Friday, September 10, 2010


Friday 10 September 2010

Dream: Hirameka are all back together in Colchester for a big gig and/or to record some stuff.  Obviously with this event comes the necessity for me to share space with my Gringo Records cohort, which I try to resist at all costs.  Invariably we cross paths and unsurprisingly an argument ensues, an argument I don’t necessarily feel interested in having as these days it is not a battle worth fighting anymore.  Ultimately it’s just fucking draining and exhausting.

Unfortunately as I awaken the deflation of my dream filters and seeps through into my day and makes me feel down.  When the alarm eventually buzzes I really do not want to turn it off and for a moment I almost decide not to.

Outside it’s a horrid grey day.  We appear to have bypassed autumn and gone straight to winter.  Additionally the rain is back which creates cause for concern regarding our office and the leaks in the roof/ceiling.  Just what will I be walking into later this morning?  Over the course of my brief journey from home to the station the rain only manages to become heavier.  Disaster awaits.

I find I am asking questions of myself this morning.  Why am I so unpopular?  Just what is it that I do that pushes people away from me and repels them?  I truly have no idea.  Other people don’t appear to be so exiled or isolated so why am I so different and weird?

Always at Ingatestone.  Today another annoying customer (extra) manages to turn my train journey into an uncomfortable as they board at Ingatestone.  This is so self defeating.

Eventually the train crawls into London making the morning ten minutes late.  Which is disappointing.

Thankfully the ride across town turns out to be less laboured and more fruitful as I soon find myself emerging at St Johns Wood, grabbing the free weekly sports magazine in the process.

I enter the building with nervousness considering the rain last night and the fact that we forgot to cover our desks and computers but thankfully as I hold my breathe and step inside all is fine.  Not long after I arrive so does the Filipino and soon the boss as all begins to look well.

From here I have another good day.  The August accounts are now pretty much done so as a result things run like a breeze and it turns out to be a good end to the week.

With the boss leaving early due to it being Jewish New Year (and his wife being Jewish) we speed to 5PM unsupervised focused on escape.

Tonight LES SAVY FAV are playing at Cargo with the plan being to meet up at 7PM, which doesn’t necessarily help my cause as I exit work at 5PM.  With two hours to kill I head straight to the South Bank with view to picking up a programme for the London Film Festival.  Once I get there after a brief search of the BFI I get my wish as I suspect I may be picking up some of the first few copies being put out for consumption.

From here I head to Queen Elizabeth Hall where there is always someone or something performing in the foyer on Fridays.  And tonight it is some singer I have never heard of and am unlikely to hear of ever again.

My new favourite past time appears to be making (sometimes forcing) people to apologise to me.  And it’s never the right people who apologise, apologies that arrive hollow at best.  What is the point in me pursuing existence in a manner which appears right (civilised) when so many exhibit the trait/flaw of just not giving a fuck.  I truly resent being called “selfish”.

Soon the time is fast heading towards 6.30PM so I head back to Waterloo and take the usual route up to Tottenham Court Road and Liverpool Street.  For a while I was contemplating walking to London Bridge and along the Thames on an early Friday evening but that would be just too romantic to do and waste on my own.

As I emerge at Liverpool Street I step up out of the station and onto Bishopsgate with ten minutes to go to 7PM.  Walking towards Shoreditch I immediately find myself faced with the vision of Shabby from this year’s Big Brother walking along with a skip and a weird looking friend akin to being the Artful Dodger from some kind of Oliver Twist production.  What a coincidence that on the night of the final ever Big Brother I bump into it.  She looks just like she does on TV – awful.

From here I stroll to the venue at which point Racton phones me to find out where I am.  I’m coming, I’m coming.  Then however I suddenly forget just where exactly Cargo is.  Finally after a quick internet peak I find Rivington Street and enter the hipster confines of Shoreditch.

Within seconds of entering I spot an old character from the Gringo Records days called James Moore, who we unsurprisingly managed to piss off and alienate.  As is the Gringo way.

Soon I find Racton weighing up food options.  Worried about what Tim Harrington might do to me tonight I declare that I want (need) to get drunk at which point Racton responds “good luck” as he informs that his bottle of beer just cost £4.50.  Breaking the £4 mark on pints at bars really was opening the floodgates.  And these bottles aren’t even pints.  In the end ironically in comparison when we eat the food is relatively cheap as I have a very decent chicken burger with chips for £7.  Go figure.

Tonight in general the pair of us appear resoundingly grumpy as we take up our occasional roles as the Statler and Waldorf of indie rock.  Looking around we pretty much hate everyone and everything, even almost Tim Harrington who is lingering around joyfully.

Things improve slightly when we eventually stagger onto a comfy couch that says it’s reserved but not until later on tonight.  While we further grumble about work and people in general SPECTRALS begin their set in the background.  The sounds are not good and we can’t be bothered to lift a finger or investigate, instead we find it more productive and inspiring to be wowed by the visage of Tim Harrington still hanging around the merch stall.

Eventually Eleanor arrives and soon we are heading inside for LES SAVY FAV early because Racton goes by the clock on my iPhone which he doesn’t realise is annoyingly fourteen minutes fast due to the stupid time on the server at work being ridiculously wrong which gets picked up by my iTunes.  In every day life you begin to adapt to these things.

As we step into the live space thankfully our wait for the band is not too long as LES SAVY FAV take to the stage with some kind of Prisoner cum Flaming Lips bubble inflating onstage.  Without question we all know that Tim Harrington is hiding inside their waiting to spectacularly fly out and give us all nightmares for weeks.  For the longest time I wait with apprehension and brace myself for a deafening explosion akin to Keith Moon’s drum kit.  While we wait, as we begin to look at our watches on the stunt, the guitarist begins offering up various lesbian and orgasm jokes to feed our brains.

Eventually things kick off as Harrington comes bursting out of his cocoon to the strains of “Appetites” as if it were a condom splitting.  Within minutes he is in amongst the audience and out the door of the venue from where he quickly returns with a candle now balanced on his head.  Health and safety!  Health and safety!

Tonight the majority of the set comes from their new record Root For Ruin and with each wave of guitar noodles and the latest crazy action of the frontman I find myself enjoying a band performing new material more than I could ever have imagined so.

Soon enough Harrington, with his belly out, is rubbing up against our personal space.  Unsurprisingly before long he is standing right next to me prior to dry humping against the wall the guy previously stood next to me.  Moments later as Harrington heads off back on his rounds Racton tells me “you’re lucky that wasn’t you”.  True that.

There is a real sense of victory attached to proceedings this evening as our respective Friday takes on a far more upbeat and exciting path than usual as it slowly heads to perfect.  With a song such as “Let’s Get Out Of Here” the band touch a strong nerve and reflect on escape into exciting oblivion.  The answer to a song such as “Who Rocks The Party” is something that can not be in dispute.

In what feels like no time the set comes to a conclusion as the band exit the stage while Harrington remains in the audience seemingly oblivious to the fact that his band is no longer around.  Upon this realisation he begins a kind of “the night is young” declaration while rocking one of those rotten American impressions of an English accent.  We find that offensive don’t they know.  Then he strikes gold as he discovers that it is some girl’s birthday and thus the next song is obvious.

Eventually the band returns to the stage where they tear into an elongated version of “Who Rocks The Party” as the bass player indulges in some crowd surfing while still managing to play his instrument.  By doing this he takes our attention away from Harrington as he disappears without us noticing.  When he finally returns he is suddenly dressed like a Yeti which all in all makes for a terrifying scene, a visage to warn a person of further drinking.

And then soon after that is that.  Feeling suitably levelled I cannot help but fee I have just witnessed one of the best set I will all year, one that more than makes up for the duff note that was stuck by the band last October.

From here we exit onto the streets of Shoreditch with the other two heading towards Old Street as I bounce up Shoreditch High Street onto Bishopsgate in a rush to get a decent train home.  With minutes to spare I accomplish this as I eventually arrive home feeling a winner.

This was an awesome Friday.

No comments: