An article stolen from NME, 24 August 1996. By James Oldham.
Birthdays, Christmases and holidays. Life might suck, but at least these three annual events break up the monotony of your year. And while the first two may only provide fleeting respite from the terminal drudgery that is your life, the last is a mindless, unrestrained joyfest that lasts for a whole two weeks.
That's right, 14 days where you don't have to get up at 6am and make your way to the piecrust factory. Fourteen days that you spend in John Bull's Authentic English Bar balancing a boiled egg on your head while consuming 174 pints of exotic lager. In short, 14 days that you spend on the coast of southern Spain cultivating skin cancer. Frankly, it doesn't get much better than that, which is presumably why everyone in the British Isles does it.
Everyone, that is, except Dubstar. You see, life for pop sophisticates like them might be quite glamorous and ultimately a bit of a laugh but, unfortunately, you get no free time to swan off to sweltering climes and make a complete arse of yourself. Well, not usually anyway. To do that you have to enjoy some spectacular good fortune. In short, you have to get invited to a GMTV beach party in Torremolinos in order to perform the dangerously-sweet new single to a crowd of appreciative British families who have no idea who you are. Still, it's a holiday, isn't it? Albeit one that only lasts 24 hours. But then if anyone can cram a fortnight's worth of Bacchanalian idiocy into one day, it's probably Dubstar. So, as we meet up with them in the antiseptic surroundings of Heathrow, we immediately notice that they're off to a spirited start.
In fact, they're participating in the full spectrum of pre-holiday activities. Yes! They're laughing at singer Sarah Blackwood's passport photo, largely because she's sporting a frizzy, brown perm apparently undertaken during her 'Madonna phase'. Yes! They've bought a selection of horrendous paperbacks to entertain them on their long journey; Sarah, in particular, becoming unnaturally excited by the possibility of some 'rude bits' in her Jackie Collins novel. And yes! They're all cowering with paper bags on their heads, as Steve Hillier (official inventor of all Dubstar tunes) regales them with a frightening series of tales combining pilot incompetence, complex quantum physics and inevitable death. Guitarist Chris Wilkie conjures up his most pallid expression, and suddenly we're ready to board.
Thankfully we arrive unscathed. Almost as soon as we touch down Sarah gets in the holiday mood. "Brilliant! We're in Spain!" she bellows across the airport lounge. "Right then, we've all got to cop off with people!" An idea which immediately begins to look shaky during our drive to the hotel. Torremolinos, you see, is populated entirely by people who look like Frank Zappa, and who seem to have photos of a large selection of fried foods taped to their bodies. Not exactly holiday romance material. Although, presumably, it's an obstacle which could be overcome after several pints of genuine Yorkshire ale and a greasy sausage sandwich. Still, it's probably nicer in the hotel. After all, what could go wrong there?
Slumped in the corner of the bar, the answer to that question is being brutally illustrated by tonight's cabaret performer, Jose. An inabilityto blink and a perpetually idiotic grin offer the first signs that his unique brand of keyboard-entertainment is potentially dangerous. The confirmation arrives when a series of middle-aged couples prove that choreography is dead, as they trundle across the dancefloor wiggling their hands in time to the previous song. Chris, for one, still doesn't look too happy.
"This reminds me of the last time I was here." he laments. "I came with my grandparents to a hotel just along from here. We used to go to the hotel bar, and I used to sit with my grandpa, and he'd say, 'That bloke on the keyboard's alright, isn't he?' God! It was boring. In fact, can we go somewhere else now? Please, let's go somewhere else."
The somewhere else in question inevitably turns out to be a seafront bar with a view of everything Torremolinos has to offer - namely sea, sand and sun-loungers. Such authentically Spanish surroundings prove more than enough to lift Dubstar's flagging holiday spirits. Indeed, such surroundings only serve to bring back happy memories.
"I've snogged on sun-loungers jusy like them," announces Sarah triumphantly. "not here obviously, I went to Majorca on a brilliant girlie holiday. For two weeks all I ate was chicken and chips washed down with Bacardi and Coke. I tell you, by the time I got home I was craving something green. And also I got a bit fed up of puking in the sea becasue I'd drunk too many San Miguels."
If that sounds a trifle tame, however, don't despair because Steve's been on a couple of holidays in his time, and he's been far more adventurous.
"Oh yeah, I went on a really good boys holiday in a place called Puerto Benos, just up the road from here. We were a gang of 16-year-old tearaways from Blexley on a campsite full of families."
The very thought elicits a chuckle.
"Anyway, one night we decided to play this drinking game, which everyone else was taaking quite soberly because they were with their families. What you had to do was, er, hang on..."
The very real prospect of this story slipping away suddenly becomes apparent. But, thank God, Steve remembers.
"Oh yes, I remember. Before you played the game you had to drink a pint of sangria, an dthen you had to get into this relay race. Knock back another half pint of sangria, run 100 metres to this broom and run around it ten times. After which you had to drink another pint of sangria and go back."
So were you sick, then?
"God, yeah," recalls Steve fondly. "F-ing everywhere. Blood-coloured sand, the lot."
Holidays are great, aren't they?
"Well at least you get drinks with umbrellas in them," points out Sarah. "And we all used to wear those... what do they call them? They have them in Jamaica nad you put them around your neck."
Steve: "Aren;t they Mexican bow-ties? Or garlands?"
Sarah: "That's right, garlands. Anyway, we just sat there in these garlands waving cocktail brollies in the air and having our picture taken. Now that was great."
"Let's get some more beers in, then," suggests Chris, now showing definite signs of recovery.
Four hours later, it is 7am. We are standing on some very hot sand, pondering on the notorious, vomit-inducing properties of alcohol. Unfortunately, being sick is not currently an option, because a rather officious GMTV steward is outlining the nature of Dubstar's early-morning mission. Halfway through this rather baffling explanation of the intricacies of live TV, we're accosted by a thin, bespectacled character in a tight-fitting green leotard. He seems to have taken offence to Paul (Dubstar's drummer) indulging in an early-morning cigarette. This man is fitness guru, Mr Motivator.
"Well yeah, but he's got very nice buttocks," reasons Sarah. "They're very big, but look, they're also very firm."
"We've met him before, you know," declares Chris. "The last time we were on GMTV, he was dancing just offstage while we were playing 'Stars'."
Steve: "That was brilliant, because it's the only time anyone's ever danced to 'Stars'. But after we played it, all Eamonn Holmes said was, 'Sorry guys, that was just a bit too slow and depressing for morning TV.'"
Something which Dubstar fully intend to remedy this morning by playing the, er, slow and depressing 'Elevator Song'. Still, as they stoop over their instrments and mime along, it does seem as though the small 'knot' of English folk gathered in front of the stage are enjoying themselves. Although conceivably that might be becasue they're finally getting their 'Hello Grimsby' banners on national TV rather than due to any innate fasciantion with Dubstar themselves. Anyway, it all passes off without incident, allowing the band to retreat to another seafront bar before they have their photos taken. There they finally have a few minutes to convey the joys ofmodern travel.
"I don;t like Spain," announces Chris. "It's too hot. I hate hot weather."
Steve: "Well, I just want to get back into the water now. Ireally like hot countries."
"I can;t do that because I've got earache," groans Sarah. "Anyway, the thing about beaches is that you get mucky feet, don't you? And the only thing worse than that is putting on a clean pair of socks and standing in a wet patch."
Chris: "Can we go home yet?"
So, on that note of unbridled elation, we leave them. Their uniformly glum expressions revealling that most unpalatable of truths: holidays are actually rubbish as well. Still, at least they only happen once a year. And frankly, lord knows why Dubstar are complaining, they got off lightly. Theirs only lasted for 24 hours.