From the bottom of the ocean, to the Pink Room in YES, Squid oozed an indie punk funk to die for.
Before venturing upstairs to see the tentacled talent, I couldn’t help but grab a quick drink, debating on how to get the highest % drink at the cheapest price, which at YES is truly a game to play ( £4 for a single vodka lemonade, may as well have bloody done sober October.) To my left, I stumbed upon a woman ordering thrice the amount at thrice my age, and after a quick natter, turned out we were both heading the same gig. With many a bangle at the wrist and wrinkle at the cheek, she offered me to join her, and honestly if the bartender hadn’t taken as long, you would have bet I would have jumped in the pit with my new OAP BFF.
But, the word mesmerising doesn’t even come close when discussing the gig, and I’m not just talking about the person who wore a 30cm high squid hat that was truly loved by those behind them. From accidentally lobbed drumsticks to streams of conciousness about houseplants, the waves of euphoria didn’t stop flowing. Then they played Rodeo, a song that when it comes on a playlist I usually skip. I shuddered at how the atmosphere of screaming houseplants and chucking pints, faded into a sea of swaying. But fuck me, after seeing that live, I am a changed woman. Spread across the hour set, the fragmented cowboy homage, turned the Pink Room into a Wild Western. Bucking brass broncos kicking you through the speakers and screaming wonder Ollie proved he could herd any crowd . Even now, I get goosebumps just hearing the lyrics “Six seconds to the Ro-dee-o.”
And just like the YES stamp, which found its way swiftly imprinted on my cheek after a nice boozy snooze, the memory of Squid still lingers.