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 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
