After last weeks snow dump (see the ‘oh good, it’s snowing’ post, in which I moan about it) we’ve had nowt so much as a light talcing. The temperature however has plunged to a bollock-freezing minus 14. Which is fine if you live in an apartment with radiators in it, but I know one valiant individual that’s currently residing in a camper van who woke up the other morning to a hot-water bottle that had congealed overnight.
Despite the absence of the white stuff, town is still robustly keeping it’s end up by evoking Christmas spirit in numerous other ways. Ways you would expect from a picturesque Alpine settlement: twinkling lights on every lamp post. An outdoor ice-skating rink. Horse-drawn sleigh rides through town.
Led Zeppelin tribute bands.
I had the pleasure of watching Von Zepp the other night at Morzine’s Winter season opening shindig. The excitement kicked off early, when I decided to negotiate a short cut across an (unlit) frozen field. Me, in pixie boots, clutching a bike lamp, minus fourteen degrees, dodging the frozen dog poos.
Living the dream.
I have to say, Von Zepp were bloody brilliant. In fact, I would stick my neck out and name them the best gig Morzine has ever offered up. Which, alas, isn’t quite the accolade it could be, considering they are up against an ancient local bloke repeatedly playing ‘Y Viva Espana’ in next door’s garden on an accordion for THREE FUCKING HOURS last August, and a leather-faced French rocker in his mid-fifties performing Hawkwind covers at the Morzine annual Harley Davidson convention.
Incidentally, this latter spectacle is one of the more eccentric occurences in the local calendar (after the pig fete in July). Every June, town looks like a gigantic Meatloaf appreciation event. Stalls pop up selling tasseled waistcoats, belt buckles the size of hub caps bearing relief mouldings of Chief Sitting-Bull and leather-clad, hairy Dutch bikers (and their male partners) haggle over the price of vast, offensive wall-hangings of James Dean.
But anyway, back to the Zepp. Despite being able to smell the rock and roll from where I was standing at the bar (what is it with rockers and man-made fibres? Don’t they know you have to wash after every wear?) they were absolutely brilliant.
There were a few eighteen year-olds slouching about wearing stupid hats clutching pints of Stella looking a little confused but then Stairway to Heaven was played and all looks of constipation eased.
All the favourites got their airing, including the full 8 minutes 28 seconds of Kashmir which they totally pulled off without everyone using the opportunity to nip to the loo or go outside to reply to text messages. Rock and Roll showcased a ninety minute drum solo, courtesy of Airport micro-celebrity Jeremy Spake’s French twin. During which time the bassist (who resembled a Victorian magician) and lead guitarist (Goldie Hawn) walked to the bar, ordered a drink, chugged it and slouched back. How terribly rock and roll.
The lead singer (Jacques Black in tight denim and fright-wig) even had the R. Plant-screech down to a tee, but undermined his rocker status by swigging water throughout his performance. I had rather hoped to see him sucking at a bottle of Jack Daniels, or even better – Pernod.
At the end I wandered over and congratulated them. ‘Would England like us do you think, yes?’ asked Jeremy Spake from behind his drums as Goldie Hawn started winding up cables. I affirmed that they very much would. ‘It is our dream to play in England,’ he grinned.
Well, they’ve certainly got a much better chance than the bloody ‘Y Viva Espana’ accordion player.
