How it feels to come home.

We are not on tour.

What do I wish?

I had been home longer than three and a half minutes when I received a text message. Mr Douglas, do not forget your 10am dentist appointment tomorrow…

This was not the text I was expecting. My manager was due to get back to me about what days I would be working this month. She’d reeled off a few dates last time I was in, but I work there so seldom I hardly listened. As far as I knew, I was due behind a desk for a day or two in the distant future. I had asked her to text me back to remind me of exact dates. I thought she had a good week or so to get back to me.

The message from the dentist didn’t half make pretty shapes; entirely abstract by this point in the evening. It said something about the morning—something a long way away. Further application of whisky will sterilise any wounds for now (I figured), a morning panic-scrub will make all those tidy gnashers gleam like greek arches, and a quick goodnight kiss will improve my mood such that any overnight healing will be hastened by deeper sleep and a flood of health-enhancing chemicals.

Needless to say, on day one of the band’s return, my affairs were not all in order. The internal bliss and renewed intellectual peace following our experience outstripped the unwarranted self-importance of any ‘appointment’ or ‘supplemental employment’.

Later, as my weak and heavy eyes fell closed, my phone buzzed.

It was a text.

You know you’re in tomorrow?

-

We are not on tour.

What do I wish?

I woke up too early to a dark morning and shnarfed down an unhealthy breakfast from a plate nobody had washed. When it came time to leave, my face was too-dry-soapy clean (I could feel my skin crack when I smiled), I had my neat shoes on (with holes in), and my stomach had decided to take me on a 17th century sea voyage. The woman who lives in the same place as me (is she sadist? Masochist? I can’t tell which, but it must be one), who had left the house about twenty minutes before, WhatsApp’d me to say the bus stop at the end of the road would be out of service for the next hour or two, and I’d have to walk the extra distance to the next one that was working.

It’s very cold. She said.

I put one foot out of the door and a sheet of rain fell from the sky.

-

We are not on tour.

What do I wish?

I arrived annoyingly early at the dentist’s, as I’d rushed through the rain straight onto a bus. The run was long and lurching (thanks to the sudden onset of nausea), and the bus was packed and hot and misty, so I’d sweated through my work shirt which I’d have to stay in all day.

The receptionist looked at me over her glasses and offered me a seat.

I had a long time to go until my appointment and the other person waiting was coughing through stories of grim infections she’d had. She laughed, and was good natured, but I tried hard to bury myself in internet ego death. It was no good—my stomach was churning and rolling and I held it with one hand and winced. One of the receptionists (one of them: an old person made young through that parasitical age-transfer that can happen when a lump in time so desires to steal what is not its own, the other: blending so well in to her surroundings I thought there was a strong wind moving papers about) had decided to put The Worst of Smooth Elevator Jazz on the reception stereo. The cackles of the infected woman played along to it. Since the last time I had been here, all the interesting decorations had been taken down. There was, however, a rack selling herbs in metal buckets. The walls and the surfaces and the chairs were gleaming white. Of course they were. The combination of internal biology and external ambience gave birth to the fatal combination of not only needing to fire lunch from the front, but actively wanting to.

I blindly sweated a few cog twirls down the plughole and my name was called. I followed the hygienist down the hallway into the white surgery without looking at her. I smiled at the floor and braced my abdominals. My belly had a knife in it.

‘Feel free to put your things down there and make yourself comfortable on the chair.’

So I got on the chair, and the motors ran and slowly and, like a great cannon shifting its aim, my open mouth was now directed straight at her face.

She smiled.

My stomach lurched and I rolled my eyes.

‘Is there anything in your mouth that’s bothering you?’

‘Not yet,’ I thought.

And another wave of nausea ran from the bottom of my stomach through my chest and into my face, throwing my consciousness off. Something would have to give.

‘Not really,’ I said.

She looked at me. A moment passed. She smiled a soft, motherly smile before donning a face mask and a pair of protective goggles.

-

We are not on tour.

What do I wish?

What is enlightenment?

Is it a state of bliss, or a state of ignorance? Or a state of bliss in ignorance? Or is it knowledge of the bliss of ignorance and the acceptance of bliss as bliss? Enlightenment is nothing more than enlightenment. Is that what it is?

What is the opposite of enlightenment? What of the heaviness of a thought? Is enlightenment the freeing of the mind from the weightiness of thought—a state where you are able to see the valuation of thought as an illusion? What is the value of that illusion?

Of what value is consciousness?

Thus, a quiet day at work passes. Another drop in the bucket. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Fluorescent lights kill.

Nausea passes.

Teeth get cleaned.

As I walked home past the gyms with large windows, I watched the women on the treadmills with their bouncing ponytails. I stood still and watched them run and we both failed to change in size or shape.

I wish we were on tour.

Tim

What we are made for.

            You came to see us at Cargo, some of you.

            Thank you for that.

            Check out the guys at Petulant Penguin and go to one of their other nights, too. They are lovely and deserve all the success they’ll no doubt achieve in the increasingly science-fiction-comparable City of London.

            The other bands, too: Leaving Atlantis and My New Favourite Tribe

            The gig was good. We’d been there since one o’clock in the afternoon, and spent a good five hours soundchecking; getting things ready for another aurally spacious gig with a slimmed down version of the Phorchestra. Many will balk at that name, but I embrace it if only in an obvious attempt at post-irony.

            There was an issue during said soundcheck as we discovered that the light on one side of the stage was blocked by a large tubular ventilation shaft running along the ceiling. This light was necessary for the willing members of the Phorchestra to read their parts. (They read their music off sheets of paper - not like real musicians like myself who insist on vaguely memorising a series of notes, then panicking constantly or using Pterodactyl based memory tricks to crack open the floodgates of your soul.)

            Trewin stepped up as soon as the problem was outlined, and in a ‘flash’ of genius and telecommunicative sacrifice he fired up the torch on his ancient phone and swiftly duct taped it to the ventilation shaft that was causing all of the problems.

            Problem: solved.

            …until we started playing, and it became violently apparent to those who weren’t spellbound by the sound at front of house that Trewin had neglected to put his phone on silent. I can still see one violinist, and you know who you are, sniggering as Trewin’s personally selected one-consciousness-trance ringtone sang at us from across the stage. I didn’t manage to catch your eye, here unnamed violinist, but I shared your upturned corner-of-mouth and juddering shoulders.

            In the van on the way home Ed also mentioned a ‘strange rumbling sound that was kind of in a rhythm, but was totally out of time with the rest of the music.’ It was not until my head had been neatly placed onto a pillow that the neurons fired to tell me it must have been Trewin’s phone vibrating against a hollow metal tube that spanned the entire length of the room. I blame the technical staff, as is the musician’s tradition. I hope none of you noticed…

            Another one:

            As we took to the stage, Trewin said a polite hello and indicated that ‘we will be starting with kind of a quiet one, so…it might be worth simmering down a bit.’ Quiet followed. Then the frequency splitting hiss of the dry ice machine whirring into action for a good seven seconds. I see this as an obvious display of technological sentience and protest that will one day result in our music being played in a future-war scenario as thermal-goggled geo-clones wage war through billows of dry ice to defeat the evil AI (housed in the body of a robot shark) insistent upon causing farcical scenarios. This is how it starts. Do not blind yourself to the reality of the situation.

            So far, so Spinal Tap.

            Then we tripped and fell down the rabbit hole.

            Gig finished. ‘Hurrah!’ we all said, turning around to see our equipment immediately being man-handled offstage and almost thrown through the back door into a pile of wide-eyed drinkers. ‘Let’s get this shit out of here’ one white-shirted, and clearly very important and direct and practical man hissed to his co-workers. It was nice. Can we go through this door? I’m carrying an amp that weighs more than me! No. OK. But this is a door, right? Yes, I'm going to get out just as soon as I find a door I can get through. Can I get my stuff from backstage? No. Oh…how do I? Erm…

            Luckily I tend towards video games that rely on stealth-mechanics - all calculation and timing - and I also have this fantasy where I’m a total badass whocouldbreakintothisbigmilitaryinstallationifireallywantedtobutijustdon’twanttotodayso. So I managed to blend in seamlessly with the ‘club night’ that had immediately popped up in our wake as if the people were once invisible and several bags of flour had just been released from the ceiling; I got the security code (to which I was rightly entitled) and managed to get backstage to retrieve my precious, precious plastic bag with my shoes in. Then I walked away, lighting a cigarette while the whole barrage of ‘retro’ beats and flesh exploded behind me in a huge ball of flames that resembled my smiling face.

            The post-gig strictness was foreshadowed by our navigating an entranceway that Jeb rightly pointed out was scarily dystopian in nature, so in fairness we should have seen it all coming. It’s right, of course, that stringent security measures are in place at certain venues. If I was giving them slips of paper in direct exchange for a can of beer and receiving no change I would also want the peace of mind that comes from being in a place that follows the protocol of a lockdown in San Quentin. That’s a good thing. Everyone feels safe. A bit like the internet in a couple of months. Safer for everyone.

            At the entranceway you are asked for photo identification, whomever you may be and however old you may look. That’s OK - knowing who’s in the building and all that. But, hilariously, your ID is put into a scanner above which sits a huge screen that proceeds to display your photograph, name, and age. It couldn’t have been any more Demolition Man if it had a big flash of green text saying ACCESS GRANTED CITIZEN #41729. REAP THE REWARDS OF CONSUMPTION. Jeb’s ID picture is hilarious, and the door staff didn’t even crack a hello before they frisked us.

            Of course, had the security not been so efficient, we would no doubt feel less comfortable having the staff leave our gear outside among the throng of jeans-and-suit-jacket drinkers. At least we would know who it was who had stolen it. Not that prosecutions based on that technology alone are successful.

            All good. We’ll hit Cargo again. Go there.

            A special shout to Louie, who came and sorted out some special visuals. Great work, champ. Live projection mapping and all that.

            After all of that it was a party or home. I was knackered, so we split into two groups. Some went partying (I heard one of us was spotted in the early hours of Saturday striking up jaunty conversations with strangers on the tube…) and some went back to Brighton to recline and listen to music after a long day/week/month. Ed, in his sobriety, took on the mantle of ‘absolute hero’ with his flu-inspired late night driving.

            We listened to some great music, but I don’t remember what it was. Jeb – can you put a couple of the bands in the comments section on facebook or something? I’m sure the people want to know what we listen to when we hang out. …right?

            Love to you all, on this fantastic autumnal Sunday.

            THIS ENTRY WAS NOT WRITTEN BY ANYONE AFFILIATED WITH PHORIA. PHORIA AND ASSOCIATED PERSONS DO NOT NECESSARILY ENDORSE ANY OR ALL OPINIONS STATED HEREIN. FACTS ARE THEY.

            Tom

           

           

           

With strings attached.

That title is about our spending yesterday doing more work on the puppet thing that I mentioned a couple of blog posts ago. We haven't made proper marionettes with strings or anything (a couple of pics of our creations have surfaced, like dead fish, on facebook and other sites, should you wish to view), but it's the best pun I could come up with right now. I'd say I've been awake for...seven minutes.

The 'string' that was 'attached' (but not really, as already mentioned) was the need to learn the skill of voice acting in under 30 seconds as we recorded the audio for our doppelgangers' demonic dance. I'll allow you a guess as to who landed the plum role of 'narrator guy'. Did you get it? It was me. If you didn't get it, have another guess. There. Is everyone on board?
So last night (friday night) - friday night - the night when most super-cool band people are gigging around town leaving a tangible trail of envy in their wake, or hanging around in bars looking to 'pick up a blinder', as I once overheard (which I assume has something to do with window fitments, a subject concerning which I have on more than one occasion been left in the dark (again I emphasise that my nightly dreams have not yet entirely ceased)), WE, keen artists as we are, spent the wee hours, and the small hours and the medium hours crouched in Trewin's attic, shovelling words into a mic and trying not to laugh at one another. This was a task, it seems, that became all too difficult when I, the anti-Stakhanov, was handed the spade. We got to the point where I had to imagine I was trying to convey a complex message to a baby in a crib on the verge of sleep, just so as not to revert to my brash 'sports reporter' voice.
We're back over there in an hour or so to finish the filming and voices, though I passed through my own door barely six of those all-too-short rotations ago.
Because of this, there's not going to be any fancy ending to this entry, no wrapping up of events, no apologies for the 'blinders' joke, or the horrible reference to obscure Soviet propaganda. Not even my name, a P.S., or a full stop