The Mean Fiddler
2nd September 1988

Record Mirror
17 September 1988
by Henry Williams

KERRANG! Bald 'axeman' Bill Carter saws at his whining guitar, a Reggie Kray lookalike drummer bashes his cymbals, moody Motorhead-style riffs ricochet from the mountainous amps, and the apocalypse begins...

"Oi mate, gerrout my way, I cannae see the stage." A jackboot on my ankle, a bash in the back, and a posse of pissed-up Scots punks push to the front, sending drinks and girls flying... not that promising a start to an evening's entertainment, really.

Carter tears at his Telecaster like Vietnam veteran John Rambo, while a volley of feedback whiplashes from the moaning PA, then hammers round the dark building. It's ZZ Top meets Jimi Hendrix, meets the Sweet, meets your dentist. You can hear scarcely a word, you don't dare move, but after 10 minutes you start to fall in love with the pain.

Carter is a bad-assed metal-mutha. He scowls continuously at his adoring fans, and above the screaming guitars you can sometimes hear him insanely shout "Washing powder, washing powder". That's on the fast song 1, which isn't a lot different from the slow one, though not as terrifying, especially as that quiet bit where the bass throbs maliciously and Carter stares wild-eyed into eternity, before suddenly shrieking "PULL BACK THE TRIGGER".

If Carter's already gone mad, where else can he go? Well, perhaps to a guitar shop. He had three shiny Telecasters on show, but after each song he violently flung one down and picked up another.

Bill Carter may be mental, but there were at least 500 people here tonight who'd like to be in an asylum with him...

I was one.

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