The thing about performing is that the thing is the thing. Like in the Deerhunter, when De Niro says, holding up the bullet “ This is This! This is this!”. But it’s hard to predict what the this will be. Sometimes the thing works and sometimes it doesn’t . But what’s always true is that you don’t know and (mostly) learn nothing from the experience in the sense that, while there’s a general sense of déjà vu, there’s rarely any actual replication. It’s not to say that you can’t recognise a situation, and have a situational response, maybe, to whatever ‘s happening, but specifically you have your eyes closed. Or open, even.
For example, there’s no point in looking at a formica table, where the rider sits, and wonder where the corkscrew is or why the wine is hot and not cold and think that the fact that it was different some other night makes any difference. You’re just snookered, is all. Get over it.
Tonight, at LoveBox, we’re sitting glumly in a Portacabin with a poisonous rain falling. This is a situational thing I can’t do anything about. We’re in this container because our “real” dressing room is a golf buggy ride away on the other side of Victoria Park and it can only be used for half an hour pre show! This is a new new thing. It's hopeless. Of course, this "real" dressing room, full of girly cushions, heating, lighting, corkscrews, grand pianos, wireless connectivity, chilled Puligny-Montrachet and a boxed set of The Wire etc, probably does not really exist, of course, like the moon landings or getting paid in 30 days. And why the 30 minute rule? Is it because Duran Duran are precious about their environment or something, and GOF might invade their personal space , and give them the heebie-jeebies? Not me, mate. Her Name Is Rio? Non!
Whatever, we opt for a Portacabin next to our stage. It has four stacking chairs ( because, I think, the promoter saw our name "Gang of Four" and thought we needed only four seats) four weak floor lights and one (! where are the other 3?) table with warm beer and wine on it. The floor is slick with water, mud & grass; it’s shite. & there’s no bottle opener. Thomas , our bass player, can open a bottle of beer on the rings on his fingers, a useful life skill; but he’s rubbish at poking a wine cork into a bottle. I blame the teachers.
Our set’s short’n’sweet . 45 minutes precisely. I do what I can to keep up. The sun goes down as we play , and the little lights our LD bought from a pound store twinkle in the microwave.
After us, Friendly Fires play . I introduce my daughter, a huge fan , to the singer, who is a very nice bloke. A picture is taken for Facebook. But , jeez, what am I doing , presenting a teenage girl to a rock and roll band!? I should be sectioned! I make our excuses and we split, super fast.
For example, there’s no point in looking at a formica table, where the rider sits, and wonder where the corkscrew is or why the wine is hot and not cold and think that the fact that it was different some other night makes any difference. You’re just snookered, is all. Get over it.
Tonight, at LoveBox, we’re sitting glumly in a Portacabin with a poisonous rain falling. This is a situational thing I can’t do anything about. We’re in this container because our “real” dressing room is a golf buggy ride away on the other side of Victoria Park and it can only be used for half an hour pre show! This is a new new thing. It's hopeless. Of course, this "real" dressing room, full of girly cushions, heating, lighting, corkscrews, grand pianos, wireless connectivity, chilled Puligny-Montrachet and a boxed set of The Wire etc, probably does not really exist, of course, like the moon landings or getting paid in 30 days. And why the 30 minute rule? Is it because Duran Duran are precious about their environment or something, and GOF might invade their personal space , and give them the heebie-jeebies? Not me, mate. Her Name Is Rio? Non!
Whatever, we opt for a Portacabin next to our stage. It has four stacking chairs ( because, I think, the promoter saw our name "Gang of Four" and thought we needed only four seats) four weak floor lights and one (! where are the other 3?) table with warm beer and wine on it. The floor is slick with water, mud & grass; it’s shite. & there’s no bottle opener. Thomas , our bass player, can open a bottle of beer on the rings on his fingers, a useful life skill; but he’s rubbish at poking a wine cork into a bottle. I blame the teachers.
Our set’s short’n’sweet . 45 minutes precisely. I do what I can to keep up. The sun goes down as we play , and the little lights our LD bought from a pound store twinkle in the microwave.
After us, Friendly Fires play . I introduce my daughter, a huge fan , to the singer, who is a very nice bloke. A picture is taken for Facebook. But , jeez, what am I doing , presenting a teenage girl to a rock and roll band!? I should be sectioned! I make our excuses and we split, super fast.
