The plot thickens in the ever-interesting "Loathe My Neighbour" saga. Recently, there has been a dearth of entertainment from their quarters - just turgid choons ad nauseum. I'm more clued up on the contemporary R'n'B, rap, hip-hop, garage and trashy dance scenes than any other musical genre at the moment thanks to their 100+ decibel-level speakers in incessant use. There's the odd telephone conversation about going to court, and a few arguments, but mostly mawkish noisy ear-sewage. I don't like the term 'chav' - I think classing any social group with a tag they haven't chosen to adopt themselves is a dangerous thing to do - but they're only a few steps down (or shoul that be up) from Devvo. Need I remind you, these are people with 'WANKAS' scribbled in blue above their front door (not my handywork, I'm afraid).
I'm starting to get a handle on the set-up now - I believe the family downstairs rents the rooms upstairs to college students, as the bitch next door seems to have moved out (or at least moved rooms) after she fell behind on payments (or at least the argument she had with the father of the family out in the garden seems to suggest). Instead, my new adjacentee is an irksome ruffian with delusions of rapping grandeur, as he tries his best to rap his guts out but ends up tripping over his words, giving up rather sheepishly. On seemingly permanent replay is "Apologise", which just might be the whiniest, wettest song in the history of the musical arts; yet I'm deluged by its various iterations, coupled with the cretin next door screeching the drippy chorus, on a daily basis.
It got so bad that the other week I was woken up at about 3am on a weeknight to some horribly distorted rap claptrap at a heinously excessive volume. I phoned the council's 24 hour noise nuisance enforcement service, but before someone could come round, the music ceased. I waited and waited, then called the council to cancel dispatching someone to come over. But as soon as it had been called off, the music rebooted and my soul fell apart. Next time. Next time!
Other times I've taken matters into my own hands, singing along loudly and just as badly (if I know the tune), or just banged on the wall. It's not particularly thin, so the best method is to tilt my wardrobe against it repeatedly or smack my hand against a poster to create the loudest slap against it. Sometimes I get primitive return knocking; once he kicked the wall a couple of times and said to himself "Dickheads! Stop hitting my wall!". Tee-hee.
However, all this anguish finally paid off a few days ago. I had just gotten out of the shower and was drying off in my room when all of a sudden through the wall I hear: "AH! NO! MOTHERFUCKER! FUCK! NO!" There was banging and crashing and shouting. "HELP! I CAN'T GET OUT MY ROOM!" Turns out he locked himself in somehow or the door was stuck, but hilariously he was trapped. Help came (someone apparently with the great moniker Ruben), and they told him to turn his music off so they could hear him. "IT WON'T WORK!" He repeatedly pulls and pushes, bangs and swears but to no avail. He then announces he's going to climb out the window, get onto the roof and clamber through his friends window. Part of me wanted to suddenly open my window and scare him by making a loud noise in the hope it would result in a nasty fall...but a manslaughter trial would really hinder my dissertation. So he starts to put his leg out of the top window, but the hinge is such that there wasn't enough room to get through. As his leg dangles over the side, "I CAN'T GET OUT THE WINDOW! NNNRRRGGHH! NAH, CAN'T DO IT! If I fall, will I get compensation?". He pulls himself back in and it soon turns silent - I assume the door was soon opened or he just gave up and accepted incarceration, but I suspect the former is true. Anyway, it was an entertaining half an hour from the Cirque du Retards.
NOTE: While typing this up, his CD started to skip. "FUCK! FUCK! FUCKING WORK!" BANG! BANG! BANG! More skipping. "FUCK!" SLAM! Out the door...baby.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Friday, February 29, 2008
Dying Standing Up
This week has been pretty eventful. In between not working on my dissertation, I went to see both Juno (overrated) and Be Kind Rewind (underrated) back to back, visited the Royal Pharmaceutical Society to look at opium artefacts and whatnot (ornate jars of bear grease to combat baldness, apparently) amid a police-cordoning-off of Lambeth Bridge area, had a trip down the local to celebrate Jona's birthday, and have seen Richard Herring do his "Oh F*ck, I'm 40!" stand-up show which was very funny and vulgar indeed.
But perhaps the most eventful event of the week (if that makes any sense) was trying my hand at stand-up comedy on Tuesday evening. I went to Kingston University to compete in the regional heat of the Chortle Student Comedy Award 2008. In case you didn't know, Chortle is basically the UK Comedy website, with gig listings and daily news updates of the comedy scene, and has been running a nationwide search for the UK's best student comedian for the past few years, the final being held up in Edinburgh during the festival.
Now, I've never done stand-up before, but I thought that this was perhaps my only shot of giving it a go, and what the hey! You're only young and stupid once. So I applied. I got in. I'm on the list of acts. And now I'm standing in a student bar waiting to go on stage and recite some barely rehearsed material in front of a bunch of strangers, experienced comics, and industry know-it-alls. It was perhaps made a tiny bit more nerve-wracking that the head of Chortle looks a lot like Gregory Itzin aka President Logan from 24 / The Mayor of Eerie, Indiana.
I got chatting to a few of my competitors who were very amiable and supportive individuals. One was actually doing an MA in Stand Up Comedy, another did a couple of gigs every week, for one it was his first gig in 4 years (a final shot at the title belt, so to speak), and another who organised his own comedy night and had done about 100 gigs since September. And then there was me. But hey - everyone's gotta start somewhere.
I was to go on 4th out of 10, and I couldn't really have picked a better slot - not going first, but getting it over and done with before the interval. We had a professional MC warm up the audience of about 30/40 local students, the first few acts came and went with varying degress of laughter from the attendees, and there it was my turn.
Now, I wouldn't say I died on my arse, but during the 5-6 minutes of my act I probably got 5-6 laughs. Here is a two minute extract of my performance; unfortunately they picked the two minutes that included the joke that died the worst death and a long-winded set-up and spiel that didn't pay off (I should be sent the whole thing at a later date).
It was strange because there was no tension in the room and I wasn't really nervous; the audience sat there smiling but not laughing, so I think I held their attention and they were mildly entertained, but they just didn't find any of it actually funny. I got some better response towards the end, and a joke I only resorted to when I needed to fill up more time got the biggest laugh of my set, so what do I know? I think my main flaws were...
Still, it was a good learning experience, I got some helpful tips and advice, and I've popped my stand-up cherry. The thing is now, do I dare go on a second date?
But perhaps the most eventful event of the week (if that makes any sense) was trying my hand at stand-up comedy on Tuesday evening. I went to Kingston University to compete in the regional heat of the Chortle Student Comedy Award 2008. In case you didn't know, Chortle is basically the UK Comedy website, with gig listings and daily news updates of the comedy scene, and has been running a nationwide search for the UK's best student comedian for the past few years, the final being held up in Edinburgh during the festival.
Now, I've never done stand-up before, but I thought that this was perhaps my only shot of giving it a go, and what the hey! You're only young and stupid once. So I applied. I got in. I'm on the list of acts. And now I'm standing in a student bar waiting to go on stage and recite some barely rehearsed material in front of a bunch of strangers, experienced comics, and industry know-it-alls. It was perhaps made a tiny bit more nerve-wracking that the head of Chortle looks a lot like Gregory Itzin aka President Logan from 24 / The Mayor of Eerie, Indiana.
I got chatting to a few of my competitors who were very amiable and supportive individuals. One was actually doing an MA in Stand Up Comedy, another did a couple of gigs every week, for one it was his first gig in 4 years (a final shot at the title belt, so to speak), and another who organised his own comedy night and had done about 100 gigs since September. And then there was me. But hey - everyone's gotta start somewhere.
I was to go on 4th out of 10, and I couldn't really have picked a better slot - not going first, but getting it over and done with before the interval. We had a professional MC warm up the audience of about 30/40 local students, the first few acts came and went with varying degress of laughter from the attendees, and there it was my turn.
Now, I wouldn't say I died on my arse, but during the 5-6 minutes of my act I probably got 5-6 laughs. Here is a two minute extract of my performance; unfortunately they picked the two minutes that included the joke that died the worst death and a long-winded set-up and spiel that didn't pay off (I should be sent the whole thing at a later date).
It was strange because there was no tension in the room and I wasn't really nervous; the audience sat there smiling but not laughing, so I think I held their attention and they were mildly entertained, but they just didn't find any of it actually funny. I got some better response towards the end, and a joke I only resorted to when I needed to fill up more time got the biggest laugh of my set, so what do I know? I think my main flaws were...
- Too much set-up, not enough jokes. My running theme could have lasted a whole headline act, but I tried to squeeze it into a 5 minute framework.
- The delivery. I didn't rehearse enough, forgot a few bits and tripped over myself a few times. Timing the right moment to drop the punchline, seguing smoothly, and emphasising the right words were also skills I fail to possess.
- Not enough dick and fart jokes. Perhaps my approach was too clever clever, more of a referential rant than trying to point out everyday foibles that would resonate better with the audience, or better yet, using more swears and gags about sex and poo. And less bad puns - I expected at least a chucklesome groan, but got silence instead.
- Be myself. Perhaps I was too scripted - really I should be making jokes that would make me laugh, and I love dark horrible humour, so maybe I should be just a bit sicker in the head.
- Perhaps the most crucial - I just wasn't that funny.
Still, it was a good learning experience, I got some helpful tips and advice, and I've popped my stand-up cherry. The thing is now, do I dare go on a second date?
Saturday, January 12, 2008
The War Next Door
So, my final essay for a while is finished. Done and dusted. No longer do I need to think about Japan's pharmaceutical industry and their production and distribution of cocaine between the two world wars - a fascinating topic, but it almost killed me. I typed about 2000 words in 24 hours, staying up to 4am on Thursday night, waking up at 9am the next morning and ploughing through it until just before 2pm to meet the 4pm deadline. Not only that, but my main source was one of the most cack-handedly written texts I've seen throughout my university career (including my own work). Spelling the same name three different ways, non-sequitur paragraphs, little sense of a threaded argument - Steven B. Karch, MD: you are a dolt.
The weekend is my reward. But the jerks next door seem to be having none of it. After the incessant loud music (they've added bad Pink Floyd dance remixes to their repertoire now; there should be a law against radios playing songs that are designed to be 'played loud'), frantic alibi-setting-straight telephone calls, macaroni-window-flinging and shouting matches that would make the cast of Eastenders flee in fear, their ouevre has expanded.
I assume their inquisitive cat (which would regularly peak out the window and stare at us in the kitchen or lavatory) has died, because it its stead they seem to have acquired a dog. A tiny yapping puppy of sorts, and I guess the girl in the room adjacent to mine is its appointed owner. Every time they have an argument (which is pretty much all the time - most recent exchange: "Get the f**k outta mah layf!", "Get the f**k outta mah hause, yeh f**kin' mug!"), the dog won't start yipping and yupping like a flustered chicken. I blame its master. So far her commands have consisted of "Stay there!", "Sit down!", and "Shut up!". Crufts beckons.
But just as this all gets intensely irritating, something hilarious happens and all is forgiven. Couple of nights ago, she had some friends over listening to some godawful music, and the dog was yipping from time to time. Then, all of a sudden, there was shouting and panic: "OH MAH GOT! HE PISSED ON MA DVDS!".
Bless that dog.
The weekend is my reward. But the jerks next door seem to be having none of it. After the incessant loud music (they've added bad Pink Floyd dance remixes to their repertoire now; there should be a law against radios playing songs that are designed to be 'played loud'), frantic alibi-setting-straight telephone calls, macaroni-window-flinging and shouting matches that would make the cast of Eastenders flee in fear, their ouevre has expanded.
I assume their inquisitive cat (which would regularly peak out the window and stare at us in the kitchen or lavatory) has died, because it its stead they seem to have acquired a dog. A tiny yapping puppy of sorts, and I guess the girl in the room adjacent to mine is its appointed owner. Every time they have an argument (which is pretty much all the time - most recent exchange: "Get the f**k outta mah layf!", "Get the f**k outta mah hause, yeh f**kin' mug!"), the dog won't start yipping and yupping like a flustered chicken. I blame its master. So far her commands have consisted of "Stay there!", "Sit down!", and "Shut up!". Crufts beckons.
But just as this all gets intensely irritating, something hilarious happens and all is forgiven. Couple of nights ago, she had some friends over listening to some godawful music, and the dog was yipping from time to time. Then, all of a sudden, there was shouting and panic: "OH MAH GOT! HE PISSED ON MA DVDS!".
Bless that dog.
----------------
New Year means New Telly, and a chance to catch the second series of two similar shows that hit at roughly the same time when I was in Japan. Charlie Brooker mode activated.
First off is Doctor Who spin-off Torchwood, an absudly silly sci-fi rompathon that plays like an episode of Scooby-Doo in which Shaggy has been replaced by, well, shagging. Much has been written about its bewildering tone and how the very existence of an adult version of a kids programme that retains the same level of scripting and acting but with blood and sex is strange enough in itself (Lazy Town Sleepless Nights? Postman Pat: Off Duty Package Delivery? Rosie & Jim Unleashed - With Extra Hot Dickings?). I managed to catch the first two episodes of the first series, but when I wasn't baffled, I was just plain bored. If it didn't have the Who connection, I doubt anyone would have bothered in the first place.
Yet, here comes another helping. The BBC have uploaded the opening of the first episode of the new series onto YouTube and it seems more of the same. A man with a blowfish for a head driving a sports car being pursued by the Torchwood team in their S&M Ice Cream Van with tinkly blue LEDs. A delerious hostage situation, the hilarious sight of Welsh people holding guns with all the confidence of an archer afraid of targets, some raspy hammy alienspeak and Captain Jack (John Barrowman) dropping in from nowhere to save the day. Surprised they didn't shoehorn in a big gay snog (though I believe you're promised one later in the episode). Touch wood, it'll get better...groan. May I suggest they have a man with a different animal for a head each episode. That's right, not a different animal head, but his all head comprises a scaled down creature with all its appendages attached. A tiger? Or an earwig? Or maybe a bat?
More interesting-looking is ITV's CG-filled family entertainment answer to Doctor Who, Primeval. 'Back for Seconds' scream the trails (surprised Torchwood hasn't gone for 'Second Coming'), as a band of young pretty scientists battle dinosaurs that rip through the fabric of space and time to eat M&Ms (no joke) and feast of Jeremy Kyle's intestines (joke, but one can dream can't they). Starring Ben Miller and that one from S Club 7, its perhaps because it doesn't have the baggage of 45 years of Doctor Who that both hinders and helps Torchwood that it looks like it could be more entertaining, but perhaps not quite as hysterically ludicrous.
Although Primeval starts tonight, I'm afraid I'm going to plump for an evening with Captain Jack instead. Torchwood may not start until Wednesday, but I have rented a DVD classic starring John Barrowman himself...Shark Attack 3: Megalodon...
Yet, here comes another helping. The BBC have uploaded the opening of the first episode of the new series onto YouTube and it seems more of the same. A man with a blowfish for a head driving a sports car being pursued by the Torchwood team in their S&M Ice Cream Van with tinkly blue LEDs. A delerious hostage situation, the hilarious sight of Welsh people holding guns with all the confidence of an archer afraid of targets, some raspy hammy alienspeak and Captain Jack (John Barrowman) dropping in from nowhere to save the day. Surprised they didn't shoehorn in a big gay snog (though I believe you're promised one later in the episode). Touch wood, it'll get better...groan. May I suggest they have a man with a different animal for a head each episode. That's right, not a different animal head, but his all head comprises a scaled down creature with all its appendages attached. A tiger? Or an earwig? Or maybe a bat?
More interesting-looking is ITV's CG-filled family entertainment answer to Doctor Who, Primeval. 'Back for Seconds' scream the trails (surprised Torchwood hasn't gone for 'Second Coming'), as a band of young pretty scientists battle dinosaurs that rip through the fabric of space and time to eat M&Ms (no joke) and feast of Jeremy Kyle's intestines (joke, but one can dream can't they). Starring Ben Miller and that one from S Club 7, its perhaps because it doesn't have the baggage of 45 years of Doctor Who that both hinders and helps Torchwood that it looks like it could be more entertaining, but perhaps not quite as hysterically ludicrous.
Although Primeval starts tonight, I'm afraid I'm going to plump for an evening with Captain Jack instead. Torchwood may not start until Wednesday, but I have rented a DVD classic starring John Barrowman himself...Shark Attack 3: Megalodon...
Monday, December 03, 2007
Jean Therapy for Cringemuss
With less than a month to go before Crimbletide, I am now no longer allowed to buy myself anything bar essential goods. Luckily, I did a little spending spree before the calendar change, ordering a bunch of CDs from Amazon Japan and stopping by the new big Uni Qlo stores in Oxford Street for a couple of tops and a pair of jeans.
Yes, that's right - this is the first pair of jeans I have ever bought. I gave up on jeans before I started having to buy clothes for myself, and I still don't get the WORLD's obsession with them. Denim is not an especially nice fabric for starters, they get worn out pretty easily and the cut is rarely comfortable. On top of that, EVERYBODY WEARS THEM. Aliens probably think it's some global uniform the UN has decreed all must wear. More people wear jeans out of work than people wear suits to work. Now I've finally gotten myself a pair (mainly because I thought I might as well get some blue trousers in a change to my dark/beige/green selection), I feel even more self-conscious about the fact everyone else is wearing the same than if I'd been wearing something no-one else was wearing. I'm glad I bought them and it's a useful addition to my wardrobe, but come on guys! How about NOT wearing jeans for charity rather than the traditional vice-versa scenario? They're so...boring.
Fashion column over. The Christmas lights have been going up in Turnpike Lane the past week - well, they're non-religious specific, just some twinkly bits on the side of streetlamps. As Bill Bailey referred to in his Tinselworm show I saw on Thursday, they're just there to emphasise the Primary Gifting Period ("BEGIN THE PGP!") that have made advertisements on television more tedious than ever. While we're perhaps more inundated with 'Buy Me' breaks than in Japan, at least it's not as commercially ruthless as it was over there. They were already removing garlands from shop displays at 10pm on Christmas Day. Back closer to home, a banner was being put up over Ducketts Common roughly the same time as the Christmas lights. Would it be a Christmas message? Or a celebratory sign of some sort? Um...no...
Yes, that's right - this is the first pair of jeans I have ever bought. I gave up on jeans before I started having to buy clothes for myself, and I still don't get the WORLD's obsession with them. Denim is not an especially nice fabric for starters, they get worn out pretty easily and the cut is rarely comfortable. On top of that, EVERYBODY WEARS THEM. Aliens probably think it's some global uniform the UN has decreed all must wear. More people wear jeans out of work than people wear suits to work. Now I've finally gotten myself a pair (mainly because I thought I might as well get some blue trousers in a change to my dark/beige/green selection), I feel even more self-conscious about the fact everyone else is wearing the same than if I'd been wearing something no-one else was wearing. I'm glad I bought them and it's a useful addition to my wardrobe, but come on guys! How about NOT wearing jeans for charity rather than the traditional vice-versa scenario? They're so...boring.
Fashion column over. The Christmas lights have been going up in Turnpike Lane the past week - well, they're non-religious specific, just some twinkly bits on the side of streetlamps. As Bill Bailey referred to in his Tinselworm show I saw on Thursday, they're just there to emphasise the Primary Gifting Period ("BEGIN THE PGP!") that have made advertisements on television more tedious than ever. While we're perhaps more inundated with 'Buy Me' breaks than in Japan, at least it's not as commercially ruthless as it was over there. They were already removing garlands from shop displays at 10pm on Christmas Day. Back closer to home, a banner was being put up over Ducketts Common roughly the same time as the Christmas lights. Would it be a Christmas message? Or a celebratory sign of some sort? Um...no...
STOP DOMESTIC VIOLENCE
Zero Tolerance in Haringey
Zero Tolerance in Haringey
Charming. The banner's already been battered and abused by the wind, causing it to look even more depressing in its now contorted, crumpled state.
Speaking of signs, I've recently been enjoying entertainingly named businesses. I'm pretty certain I would enlist the services of a snappier or sillier named business than a more mundane one, regardless of recommendations or qualifications. There was Swanky! Beauty Salon I saw on the bus today, the Fishcoteque chippie by the BFI Imax (I intend to open a geeky fish and chop called "All Your Plaice Are Belong To Us"), and Jim'll Mix It cement mixer. Whether I needed cement mixed or no, it's worth getting a patio just to tell your mates that Jim mixed it for you.
"Now then, now then, now then, concrete, cement, etc."
----------------
Listening to: Daft Punk - Voyager
via FoxyTunes
Speaking of signs, I've recently been enjoying entertainingly named businesses. I'm pretty certain I would enlist the services of a snappier or sillier named business than a more mundane one, regardless of recommendations or qualifications. There was Swanky! Beauty Salon I saw on the bus today, the Fishcoteque chippie by the BFI Imax (I intend to open a geeky fish and chop called "All Your Plaice Are Belong To Us"), and Jim'll Mix It cement mixer. Whether I needed cement mixed or no, it's worth getting a patio just to tell your mates that Jim mixed it for you.
"Now then, now then, now then, concrete, cement, etc."
----------------
Listening to: Daft Punk - Voyager
via FoxyTunes
Monday, November 19, 2007
The Lone Gigger
Last night I went to see Arcade Fire at the Alexandra Palace. However, I was in Japan when tickets were on sale, and not wanting to pass up the opportunity in case they sold out (which they did), I decided to buy one then and there. But I did not want to fork out twice or thrice the price to get extra tickets, in the hope that I could convince someone else to go to a concert months into the future, and get paid back for it. So it was a solo venture as I walked through the wind and rain from home to the venue, a grand place for a concert indeed (having seen Franz Ferdinand there two years previous in a similar state of loneliness).
So what does one actually do at gigs when you're on your own and waiting for the bands to come on? It's too expensive and time-consuming queueing to drink, yet I was too sober to start up chit-chat with strangers - no-one wants to appear too enthusiastic about the band, despite the fact that everyone there is a fan (otherwise, why would they be there?). Instead, you're left standing there on your own while groups of friends around you have vastly entertaining and interesting conversations you want to join in with but feel it socially inappropriate to do so; no one wants their evening spoiled by some strange nobody chiming in with their two cents like they're worth a dime (that's ten cents).
Well, pehaps not turning up early would be a good idea. Then I spent my time putting my coat in the cloakroom, looking at prices for food and drinks, then found a spot by the tech crew and waited. For 45 minutes. The good thing was that Alexandra Palace is perhaps the best venue in London to get a signal (what with it being the old broadcast centre), so mobile phone use was not a problem. The boredom was alleviated through a light bit of texting, something that just would not be possible in the more cavernous capital venues (at which point, not even faux-phone-fiddling - in which you pretend to be doing important things like sending or checking messages - would slide).
Maybe there should be some kind of gig-goer application on something like last.fm where it wouldn't be considered socially awkward to check who's going on their own. Perhaps you can hook up with a like-minded group of people - I mean, the band could be a starting point for just getting to know others. Could even expand into a dating service sort of realm - music is a personal thing, and if you share similar tastes in tunes, who knows? They could be 'the one'. But I digress...
Once the support acts were on, it was fine. You're among a crowd and the focus is on music rather than being a Billy No-Mates. While New Englanders Wild Light better fitted the bill as a warm-up, Liverpudlian band Clinic were perhaps the more entertaining band, even if they seemed to bemuse most of the audience. Living up to their name by wearing dark blue surgical outfits, Clinic's pounding mix of indie-punk-folk and strange strange vocals was creepy but interesting.
Arcade Fire themselves were stunning. An energetic, kinetic live show thanks to the brilliant visuals and lighting, and the rambunctious nature inherent with so many band members and instruments on stage. Lead singer Win Butler's vocals were drowned out during My Body Is A Cage and a teasing opening to a cover of Pulp's Common People never came to pass, but the rest of it was joyous. The anthemic choral nature of their songs lend themselves perfectly to crowd sing-a-longing and clapping which required little to no direction, such were the lyrics and music engrained within all the attendees. Including myself. So I guess I wasn't alone after all...
Bah, screw sentimentality and lessons learned. Next time, I'm forcing someone to come with me.
----------------
Listening to: Clinic - Fingers
via FoxyTunes
So what does one actually do at gigs when you're on your own and waiting for the bands to come on? It's too expensive and time-consuming queueing to drink, yet I was too sober to start up chit-chat with strangers - no-one wants to appear too enthusiastic about the band, despite the fact that everyone there is a fan (otherwise, why would they be there?). Instead, you're left standing there on your own while groups of friends around you have vastly entertaining and interesting conversations you want to join in with but feel it socially inappropriate to do so; no one wants their evening spoiled by some strange nobody chiming in with their two cents like they're worth a dime (that's ten cents).
Well, pehaps not turning up early would be a good idea. Then I spent my time putting my coat in the cloakroom, looking at prices for food and drinks, then found a spot by the tech crew and waited. For 45 minutes. The good thing was that Alexandra Palace is perhaps the best venue in London to get a signal (what with it being the old broadcast centre), so mobile phone use was not a problem. The boredom was alleviated through a light bit of texting, something that just would not be possible in the more cavernous capital venues (at which point, not even faux-phone-fiddling - in which you pretend to be doing important things like sending or checking messages - would slide).
Maybe there should be some kind of gig-goer application on something like last.fm where it wouldn't be considered socially awkward to check who's going on their own. Perhaps you can hook up with a like-minded group of people - I mean, the band could be a starting point for just getting to know others. Could even expand into a dating service sort of realm - music is a personal thing, and if you share similar tastes in tunes, who knows? They could be 'the one'. But I digress...
Once the support acts were on, it was fine. You're among a crowd and the focus is on music rather than being a Billy No-Mates. While New Englanders Wild Light better fitted the bill as a warm-up, Liverpudlian band Clinic were perhaps the more entertaining band, even if they seemed to bemuse most of the audience. Living up to their name by wearing dark blue surgical outfits, Clinic's pounding mix of indie-punk-folk and strange strange vocals was creepy but interesting.
Arcade Fire themselves were stunning. An energetic, kinetic live show thanks to the brilliant visuals and lighting, and the rambunctious nature inherent with so many band members and instruments on stage. Lead singer Win Butler's vocals were drowned out during My Body Is A Cage and a teasing opening to a cover of Pulp's Common People never came to pass, but the rest of it was joyous. The anthemic choral nature of their songs lend themselves perfectly to crowd sing-a-longing and clapping which required little to no direction, such were the lyrics and music engrained within all the attendees. Including myself. So I guess I wasn't alone after all...
Bah, screw sentimentality and lessons learned. Next time, I'm forcing someone to come with me.
----------------
Listening to: Clinic - Fingers
via FoxyTunes
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