Part the Third - Tuesday night
Sep. 30th, 2005 01:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mad_andyThe idea had been to get ready, head into town, grab something to eat and stroll along to the venue. It was a good idea. It should have worked.
But the best plans rarely survive contact with the enemy, and so it proved for us.
We actually got ready pretty quick; all I had to do was get changed, freshen bits and pits and apply a bit of makeup. Not much, because I really can never be arsed but a bit of powder and black shit around the eyes works wonders for my fat little chipmunk cheeks and rotten skin. Also some weird oily stuff to de-frizz my hair, which worked all too bloody well and stuck to my hands like - well, oil.
Off we charged to the tube station, tarted up and looking great, and got a tube in good time. Even allowing for the change at Holborn we should have been there by seven...
It took nearly two hours to get to Liverpool street station, and we decided to grab a cab from there to the venue, a bar called The Spitz. K was going frantic; she’d gone on ahead. Apparently, out of the 300 people that were going to be there 200 were on the guest list, and people had begun to flood in from just after soundcheck. She was at the back, fretting and ringing Jaynie to panic at her.
Well, yeah... but what could we do? Stuck on a slow tube all we could do was wait for the blasted thing to get there, feel the slow creep of sweat along the temples, acrid electric smell of too many bodies jammed into too small a space, anxiety adding its metallic tang to the dusty whiffs of warm air that crept along the carriage. Wait, then wait some more, do a little more waiting and top it off with a wait.
I tried to stay positive.
“We’ll get there. It’s only a club, so we’ll be able to wriggle down to the front even if it’s full.”
“Do you have to be so bloody positive?”
“Sorry Sharon...”
It’s interesting. When the situation demands it I’m a world class worrier; I could worry for England, and win. But when surrounded by other people having A Bit Of A Moment I go all calm. The more antsy and anxious those around me are, the cooler I am; I reckon it’s because my dear husband has a tendency to explode, so one of us needs to keep their head or someone would get thumped. And then someone would get arrested and there would be a scuffle and things would get messy and the police would be called and--
Anyway. I was doing my glacial bit which, if nothing else, was amusing the others while Sharon tried to wind me up; looked like we were out of luck when it came to thinking about dinner. Damn, but I wonder how many meals I’ve missed rushing about to gigs? No matter. We got to the station, ran out the front door and looked for a cab.
Where was the venue?
I don’t know, what about you?
No.
Crap.
Was there a cab handy?
No.
Crap.
But being good Brits (one honorary), we queued in the line of other weary travellers and waited for a black cab. Now, before they get their licence black cab drivers have to take a test. This test is called ‘The Knowledge’, and involves said driver being asked how to get from one place to another - either can be anywhere in London - and having to tell the examiner what route they would take. Precisely.
From memory.
Now, this means that you can jump in a black cab, anywhere in London, and rest assured that the driver knows precisely where he - and more inportantly, you - are going.
“The Spitz, please.”
“Where’s that?”
Crap.
Crap.
OK. Time for a bit of lateral thinking. We’d been racking our brains to try and remember the name of the street the damn place was on, and about all we could come up with was that it was right by Spitalfields market. When I say we I might add that my contribution was to spread my hands and look bewildered - an expression long ago perfected - so it’s more of a royal we.
Anyway.
The driver nodded, said he thought he had a good idea and away we went. Now I was scrunched into the little jump seat behind the driver, which is so not designed for chunky vet nurses with big boots and even bigger arses, so I was awfully pleased when the girls spotted the venue and I could un-scrunch straight into a ginormous puddle. Bugger the puddle, we’d arrived! Somebody paid the nice driver, we all said thank you and trooped off - a fascinating aural pattern of clicks and stomps and shuffling noises on the pavement - into The Spitz.
Downstairs is a trendy Bistro. Gawd save me from fashionable eateries and we didn’t linger, but shot straight up the echoing stairwell in search of an increasingly frantic Kerstin; she’d become rather vexed with our failure to arrive on time, tube hassles notwithstanding, and you’d never have imagined that we were anticipating a bollocking from the speed we shot up those damn stairs. At least the stairwell didn’t stink of piss, even though it looked like it ought to. Although speaking of which--
A couple of our crew had to nip downstairs first to attend to a call of nature, and while the rest of us fidgeted in the stark hardness of the striplight - anticipating our bollocking with no pleasure - a door hit me in the shoulder, bounced and was accompanied by a cheerful voice which said “Hello girlfriend!”
Debbie! Ah, Debs... our local connection, West Ham fan and fellow stalker did arriveth in the same nick of time that we did. Mucho hugging and whoops of joy echoing up and down the lino clad stairwell, rattling the posters and probably waking up the rats in the walls. Fortified and feeling much more cheerful we ascended, fully expecting to jam ourselves on the back of a considerable crowd and have to porpoise through it to get to the front.
We found...
...nobody.
Except Kerstin, who (once we’d taken our bollocking) shepherded us to the front and explained what had happened. It must have looked damn peculiar; an empty club stage, hollow room, shadows hugging the walls, bored barman staring into space and seven well dressed women lining the front of said stage, leaning on the monitors and staring at a drumkit.
By all accounts the management had become irritated by the crowd, and slung everybody out; our intrepid friend had stayed behind - lord alone knows how, quite possibly by just being so stubborn they gave up - and when we arrived nobody had bothered trying to get back in. Result!
Of course, we had a good couple of hours to wait, but that was a mere pause considering how long we’ve stood for bands in the past; at least this was indoors, we could perch on the stage, get a drink, smoke, and catch up with each other’s lives while the DJ tried to deafen us early. At least he had good taste in music.
Should I describe the wait? Nah. If you’ve read the LepTrek diaries you’ll know what’s involved; suffice it to say that by the time the ‘support’ act came on (what the fuck is a Performance Poet anyway?) our feet were hurting all over again and damn, but we were hungry.
The crowd ignored the poets; we didn’t, but that was as much because we were so close it would have been rude not to listen to them. Plus they were a little bit shouty so you couldn’t hear yourself think anyway. They gave the eyes somewhere to rest, anyway.
I would have liked to have spoken to them afterwards, thinking about it now; but then, I’m glad I didn’t. Poets are often a little... pretentious.
Lights down, and the usual roar from the crowd. This, I have to say, is one of the moments in life that I live for. That surge of adrenaline, the moment everyone’s head goes up and the heart kicks just a tiny bit faster - the waiting is almost done! In just a moment - just a little more - is it - now!
Of course, unlike your average gig this was just three guys getting their stuff and clambering onto the stage, plugging in and grinning at the crowd; no intro tape, no flashbangs and no curtains. Didn’t change a damn thing, mind you; we were all still as excited as all hell. Especially when I realised that If I got any closer to the man himself I’d be tripping him up. Damn, but that’s a small stage.
I noticed K whispering something to Sharon, and leaned in to ask what; turns out that there was another celeb there, one Ross Halfin, photographer to Rock Royalty and writer of no mean talent himself. I’d been following his diary for ages - not to mention sending the git a couple of e-mails that never got answered - and thus was almost as impressed to see him there as the band. Plus, I was looking forward to seeing him work; I adore his work, always have; the man is as much an artist as the bands he takes such glorious pictures of.
And he was about three feet away from me. Whoa. And his assistant is gorgeous.
Now, I couldn’t give you the setlist. I have a horrible memory for such things, because I just let myself get carried away by the music and the whole thing becomes a crazed jumble of impressions in my head; sound and smell and emotion, adrenaline and sweat and laughter. Simon (Laffrey, ex Girl) is a damn sight better looking than I expected - and I know I wasn’t the only one thinking so. Not to mention talented and passionate within the music; he filled his side of the tiny stage, rocked with the crowd, played his little heart out and made a few new fans, so he did. I recall making a mental note to get more in the middle of the stage next time, and felt rather guilty for thinking it. Traitorous old bag that I am...
Paul is one hell of a drummer. Due to marrying one - for my bloody sins - I’ve learnt more about the technical side of drumming than I ever thought possible without picking up the sticks myself. The point of this rambling being that despite having been the drummer for the Sex Pistols (not often rated for technical ability, on the whole) - he kicks bum. Seriously. Uses a basic kit but oh lordy me can he get one cracking sound from it; not often I’m blown away by a drummer when I’m focusing on the guitarist but damn. It happened here.
And then, my friends, there was Phil.
Bet you didn’t know he’s a kick ass singer, did you? No. Well, he is. More Rawk than Opera but hell, that’s what we were there for, right? Right. Damn, but the three of them were good together; something very special took place on that tiny stage, and I’m not talking about Phil taking his shirt off before the second song. Although that made me a happy bunny. My goodness but he looks after himself... and the temptation to give those awfully, awfully low riding jeans a quick tug - in the name of scientific research, you understand - was enormous. I was close enough, I swear.
And - excuse me for a moment whilst I indulge in a little own trumpet blowing - but I’ve been to enough gigs and been at the front, not to mention meeting enough (for want of a better word) rockstars that I’m not exactly blase but it doesn’t take my breath away like it used to. However.
Phil, as is his wont during a gig, paced the stage and made sure that everyone got their share of him. Despite it being a very small stage, he managed to make use of all of it; hopefully Ross got some good pictures, because at one point he was almost in his lap. Anyway. Where was I? Oh yes. Rambling.
Silke and I were up against the post at the corner of the stage, right by Phil’s stage left monitor - no in ear ones for this gig. He steps forward, and then he flings his head back and solos his little heart out and I am close enough to touch his damn guitar...
Close enough that, had I wished to, I could have nicked his plectrum. Wiped the sweat from his chest. Found out if those jeans were really defying gravity the way they appeared to be - and close enough to just get yanked into the music by every sense, sound and vision and smell and even touch, the vibration from the monitor under my fingers keeping time with the fingers on the fretboard in front of my eyes and the passion pouring through that instrument--
Steady girl.
Breathless moment. My goodness yes.
Visit the website, listen to the sound clips, and order Skin Crawl. Damn fine song. And pre-order the album while you’re at it. They describe themselves as a power trio; me now, I just call ‘em pure bloody magic.
More, boys. Now!
But the best plans rarely survive contact with the enemy, and so it proved for us.
We actually got ready pretty quick; all I had to do was get changed, freshen bits and pits and apply a bit of makeup. Not much, because I really can never be arsed but a bit of powder and black shit around the eyes works wonders for my fat little chipmunk cheeks and rotten skin. Also some weird oily stuff to de-frizz my hair, which worked all too bloody well and stuck to my hands like - well, oil.
Off we charged to the tube station, tarted up and looking great, and got a tube in good time. Even allowing for the change at Holborn we should have been there by seven...
It took nearly two hours to get to Liverpool street station, and we decided to grab a cab from there to the venue, a bar called The Spitz. K was going frantic; she’d gone on ahead. Apparently, out of the 300 people that were going to be there 200 were on the guest list, and people had begun to flood in from just after soundcheck. She was at the back, fretting and ringing Jaynie to panic at her.
Well, yeah... but what could we do? Stuck on a slow tube all we could do was wait for the blasted thing to get there, feel the slow creep of sweat along the temples, acrid electric smell of too many bodies jammed into too small a space, anxiety adding its metallic tang to the dusty whiffs of warm air that crept along the carriage. Wait, then wait some more, do a little more waiting and top it off with a wait.
I tried to stay positive.
“We’ll get there. It’s only a club, so we’ll be able to wriggle down to the front even if it’s full.”
“Do you have to be so bloody positive?”
“Sorry Sharon...”
It’s interesting. When the situation demands it I’m a world class worrier; I could worry for England, and win. But when surrounded by other people having A Bit Of A Moment I go all calm. The more antsy and anxious those around me are, the cooler I am; I reckon it’s because my dear husband has a tendency to explode, so one of us needs to keep their head or someone would get thumped. And then someone would get arrested and there would be a scuffle and things would get messy and the police would be called and--
Anyway. I was doing my glacial bit which, if nothing else, was amusing the others while Sharon tried to wind me up; looked like we were out of luck when it came to thinking about dinner. Damn, but I wonder how many meals I’ve missed rushing about to gigs? No matter. We got to the station, ran out the front door and looked for a cab.
Where was the venue?
I don’t know, what about you?
No.
Crap.
Was there a cab handy?
No.
Crap.
But being good Brits (one honorary), we queued in the line of other weary travellers and waited for a black cab. Now, before they get their licence black cab drivers have to take a test. This test is called ‘The Knowledge’, and involves said driver being asked how to get from one place to another - either can be anywhere in London - and having to tell the examiner what route they would take. Precisely.
From memory.
Now, this means that you can jump in a black cab, anywhere in London, and rest assured that the driver knows precisely where he - and more inportantly, you - are going.
“The Spitz, please.”
“Where’s that?”
Crap.
Crap.
OK. Time for a bit of lateral thinking. We’d been racking our brains to try and remember the name of the street the damn place was on, and about all we could come up with was that it was right by Spitalfields market. When I say we I might add that my contribution was to spread my hands and look bewildered - an expression long ago perfected - so it’s more of a royal we.
Anyway.
The driver nodded, said he thought he had a good idea and away we went. Now I was scrunched into the little jump seat behind the driver, which is so not designed for chunky vet nurses with big boots and even bigger arses, so I was awfully pleased when the girls spotted the venue and I could un-scrunch straight into a ginormous puddle. Bugger the puddle, we’d arrived! Somebody paid the nice driver, we all said thank you and trooped off - a fascinating aural pattern of clicks and stomps and shuffling noises on the pavement - into The Spitz.
Downstairs is a trendy Bistro. Gawd save me from fashionable eateries and we didn’t linger, but shot straight up the echoing stairwell in search of an increasingly frantic Kerstin; she’d become rather vexed with our failure to arrive on time, tube hassles notwithstanding, and you’d never have imagined that we were anticipating a bollocking from the speed we shot up those damn stairs. At least the stairwell didn’t stink of piss, even though it looked like it ought to. Although speaking of which--
A couple of our crew had to nip downstairs first to attend to a call of nature, and while the rest of us fidgeted in the stark hardness of the striplight - anticipating our bollocking with no pleasure - a door hit me in the shoulder, bounced and was accompanied by a cheerful voice which said “Hello girlfriend!”
Debbie! Ah, Debs... our local connection, West Ham fan and fellow stalker did arriveth in the same nick of time that we did. Mucho hugging and whoops of joy echoing up and down the lino clad stairwell, rattling the posters and probably waking up the rats in the walls. Fortified and feeling much more cheerful we ascended, fully expecting to jam ourselves on the back of a considerable crowd and have to porpoise through it to get to the front.
We found...
...nobody.
Except Kerstin, who (once we’d taken our bollocking) shepherded us to the front and explained what had happened. It must have looked damn peculiar; an empty club stage, hollow room, shadows hugging the walls, bored barman staring into space and seven well dressed women lining the front of said stage, leaning on the monitors and staring at a drumkit.
By all accounts the management had become irritated by the crowd, and slung everybody out; our intrepid friend had stayed behind - lord alone knows how, quite possibly by just being so stubborn they gave up - and when we arrived nobody had bothered trying to get back in. Result!
Of course, we had a good couple of hours to wait, but that was a mere pause considering how long we’ve stood for bands in the past; at least this was indoors, we could perch on the stage, get a drink, smoke, and catch up with each other’s lives while the DJ tried to deafen us early. At least he had good taste in music.
Should I describe the wait? Nah. If you’ve read the LepTrek diaries you’ll know what’s involved; suffice it to say that by the time the ‘support’ act came on (what the fuck is a Performance Poet anyway?) our feet were hurting all over again and damn, but we were hungry.
The crowd ignored the poets; we didn’t, but that was as much because we were so close it would have been rude not to listen to them. Plus they were a little bit shouty so you couldn’t hear yourself think anyway. They gave the eyes somewhere to rest, anyway.
I would have liked to have spoken to them afterwards, thinking about it now; but then, I’m glad I didn’t. Poets are often a little... pretentious.
Lights down, and the usual roar from the crowd. This, I have to say, is one of the moments in life that I live for. That surge of adrenaline, the moment everyone’s head goes up and the heart kicks just a tiny bit faster - the waiting is almost done! In just a moment - just a little more - is it - now!
Of course, unlike your average gig this was just three guys getting their stuff and clambering onto the stage, plugging in and grinning at the crowd; no intro tape, no flashbangs and no curtains. Didn’t change a damn thing, mind you; we were all still as excited as all hell. Especially when I realised that If I got any closer to the man himself I’d be tripping him up. Damn, but that’s a small stage.
I noticed K whispering something to Sharon, and leaned in to ask what; turns out that there was another celeb there, one Ross Halfin, photographer to Rock Royalty and writer of no mean talent himself. I’d been following his diary for ages - not to mention sending the git a couple of e-mails that never got answered - and thus was almost as impressed to see him there as the band. Plus, I was looking forward to seeing him work; I adore his work, always have; the man is as much an artist as the bands he takes such glorious pictures of.
And he was about three feet away from me. Whoa. And his assistant is gorgeous.
Now, I couldn’t give you the setlist. I have a horrible memory for such things, because I just let myself get carried away by the music and the whole thing becomes a crazed jumble of impressions in my head; sound and smell and emotion, adrenaline and sweat and laughter. Simon (Laffrey, ex Girl) is a damn sight better looking than I expected - and I know I wasn’t the only one thinking so. Not to mention talented and passionate within the music; he filled his side of the tiny stage, rocked with the crowd, played his little heart out and made a few new fans, so he did. I recall making a mental note to get more in the middle of the stage next time, and felt rather guilty for thinking it. Traitorous old bag that I am...
Paul is one hell of a drummer. Due to marrying one - for my bloody sins - I’ve learnt more about the technical side of drumming than I ever thought possible without picking up the sticks myself. The point of this rambling being that despite having been the drummer for the Sex Pistols (not often rated for technical ability, on the whole) - he kicks bum. Seriously. Uses a basic kit but oh lordy me can he get one cracking sound from it; not often I’m blown away by a drummer when I’m focusing on the guitarist but damn. It happened here.
And then, my friends, there was Phil.
Bet you didn’t know he’s a kick ass singer, did you? No. Well, he is. More Rawk than Opera but hell, that’s what we were there for, right? Right. Damn, but the three of them were good together; something very special took place on that tiny stage, and I’m not talking about Phil taking his shirt off before the second song. Although that made me a happy bunny. My goodness but he looks after himself... and the temptation to give those awfully, awfully low riding jeans a quick tug - in the name of scientific research, you understand - was enormous. I was close enough, I swear.
And - excuse me for a moment whilst I indulge in a little own trumpet blowing - but I’ve been to enough gigs and been at the front, not to mention meeting enough (for want of a better word) rockstars that I’m not exactly blase but it doesn’t take my breath away like it used to. However.
Phil, as is his wont during a gig, paced the stage and made sure that everyone got their share of him. Despite it being a very small stage, he managed to make use of all of it; hopefully Ross got some good pictures, because at one point he was almost in his lap. Anyway. Where was I? Oh yes. Rambling.
Silke and I were up against the post at the corner of the stage, right by Phil’s stage left monitor - no in ear ones for this gig. He steps forward, and then he flings his head back and solos his little heart out and I am close enough to touch his damn guitar...
Close enough that, had I wished to, I could have nicked his plectrum. Wiped the sweat from his chest. Found out if those jeans were really defying gravity the way they appeared to be - and close enough to just get yanked into the music by every sense, sound and vision and smell and even touch, the vibration from the monitor under my fingers keeping time with the fingers on the fretboard in front of my eyes and the passion pouring through that instrument--
Steady girl.
Breathless moment. My goodness yes.
Visit the website, listen to the sound clips, and order Skin Crawl. Damn fine song. And pre-order the album while you’re at it. They describe themselves as a power trio; me now, I just call ‘em pure bloody magic.
More, boys. Now!
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-09-30 03:18 am (UTC)Thanks for sharing this. Having just re-read your LeppTrek, I got extra laughs out of Sharon's worrying. (And out of you worrying for England. LOL!)
Phil. Mmm. Must go check Ross's diary...
no subject
Date: 2005-09-30 10:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-30 01:56 pm (UTC)Your visuals make me feel like I was there with y'all! Sounds like everyone had a good time even though things got a little convoluted there for a bit.
I'm going to order the disc posthaste, and of course, make sure all and sundry are assimilated.
Am glad Phil's getting a chance to show his chops outside of Leppard and am hoping it spills over onto the next album..whenever that will be!
no subject
Date: 2005-10-01 01:02 am (UTC)Poets are often a little... pretentious.
I'm still to meet one who isn't. Especially Performance Poets, which are called that because their poems are written with the express aim of being read out loud in some "dramatic" way.