It was the year 2000 and I needed a shot of heavy metal to get me through a shitty time. I wanted to throw myself about in a mosh pit and forget my lack of money, dead end job and boring single life. I’d left Suffolk after breaking up with my girl to take a room in St. Albans lodging in a shared house, skint and repeatedly going for job interviews in London that I didn’t hear back from.
My buddy Doug suggested a night at The Underworld to drink our blues away and do some moshing. There was a band called Raging Speedhorn playing. How could that not be brilliant? Raging Speedhorn. What a name. They had to be good right?
Yes. They were very good indeed.
Doomy bass, squealing guitars, vocals through a distortion pedal, drums that fall like sturm und drang. This felt fucking good. Sweat rained from the venue roof. the pit convulsed. The band strafed the crowd with brutal noise. And I felt the best I had in ages. Few pints, snog a girl. Spill a kebab on my leather jacket and head for home. All problems solved. It was a simpler time.
‘2, 3, go, Urrrghhh!’ not the most inspiring lyrics out of context. But a ‘go to’ for me if ever I need cheering up.