Kory Clarke, frontman of Warrior Soul, is the reason why there is an Uber Rock. Seriously. Let me explain......

Back in the early '90s I was a player on the (then) thriving fanzine scene. Not music fanzines, you must understand - gnarly, trashy, cult horror was my thing and spreading that thing about was my ultimate goal. I created a crazy 'zine with an old school friend of mine who I won't name because, like so many lost souls, he became a little embarrassed by his past - I just hate those people who give up.....

Still, at the time we had great fun with it. 'It' was called....wait for it....Mentally Penetrated By An Acid Enema and, yes, mental was a pretty suitable word for it. I remember a copy being returned by a comic shop who we had approached in regard to selling it with a note attached saying "Utter shite, even wankers would be offended" - we loved this so much we put the quote on our flyers. There was also the time when I went to a small business workshop looking for funding and marvelled at the looks on people's faces when I slapped a copy of my baby on the desk where examples of one's business were to be put on display. The cover featured a photograph of the...err...climatic scene of Jorg Buttgereit's Nekromantik where the main protagonist kills himself, unleashing a huge spunky torrent at the same time. Didn't get funding. We grew up slightly come the mid '90s and relaunched as Channel Zero but this new fangled internet thing was ultimately to slaughter the good ol' fashioned fanzine like The Bride slaughtered the Crazy 88.

....and that was me done. No more writing. I got asked to contribute to some things due to my idiotic notoriety but resisted every advance....apart from when I got offered free concert tickets if I reviewed gigs under a woman's name for a newspaper. Reviews of the likes of Slayer, Whitesnake, The Quireboys, Slipknot and..umm...Peter Cox and Tony Hadley followed and everything was good apart from when the editor refused to use a comment about "sacrificing virgins" and its replacement "sacrificing goats" compromise. I hate censorship...more later.....

Then, several years ago, my hetero-life-mate Johnny H started writing for a music website specialising in all things cock rock. He asked me to join him and, again, I turned down the offer. Around a year later I got asked again and reluctantly agreed to help out, quickly falling in love with it and wanting to pollute the world with my dirty written seed at every available opportunity. This love affair lasted for a few years and I turned in scores of reviews and interviews, managing to somehow harness my bleak sense of humour and colour it with bad puns and awful pop culture references.

Always curious as to just how many people were actually reading these monolithic literary creations, I started adding my reviews to the virtual brontosaurus now known as MySpace. Got quite a lot of attention actually, and loads of new 'friends' - they never seemed to send me birthday cards though....

....but this 'Gaz E' persona I had created as a cock rock piss take - it started out as a homage to Love/Hate's Jon E Love, given that my nickname was Gazzy - kinda stuck and, as talk of creating our own site started worming its way into conversations between me and JH, it seemed stupid to change the name when there was, seemingly, a ready made audience waiting to check out any new project that we decided to put out there. But we kept stalling, kept putting it off. We needed some kind of impetus, a kick start to get us motivated. Who would have thought that it would come in such bizarre fashion?

We'd get sent awful albums for review, much like the Uber Rock writers do now, but we were free to review whatever we wanted as long as it fitted into the style of the website. We submitted loads of gig reviews that we had bought tickets for ourselves and this looked set to continue when Warrior Soul frontman Kory Clarke announced a solo tour of the UK, with a curious show in a small Welsh town our favoured destination. A curious show that is the reason that you are reading this right now - let me explain.....

This gig was like no other I had ever witnessed. It was like a car crash, train wreck and medical experiment rolled into one. It took place on Easter Sunday and, by Christ, were the punters looking to crucify someone. The review I wrote the next day flowed quicker than imaginary, fairytale blood. Within a few days it was up on the site and the positive response to it warmed my very soul. Then it started. First, the support band were upset with me then, as I was travelling back from Birmingham a week after the debacle, I got a phonecall telling me that the review had been taken off the website because the venue had threatened the editor with legal action. I couldn't blame the poor girl who was now suffering simply because I had sent her an email containing several hundred words assembled in startling order, but I was seriously disgusted. My actual response at the time is reprinted here for your reading pleasure;

"Guess what? The review got pulled under threat of legal action! A venue gets a review pulled - can this world become any more fucking stupid? Art is not safe and this is my 'fuck you' to censorship - are you with me?"

The 'fuck you' was the fact that I slapped the review on MySpace and pimped it like crazy - more people read it than ever would have before. No such thing as bad publicity, remember.

I was seriously annoyed though. I have a tattoo inspired by Ray Bradbury's classic Fahrenheit 451 so, as you can imagine, being told what you can and can't read is particularly vile to me. I was used to having ejaculation photographs on the cover of my fanzine, and the pages within contained much worse, so to have something like this happen infuriated me. I told Johnny H that now was the time to launch our own site, created in our own image (well, mine - can you imagine a website that ugly?!), and we finally decided to do it. We went to see Cancer Bats in Cardiff Barfly and approached Darrel Sutton with our idea, asking him to be our resident noise expert. This pipe dream of a site was to cover all genres of rock, not be shackled with the highs and lows of one particular genre. Darrel accepted our offer and, excited as we all were, we settled on the name 'Metal Kuntz' - can't understand how that one didn't stick. I approached a handsome gentleman by the name of Dom Daley when the Misfits played Newport TJ's and asked him to get involved and we were away, an eight legged dream machine. JH came up with the worst idea for a name in history - I can't repeat it here, I just can't - that featured the term 'Heavy Metal' and I stressed that using that term might mean we missed out on bands from certain sub-genres. I said that we needed 'Rock' in the name and, suddenly, came up with Uber Rock. Yes, it was my idea. Like all the good ones. It stuck.

So, this majestic creation that lies flickering before you right now, slowly blinding you, was born of the Clarke, the Kory Clarke. But what could have happened on that fateful night? What could have happened at that solo gig to cause a building to rape a music website of its crown jewel? What caused support bands and promoters to turn on a humble boy with a dream of the ultimate website in his rock 'n roll heart?

Read on as Uber Rock reprints the original review in its entirety - right here, right now! The live photographs courtesy of Johnny H are from that very gig/debacle. The classic photograph at the bottom of the page was taken by Fraser Munro at his home post-gig/half a song. Intrigued? Read on for a little bit of history.......

"What's It Like To Be Famous?" - Kory Clarke and the Gig From Hell - 12^th April 2009

Do you ever get that jaded feeling about attending gigs? Y'know, you've seen every band that you've ever wanted to see. You've also seen them with just one bloated original member and a load of Kens in support. Sometimes it is hard to motivate yourself to get the talc out to squeeze into those leopard print undies and venture out into the rock 'n' roll world one more time........but then you decide to take a trip into Mystery City. The following tale is not so much one of a car crash, but a forty car pile-up on an icy autobahn.......

Kory Clarke, legendary frontman of Warrior Soul, announced a UK solo tour that reads like a kind of "Evening With...." affair - he's gonna sing, play drums, do spoken word and answer questions. Now, the last time that I saw Kory was at the Hard Rock Hell festival in December where Warrior Soul played the smallest venue, packed it out and blew everyone away. The chance to catch him in intimate venues doing his solo thing, including the spoken word which formed the firey beginnings of Warrior Soul back in New York in the 1980s, seems too good an opportunity to pass up. The nearest gig for us - myself and fellow legend Johnny H (no relation to the current WS guitarist of the same name!) - is in a small Welsh venue most certainly not on the, or any, circuit. Bizarre to say the least. Our eyebrows are raised mainly because we grew up in similar small town, small minded Wales and seeing the angst and anger of the Kory Clarke legend in a place like this leaves us, well, curious. Johnny posts his thoughts on the gig announcement on a messageboard that we regularly frequent and, on the day of the gig, receives an unhappy reply from the guy who booked the date into his venue - basically, he's unhappy that the venue is not being given a chance. Now, we'll always support the underdog so, with kudos to a promoter who is looking to put a grenade-shaped peg into a square hole, we head off......

We enter a nice little pub full of locals that obviously turn out to see live music. Not Kory Clarke, just whatever the venue is putting on. We find a comfortable leather seat, secure in the knowledge that any fears that we would be walking into the Slaughtered Lamb have been happily dampened. Myself, Johnny, our hard rockin' amigo Fraser Munro and at least one other quickly inebriated gentleman appear to be the only attendees with any kind of knowledge of the artist we are about to see perform. So we wait. And wait. And wait. The support band are all set up waiting to go on but there is no sign of Kory. Manic depressive Johnny is sure that he won't show, the potted plants and cheesy '80s musical soundtrack that we are met with - just had to raise the horns for the REO Speedwagon though - maybe add to his doubts. Suddenly, Kory appears and everyone knows that everything is gonna be ok..........

One of the guitarists from the support band helps Kory set up his laptop (which will provide the tracks to accompany Clarke's vocals and drums) and it seems that we are all set to unleash the rock 'n' roll fury.......at 10.20pm. The support take to the small, ten-inch high stage; they are called Forever Vendetta and are at least trying to play the right kinda stuff - sleazy, down and dirty and with an Aerosmith cover thrown in for good measure. Three of them look like they should be in a band together, including the drummer who is a dead ringer for Jet sticksman Chris Cester, and a supercool guitarist for whom this band will probably be the stepping stone to greater things. The vocal PA just doesn't seem up to scratch, a fact wonderfully described between songs by a cringe-inducing comment from a local drinker. They close to more than polite applause and you feel that they'll go away happy. Kory steps onstage, tunes the drums, tells everyone the kind of show that is planned for tonight and tries to sort out the sound - a sound that, it appears, cannot be sorted. The support act guitarist (not the cool one!) throws his hands in the air, says that he's not a soundman and leaves Clarke to it. Basically, the only amplified sound is coming from two crappy monitors that are positioned on the floor in front of the stage. In an act of aural desperation, Clarke turns the monitors towards the audience in the hope that they can at least hear something similar to what he has planned. He says he needs to have a drink before he does this but, on route, is told that in forty five minutes everything and everyone has to be out of the venue. He turns straight back around, sits behind the drums, puts on his headphones, kicks the laptop into gear.......and we're away.

'Trippin' On Ecstasy' - what a fucking song. Taken from the seminal Warrior Soul debut album 'Last Decade Dead Century', this is a great choice of opener. We get to hear barely half of it.

Clarke's drumming stutters as feral feedback threatens to break all the plant pots in the venue. He almost composes himself but, with the next batch of banshee wails knocking eardrums straight to A&E, the mic and stand have been bitch-slapped to the floor and he's stormed off stage saying that he can't do this without someone looking after the sound. And you have to feel sympathetic towards the guy - I felt embarrassed for him as he tried to salvage some kind of performance out of this shambles. Help doesn't arrive for him, however. Instead, the natives get restless. He tries to explain that he can't play music if there is no semblance of decent sound. He tries to placate the catcalls with spoken word - my gut feeling is that this is not the way into the hearts of the people of a generic South Wales town.

"This is called 'What's It Like To Be Famous' - I wrote it last night when I was coming down off speed" spits Kory Clarke in that way-cooler-than-you raspy New York drawl. But he stops after the first line because no-one can hear him over the inane fishwife banter at the bar. He asks if their conversation is more important than art and is met with a tsunami of abuse. He is told to fuck off back on the aeroplane. He is told to fuck off back across the pond. He is called a prick and his "hissy-fit" filmed for YouTube. His replies are quick-witted, full of his trademark anger and a friggin' joy to watch. I'm not sure if Johnny is getting any good photos to accompany this essential review so I try to take some with my iPhone, but I'm simply laughing too hard and they all come out looking like victim photographs from The Ring. Things are starting to get out of hand and Clarke, sensibly, tries to diffuse the situation. He's looking for friendly faces and, spotting the only guys in the place who seem to appreciate who he is, heads for us.

And, y'know, he is genuinely upset. His tour is one where his spoken word is an integral part of the performance. He can't understand why he has been attacked for attempting to give these people brand new Kory Clarke material that was written on only the previous night. Now, you have to appreciate that me, Johnny and Fraser have lived through this weak-minded Welsh mentality for decades. It has always been a major embarrassment to us all. It is not about a lack of national pride, it is about a nation dumbing itself down and laughing at how fucking dumb it is. Our doubts about tonight's venue have been highlighted in pathetic, yet utterly hilarious, fashion. Think Uncle Bryn hilarious. No, think 'All Over My Glasses', the classic episode of Rob Brydon's Human Remains show hilarious. Too obscure for you? Just watch Twin Town again.

The show is over.......but the nonsense isn't. Kory has travelled here alone. He has nowhere to stay and has not been paid. When I say that we are gonna leave, he looks me straight in the eye and says, "don't fucking leave me here" - so we don't. With the original Assault On Precinct 13 plotlines hanging heavy over my mullet, we hatch a plan to get the singer from Warrior Soul out of a venue full of people that might not be on his Xmas card list. Surreal? Bizarre? Johnny leaves to fetch the getaway car and Kory goes looking for his money. It just ain't gonna happen. An argument ensues and Kory reads his own blurb from the venue's poster - "what the fuck did you expect?" - which, in itself, is a sight to behold. He is offered what looks like twenty quid and told that he will be given it when he goes outside. Kory, in self preservation mode, thinks this is his offer of an ass-kicking but the doormen are seriously in good form and good humour and simply want him out of the venue so that this sorry night can be put to bed. We leave with Kory and jump into the studded leather confines of Johnny's car.

Johnny-boy's vehicles have carried Andy McCoy and Pete Way in the past, so they know what to expect. The first five minutes of the journey are a full-on Kory Clarke rant that we would have paid to see. The next half hour is pure laughter and kick-ass rock 'n' roll chat. Kory, seriously gutted at tonight's events, does come around and see the funny side of the night. We compare his performance to that of a classic Bill Hicks moment and laugh some more. We talk music, basically interview Kory and laugh at how annoyed he gets when Fraser comments on his friend Michael Monroe's crazy frog eyes. We stop about fifty yards from my house. Fraser is on equal terms with Glenn Benton as he pisses in the courtyard of the local chapel - and on Easter Sunday too! - and I say my goodbyes with the thoughts of an unforgettable night in my head. A night that has been fever-dream mental. Kory is gonna stay at Fraser's but, for me, the night is over. I walk away with a grin like the woman from Fright Night and all I can hear is Johnny H........."Priceless, fuckin' priceless."

by Gaz E.

Warrior Soul play The Steelhouse in Ebbw Vale on September 30^th - Join us there...but keep the car running.....