Good golly –
is it the Monday after, already? How the b*stard did this roll around so soon?
The
hangover - the loss of temporal function - is from Thursday night’s Soundscreen
performance at Brighton Corn Exchange. HundredthAnniversary and Luo were
ego-stultifyingly good, as were the big videos that were projected behind each
band. Well done to everyone – the bands, the video artists, the stage crew,
The Phoria Orchestra (yeah), Soundscreen…
Thanks to everyone
who came, too. It looked like a full house from where I was. That’s very nice
of you. We like to be watched. This goes out to all you kids at GCHQ, too.
This was a
nerve-fracking one. We all went a little bit wrong from about an hour before
the show until it was actually time to play. Jeb wasn’t the only one to walk
away from me, saying ‘I just…I just can’t
deal with you right now.’ I can’t be more honest than saying that is totally
fair. I’m just jealous that he actually can get away from me – I, on the other
hand, am stuck here. A jellied little prison of bone and skin. Thanks very much,
unfathomable state of being.
The nerves
and strange sensation of impatient dread (like say, if you just couldn’t wait to smash yourself in the face, despite the fact
that you have no reason to enjoy being smashed in the face) were probably from
the weeks of work and stress that went into the gig. Ed scored his b*lls
(bollocks) off (not in the Blue Peter
sense), Trewin manned the crow's nest of the good ship aesthetics, and Jeb…I
dunno…probably had something to do with the videos. You know what he’s like. I
don’t think I’m being unfair in suggesting that Seryn and I did very little –
though who knows how bad it could have got had those three grafters not had two
lazy urchins to target in their private moments together? I’ve said it before;
my purpose is to provide a common enemy, and thereby foster coalition between
potentially disparate parties. If you don’t like that, well…
Talking of
parties…nah. Let’s not have that conversation. It’s always slightly cringe-worthy
when someone talks about a after-party they went to when it mainly amounts to sitting
on a chair drinking regrettable amber fizz (none of that, anymore, please. I
don’t know why I returned to that place of worship – it’s bloody horrible) and
choking on air thick enough to take a seat in the House of Commons. It’s
cringe-worthy, I tell you. Especially when you consider the fact that the
highlight for me and my little flower of a follower was when the host presented us with his
collection of original Soviet pin-badges. I think the others were in the hot
tub on the roof. Let that sink in, then see if you want me to tell you about the party.
I thought
so.
So the
party…
And now I’m
like this.
Tim.
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