CrudCast #3

Just went out tonight, and what a mad mix it was. Streaming quality is still ropey as hell — sounds like you’re listening through a wet sock at 24k — but that’s the state of the net in 2001. Doesn’t matter though, because the content carried it, well almost...

We kicked things off with The BT Call, still the funniest phone rage ever captured: some poor chimp at BT phoning an angry Geordie who threatens to wring his “scrawny fucking neck.” Proper gold.

Then it was into the music:

• FLINCH – “Lucky”
  Wrexham lads, smartly dressed, semi-metal with a melodic crunch. “Lucky” is their best tune so far — tight, heavy, catchy.

• CARPET – “One Two Fuck You” (Live)
  Straight out of Rhyl, recorded at The Breeding Ground. Rough, loud, and couldn’t care less. Pure live chaos, bottled.

• HYFRYD
  From the warped head of Johnny R-Bennig, all the way from Gwalchmai. Twisted, surreal, and sounds like it was beamed in from another planet, as was Johnny.

• SKINFLICK – “Two Ton Loser”
  Bangor’s mutant industrial punk crew, always up to strange nocturnal antics. They don’t play by anyone’s rules, and this track proves it.

• HOBO – “Trencherman”
  Ended on something special. “Trencherman” is just wonderful — deep, sprawling, and sticks in your head long after.

So yeah, that was the show. Rough stream, local bands, weird humour, angry Geordies,

[AUDIO LONG SINCE REMOVED - NOTHING LASTS FOREVER - YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT BY NOW]

Legacies

Today was Nain Betws’ funeral — a solemn moment for Kev’s family, and one more in what’s become a sad pattern these past four years: the only time they all seem to gather anymore is to either marry or bury someone. A clan of professional mourners almost, not by choice but by frequency. It’s tragic how often grief brings people together when everyday life never quite manages to.

I didn’t go to the funeral. Declan's child-minder is on holiday, which meant there was no one to look after him, so the boy and I stayed put. Later, we’ll take a walk up to Knees Up Mother Brown in Betws-yn-Rhos — not to drown anything in drink, but maybe to reflect, remember, and let life carry on in its own messy, unpredictable way.

I’ve always found funerals to be strange rituals. Are they meant to help us mourn someone’s passing, or celebrate the life they led? And once you're gone, what’s left of you, really? A fleeting thought, maybe — a moment someone has when they pass by your old house, or a name that lingers in a half-remembered anecdote. Is that your legacy? Shouldn’t it be something that lives longer and louder?

I sometimes wonder if even someone like Hitler obsessed over that same question — the desire not to be forgotten, regardless of the cost.

I know some people who actually scan the obituaries looking for a funeral to attend — to offer support, maybe, or just to break the routine. Me? I’d rather mourn in my own way, in my own space, without the religious pageantry or platitudes. Let me reflect on someone’s life in silence, or through stories, not hymns. I saw it with Malcolm — the church service wasn’t for him, but done to keep his mum happy. It was a strange compromise: grief dressed up in someone else’s rules.

It makes me think — when I go, how should I say goodbye? Should I plan it in advance? Make it something unorthodox and wild just to throw a wrench in the system? Or should I just leave it up to whoever’s left behind to sort it all out?

But if I do that, there’s a real risk that some vicar will step in to exploit my death — to milk the moment for comfort and control, turning my absence into a platform for their own beliefs.

Maybe I’ll sidestep it entirely. Maybe I’ll just donate my body to science — let a group of medical students have a good laugh flicking my eyeballs across the lecture theatre or playing rugby with my brain. That’d be a send-off no priest could hijack.

The Breeding Ground

The Breeding Ground. Go on, say it again slowly. The Breeding Ground. A name that suggests either an arts venue or a documentary about bacteria.

Rhyl having an “alternative venue” isn’t exactly a revolutionary concept. We’ve had the Anti-Disco, The Gallery, Trotters, Def Con 1, The Stand… a proud lineage of brave little ideas repeatedly marching into the same brick wall. That wall is a double-edged sword. One edge is blunt and labelled Apathy. Everyone moans endlessly about the lack of alternatives to nightclub culture, yet when something actually appears, they vanish like vampires at sunrise. The other edge is equally blunt and largely made of… well, shit. Rhyl has always had a handful of people who insist on fouling the soup and then loudly complaining when it tastes funny. Thankfully, they remain a minority, albeit a noisy one.

In North Wales, everyone either plays in a band or has at least stood next to someone who once owned a guitar. Of those bands, about 10% are genuinely special, 60% are very good, and the rest are… on a journey. That’s not an insult — just a public service announcement.

Babakin sit comfortably in the “very good” category. Quick to turn the Foot & Mouth crisis into stage décor, they arrived in white culling suits with a big prohibition sign — just one inflatable sheep short of a full agricultural tragedy. I first saw them six years ago supporting Sons of Selina on a farm near Abergele, which in hindsight feels like method acting. They remain a power-pop band with a relaxed confidence and a bassist worth the entrance fee alone. Rhyl might be a lively sea of music, but Colwyn Bay has long resembled a stagnant pond dominated by heavy rock covers. Perhaps Babakin and Wild Mornings might finally give it a stir.

People join bands for many reasons. Yes, we all dream of adoring fans and leaving £1000 tips in restaurants, but most of us accept we’re far more likely to leave exact change at the bar. So it becomes about entertainment — for the audience and for the band. When TBG rejects a band for not being good enough, the correct response is not to form on Saturday, record a demo midweek, and expect a headline slot by Friday. Only terrible Welsh-language bands manage that and end up on S4C within a week — and even they get found out eventually. The real route involves graft: schools, pubs, colleges, youth clubs. The clapometer rarely lies.

Speaking of which, Bradford’s Goad would have registered somewhere below zero. Polite Easter applause quickly faded into disinterest. Maybe The Cardinals were right and North Wales is two years behind the times. Or maybe the “new indie” from big cities sounds suspiciously like dodgy Hazel O’Connor B-sides with complicated drum timings. Interest had died almost completely when Goad began their last song — which their singer abruptly stopped mid-verse, confiscated the guitarist’s instrument, and marched off. A bold artistic statement, if the statement was “we’re done here.”

The Bistro, for all its nostalgia and charm, showed what happens when good intentions meet the need to sell drinks: weekly gigs eventually turned an “alternative” venue into a pub-rock conveyor belt. Some brilliant nights happened there, but less really would have been more. Personally, I’d space TBG to every three weeks out of season and keep it fresh. So far, so good — the sell-by date remains comfortably distant, and booking bigger names like Spear of Destiny is a definite feather in the cap. Now the challenge is variety; you can only recycle the same bands so many times before the flavour fades.

So if you’re slagging off TBG right now, congratulations on having a mind both narrow and impressively small. You’re criticising people who are actually trying to create something — entertainment, community, a reason to leave the house. Of course, you could always return to the glory days of the occasional gig upstairs at the New Inn, if that’s more your speed.