“We’re like a tropicana Doors,” young Ali enthused as he was trying to persuade me to book his Bristol band for a gig at De Koffie Pot. I was immediately sold, my mind tripping off on what might have happened to Jim Morrison if in fact he hadn’t died but had made a crafty escape to Brazil and ended up in Manaus or perhaps on Copacabana Beach. The women, the feathers, the ayahuasca. Those leather trousers would be pretty rank in that climate though.
Having booked The Iguanas I wondered whether they would live up to the promise of the description and then worried how we could cram seven musicians into the space. The truth was that I needn’t have worried, sure there was a touch of Doors-type keyboards and a hint of Latin that made The Iguanas sound a bit like The Doors on holiday, but actually their sound was more Afrobeat and stompingly good fun.
The night they played was a warm-up for a slot at Glastonbury and the art students were out in force having finished for the summer. It turned out to be a steaming night of fevered dancing, so good that I had hoped to have them play again for my January birthday party. Unfortunately, their singer quit and so they cancelled.
The Iguanas are dead! Long live the Iguanas!! Here’s waiting for their next incarnation.