The bar is four-deep with drunk – local hipsters, stoners, musicians, feminists, old-school punk enthusiasts and young, scrawny indie boys beam at each other in tipsy excitement.
The newly re-furbished Masque venue (the Barfly has hitched its arse mysteriously out of town, and taken with it its perma-stench of urine, sticky floors, over-priced flat cola and poor lighting – leaving The Masque to bring back affordable whiskey and nice décor. Hooray!) is so full of excitement that the floor is practically vibrating even before the first stomach-pounding belt of bass is unleashed.
Oh, and Ari-Up, you tease – galloping playfully between that netherworld between the stage and the wings prior to her ‘official’ entrance and producing the sort of adulating squeals from crazed audience members that I last heard at a PJ & Duncan gig when I was 13 (…what an absolutely horrific childhood flashback).
‘How about I put on a fashion show for you, Liverpool, before we begin? Huh?!’ she caterwauls jovially before unzipping her jacket cheekily and walking in the manner of a drunken storm-trooper on a catwalk.
She laughs uncontrollably, gripping her stomach with her hand, looking like the happiest woman of all eternity. And fuck me, is that energy contagious.
‘We’re gonna start with some classics from Cut…’ she hesitates for dramatic effect and applause, which she happily accepts before ‘and then some other shit off some other albums, and then…’ she grins, delighted by the forced bullshit mystique of the standard set-list process ‘some more Cut classics!’, the crowd goes batshit crazy, and with the support of her fellow band-members open with ‘Cut classic’ - ‘FM’.
One song in, and keyboardist Hollie scarpers offstage, never to return. ‘…she’s gone for a shit…’ Ari-Up declares, giggling (we later discover that Hollie is actually vomiting up backstage…which is a bit disappointing…), and thus begins the descent into audience-participating chaos which sees at least 12 eager audience members up on stage on and off throughout the gig to provide stupendously amateur guest vocals, keyboards, group chanting, percussion, screaming and some utterly delirious dancing.
It’s a bit reminiscent of those wedding parties where everyone gets a bit over-excited and before you know it your auntie-Pat’s on stage with the band-for-hire blasting out Gladys Knight songs - in a really good way.
Despite their initial panic over a lack of keyboardist, The Slits succeed admirably in keeping together a tight set thanks to Ari-Ups overwhelming charisma and a frankly amazing rhythm section. ‘Shoplifitng’ radiates so much vigour and power that it could be considered worthy for use as an alternative energy source, whereas ‘Earthbeat’ is atmospheric and stunning – replete with an onstage-chorus of audience members and bird-noises that Ari-Up encourages the entire audience to squawk down the microphone with.
Ari-Up’s consistently witty, physical and endearingly elated performance is more than worth the ticket price in itself. At times she orchestrates dance moves at the audience like a masterfully corrupt aerobics instructor - bouncing, wriggling and writhing along to her bands fantastically powerful reggae-punk stylings and demanding the audience to do the same. A knicker-flashing force of nature – she’s without boundaries or inhibitions and is eye-staggeringly sexy and utterly captivating.
A vibrant, venue-shaking finale comes in the form of ‘Typical Girls’ (what else?) – and the stage once again gets flooded with contributing hand-picked audience members who grab at the microphones and marvellously mess up the lyrics, sing out of tune and improvise a bizarre chant of an ending replete with shrill wailings and declarations of love.
Truly, truly one of the best live shows you could ever hope to see, and if you missed it, shame on you.
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