watch the omens, my son, and rejoice, for if those omens are of the shit nature, then a great gig thou shalt have. It’s a logic as old as my socks, that for a while didn’t matter, as there were too many gigs, or too many omens, or all the gigs were shit regardless, or something. But as we manged to mangle every single, minutest aspect of the soundcheck and load in and the minutiae of getting shit together, it boded well, obviously. Right? I mean, we got away with it. From trying to get a sneaky extra hour in the studio to work on a part of a song we rewrote in a conversation, and failing as someone shouldn’t have expected someone else to be getting text messages as they were in bed having gotten in at 7 in the morning, to Paul being held up and arriving late to find that the rest of us had somehow forgotten his stage Roland to having to put back the soundcheck so John could go and get some gear that had gone missing to Vinnie’s usage of an amp head that he was at that moment introduced to trying to run through a fix in a song that most of us were hearing for the first time it was all a catalogue of reckless amateurism that filled me with joy. If the easy bit has gone so terrible wrong, and yet right (we finished the soundcheck eventually, to a certain amount of satisfaction) then the gig is bound to be a success…..right? Right?
As i stood there watching the excellent support from Pk and Seadog among not many people i thought that it had finally caught up on us, and we were finally fucked. The gammy soundcheck just the precursor to a night of biblically awful proportions. But it wasn’t, it was the opposite. it was a fucking terrific night. We played a song that was 28 minutes long (at least). our set, just over an hour, consisted of 3 numbers. And people seemed to like that. It felt pretty fucking good. It felt like a return to something.
Now, if we could just master the tiny art of getting to and from a venue with a bag of stuff, we’d be fucking sorted. But then, if it were easy, we’d get bored.