I was standing in the Lomax late on Saturday night, sweaty and not wearing any trousers feeling very pleased with myself, despite having cocked up the beginning of the last song, just like I said I would. Next time I might try saying “I will now play this song perfectly” and see what happens. Probably end up setting myself on fire or falling out of a moving vehicle or tipping scalding hot soup into my lap or getting my head caught in a bear trap.
The sound was brilliant, all the bands were superb, the crowd were lovely and we wiggled our fingers, flapped our jaws and waved our arms in the correct ways to get the music to come out. We managed to assemble a top notch-bill again and they all put in great performances. Well done Faded Gold, So Sexual and Dass Unser and also to Frank and his excellent team at the Lomax. Kings and Queens all.
Despite starting the musical preparations at about half past three in the afternoon and spending a fair amount of time walking backwards and forwards through the St Patrick’s Day revellers whilst carrying our heavy pieces of equipment, by the time I got on stage I was feeling remarkably chipper. I got my second wind somewhere between the stroke of ten and plugging in my guitar. Of course, if you had drawn me aside and offered me a comfy chair, a cup of tea and a slice of cake then I don’t know what would have happened but it wouldn’t have been rock and it wouldn’t have been roll.
What could be counted as rock and roll was the amount of hairspray I had used to keep my wayward barnet in good order. Earlier that day I had decided to get another haircut but, breaking with tradition, I didn’t go in, slump in the chair and express in exasperated terms that all I wanted was for them to make me beautiful. This time I went to a place on Picton Road run by a nice chap called Ken. I said “take an inch off all of it” and he did just that. Who would have thought it could be that easy? Satisfied with the job he had done I decided that I would get the damn thing to obey me for once, so I subjugated it brutally.
Another thing that might qualify was the colour of nail varnish I decided to use. Not sure of the name, but it matched my tie, which is the colour of lip stick worn by women of ill repute in BBC 2 dramas from the 1980s. You know the sort of thing, the colour of lip stick on investment bankers’ shirt collars and on the rim of martini glasses. Dennis Potter would probably have approved.
Reading back over those two paragraphs makes me wonder whether I have any repressed issues that need addressing. I’m thinking no.
Hairspray and red might make you think I looked like Robert Smith. I did not look like Robert Smith. Saw him on the telly the day after the gig and came to the conclusion that his hair isn’t quite what it used to be. It was all grey and wispy and I’m sure it kept going in his mouth whilst he was singing. I’m not one to ever say to or about another person that they should get a hair cut, but Robert, darling, I know this guy who’ll take an inch off it all and it will look faaaabulous.
So after the gig, back upstairs, getting out of my suit, I found myself trouserless , sweaty and pleased. Not in the way you’re thinking, I was by myself. And not in that way either. For gawd’s sake. I’m a human being not a lump of meat.
A lump of meat with a cracking ass. I digress.
When I came back down all the new EPs were gone, most of the people were gone and we had to begin the process of lugging stuff back round the corner to Crash Studios. Whilst I was carrying my guitar amp’s speaker cabinet I got stuck behind too slow moving lesbians with matching Mohawks. They apologised when they noticed me huffing and puffing behind them, which was very nice. The same can’t be said for the pile of botoxed and silicone boobed harridans heaped on the corner by the Lisbon who were swaying backwards and forwards and shrieking and shrieking and shrieking and shrieking and shrieking and shrieking. They just stood there swaying, an immovable Wall of Crass. I would have ploughed through the middle of them, but they seemed to tessellate so perfectly there was no gap or crevice to be seen.
As it were..
So I went around, stepped in a puddle of something icky and lumpy and cursed St Patrick and all his little wizards. Later that night I drank a glass of Château Neuf Du Pap and praised Satan for inventing the custard doughnut.
I think that sums it up perfectly.