Hibby and the Eskimos (untrained)

Wickman, in between vaccances (holidays - keep up Gentlemen - detention for those that forget in the test next week) and Club Day (this year doubles synchronised swimming with a spectacular Busby Berkeley style finale) has a Saturday night free. Hibby and the Untrained Eskimos are playing at The Berrylands Hotel.

Mrs Wickman has a "thing" for Hibby following a Wick gig a while back so Wickman is immensely distrustful of Hibby in full gig mode. He has a magnetism that Wick men cannot understand. Like a dog whistle that is pitched so high that only Canis Canis can hear it, Hibby calls out to women-folk and inveigles them in a dirty way that is not right.

If, in fact, the mayor of Kingston were to require the removal of all females from the Kingston area he or she could save himself the cost of the Pied Piper of Hamelin and the distinctly unpleasant aftermath where the Kingston area would be devoid of colts after non payment of bills (what would happen to the Wick if the future futures of the club were piped away to a crack in the hills - or even in these less innocent days a hill of crack?) by simply employing Paul to sing for an evening.

A Chinese takeaway safely stowed and a misdirected taxi later, Wickman could not help but arrive at the Berrylands Hotel until the band's first set was all but over. Stopping to sample a drink or two Wickman was stuck behind a pillar and had to gaugue audience reaction by surreptitious scanning of toes a tapping, fingers a clicking and even ladies a moistening. There were otherwise heterosexual looking gentlemen who were openly capering and cavorting in time with the beat that the untrained Eskimos were very professionally laying down.

A break in proceedings allowed Wickmen all to find a safe berth within eyeline of the band and to sample the second set. Opening with I Predict A Riot (ill-judged - most of the audience were there to appreciate the music, not to kick off) the band showed their intent to get Berrylands' finest to shake bits that normally they would only shake in the privacy of the bedroom.

And they succeeded. Numbers from Elvises Costello and... well... Elvis (what was his surname???), the Monkees (Wickman is a Believer) and The Stones amongst many others struck the perfect chord and there were assembled a veritable feast of shout/singalong rock and roll classics that burned up the time and had even Wickman's club foot tapping and him bellowing along to feel good choruses.

But we only felt good because the untrained Eskimos played with some style and even aplomb. They might, until called to give of their best in instrumental highlights (supporting Hibby in a tour de force rendition of Delilah) and songs like La Bamba where the band were to the fore have been slightly more outgoing but then musicianship seems to be where they lay their hat.

For Wickman though the Hibby thing is a good thing. With Mrs W safely stowed away in parts of Provence where only the Frenchies feel truly comfortable, Wickman felt relaxed enough to enjoy the set without having to see Mrs W's eyes glaze over and her limbs tend inexorably towards the twist. If not watched those ladies could twist and twist and twist and suddenly be gone. One happy Mayor perhaps, but a generation of fathers forced to bring up children alone...