the girls were dangerously drunk, dangerously blonde and dangerously young.
Eventually we were all let through into the pub's long, thin skittle alley where everyone was scratching their heads realising that this wasn't thought through. Because of the narrowness of the room people were finding it hard to get a glimpse of the band at the far end. 'It's my local,' I thought, 'to the front I go!'
As for the band themselves they proved good entertainment for the evening. With the singer/rhythm guitarist and lead guitarist looking like rejects from an indie Rocky Horror Show, the drummer as ostentatious as Keith Moon and, um, a bass player, their sound is of the punchy indie sort which doesn't seem to understand the concept of slowing down or pausing to think about trivial everyday things. Every chorus seemed to sweep you up in it's fiery wake before letting you tumble to the ground until the chorus mercilessly came back round again...
As the band exited through a fire escape into the raging night, everyone vacated the alley and returned into the heaving, pulsating bar. Managing to catch the landlord's eye the drinking began. Well, you have to support your local, don't you?
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