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[w/ URC, Bloodthirsty Lovers]
Paddy goes Wonky, a Leagues Joint. Uptown Racquet club, The Bloodthirsty Lovers, the noise is…. Loud. Real fucking Loud. How anyone mange to sit through all four bands is beyond me. So tired I was, I had to lie down. As our first foray into the new venue, though, we’re impressed, except tat the sound goes horribly wrong for our show, with brand new gear being broken in. still, did anyone notice? Not really, they were deaf at that stage. As were we, but hey there’s booze to be had Brain girl and Dinghy Boy on the decks and I drift off on the couch upstairs, the smell of paint and dust still lingers.
Another day, another bus. A drive along the coast. We get to the venue in plenty of time, but they won’t let us in cos Lee Strasberg is putting on a class or something. So eventually we get in and set up and make noise as only we know how. You know how sound checks go, Simon plays Metallica for twenty minutes, pretending he’s getting his on-stage sound just so, we argue about what song we’ll check, and it always ends up being the second part of The Opposite of Addiction. Paul panics when he can’t find the power supply to the Keyboard. Brownfury walks in circles around the dance floor, honking the same phrase out nonfuckingstop, Jurgen tells all soundmen every where how to do their jobs, me and John do sir Duke and Vinnie sources the booze. Then out with the tourball, and a little kick about.
Then we’re left to our own devices, trying to find us our dressing room, or towels or booze, but there’s no one there. What do you do? Then the real fun happens when the crowd in the opera house next door come in and complain that we ruined their play with our sound check, cos that was all that could be heard and this was the last night and insults are tossed about with the gay abandon that only a thespian and a musician berating each can really pull off. For the record, this wasn’t our fault. We’re just dumb musicians. So, after the bouncers confiscate our cannage we go back to our dressing room, where the ordinary punter continuously mistakes us for the jacks, and they play motown downstairs way too loud. We’re too scared for the bar, so it’s off home for us, sashaying through the Saturday night madness. The B and B is clean, doesn’t look much like a brothel, and beats that Shelia’s place, where the Lurch sits at the desk and hates you. Tomorrow we’ll hire a bus and go home, and gigs like tonight will have made it all worth while.
