Viv Albertine, by her own admission, hurls stuff at misbehaving audiences. Specifically, when the rage descends, any nearby full cup or glass is likely to be decanted over the object of her ire. She’s remembering an incident a few years back, at a gig she played in York, when she felt compelled to introduce some persistent talkers to the contents of their pint glasses. ‘There’s such a fine balance there, because you don’t want to sound like a schoolmarm. Johnny Rotten used to walk offstage if there was spitting. The Slits [the groundbreaking punk band for whom Albertine was the guitarist] couldn’t do that because we would have looked like Violet Elizabeth Bott: “We’re not going to play until you thtop thpitting”.’ She laughs, something she does a fair bit, and it’s important to note, because her words alone make her appear fairly terrifying, to men at least.
But back to York, and the talking men. ‘So I was toying with the idea that if I said something to these cunts, am I just gonna look like a schoolmarm? But in the end, I had to shut them up, and I tried to do that in a way that wasn’t schoolmarmish, that shocked them.’
In her new book To Throw Away Unopened, Albertine recalls that incident, and the silence of the audience as a middle-aged woman confronted boozy men who were ruining a show. I’m surprised they didn’t back her up with cheers, because God knows how much we all hate people who talk through performances. ‘Yes,’ she says, surprised the thought had never occurred to her. ‘Why the fuck didn’t they cheer?’ And then she thinks of a reason. ‘Maybe they believed me when I said, “I’ll take it outside with this fucking bottle, mate.”’
Albertine’s first book — Clothes, Clothes, Clothes.
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