June 5th, 2007
I remember the 5K review perfectly: the cover art, a jumble of monochrome and deep crimson with a figure turned away as if some bad shit has just gone down, seemed so appealing, even before the accompanying words were ingested. The bed was a mess, the grey skies full of violence and fire. I had to have this. And I did. Over and over.
Mono was 2001’s greatest rock and roll album, from a band who teetered on self-destruction in the most beautiful way imaginable; their shows – all limbs and teeth, spit and confrontation – weren’t always memorable for the right reasons, but they were memorable nonetheless. Once, in Manchester, I wondered why I’d bothered with them: the set was limp, the band disinterested. I may have heckled them in my drunken disappointment. I did so, of course, from the safety of the venue’s rear. I still recall Joe’s eyes, though, burning bright towards me – he didn’t need to say anything, I got the message.