70. The Temperance Movement

The Forum

21 November 2014

I remember exactly how I first stumbled across The Temperance Movement, their debut album was playing over the shop speakers in Rough Trade East. Now, as anyone raised on the films and books of High Fidelity and Empire Records knows, there is one rule: never ask a record store clerk what’s playing. Not unless you’re ready for a withering glare that could melt steel and a reply so laced with disdain, you’ll have to leave the store out of sheer embarrassment.

But against all better judgment, I asked. And… nothing happened.  No sneering. No sighing. No “Oh, you don’t know?”, just a mild look of annoyance that I’d distracted him from whatever vital, work-adjacent task he was pretending to do on the shop computer. And then, against all odds, he was enthusiastic. He even helpfully shot out from behind the counter, grabbed me a copy of the album, and, without a hint of irony, declared, “You should buy this.” And, perhaps out of fear for what might happen if I didn’t, I did.

Fast forward a year, and I was on my way to see them live at one of my least favourite venues, The Forum in Kentish Town, dragging along a friend who was in town from Norwich. This was grooving, bluesy, classic rock magic. The kind of stuff that sounded like it had been forged in a smoky ‘70s studio between sessions with Free and Bad Company.

The crowd was loving it. Possibly too much. Because mid-set, I was propositioned by a very enthusiastic, slightly wobbly middle-aged punter who had, by the looks of it, been making excellent use of the bar. One too many margaritas in, she turned to me, locked eyes, and, grinding with the confidence of someone who had left shame behind decades ago, slurred, “Wanna dance, big boy?” I did not. I grabbed my friend and shuffled us to the other side of the venue before she could press the issue. From there, safely out of reach, we danced and jigged our hearts out to a band who sounded like they’d time-travelled just to show us how it was done.