I've had a pretty weird past 24 hrs.
First of all, it was Bonfire Night (also known as Guy Fawkes Night) here in London.
And people all over the place were setting off fireworks displays.
Loud enough and close enough to set of Car alarms.
Sheesh.
So, peeling my eyes and blocking my ears, I set of for West Kensington to go see Hilary's band play what I would find out would be their second show (their first show was in some dive in Essex).
This one was in a Pay-to-Play dive in West Kensington.
Four bands.
The first two don't really bear commenting on. First band: Lousy melodic Nu-metal townie fucks who forgot to check that it wasn't 2002 anymore (they reminded me painfully of why I hated performing the melodic songs that Dylan would insist on writing and sticking in our set: if their not great, they're like cement shoes in a swamp).
Second Band: the boyfriend of one of Hilary's friends was the lead singer, but I'm going to call the like I saw them anyway: they sucked, and how.
Lame anachronism alterna-rock badly voiced and rendered. The kind of music that could make a man almost wish that Seattle had accidently been destroyed in a freak Soviet ICBM Testing accident in 1981. Almost, because I understand that Seattle is a great City, whatever horrible musical influence it had over the 90s.
They closed their lumpen set with a cover of Sabotage, stripped of the intensity and energy.
The bassplayer didn't even have the gumption to realise that particular bassline just doesn't work UNLESS YOU ARE PLAYING WITH A PICK, YOU IDIOT!
After they finished I told the bartender to call the police, because someone had just Murdered the Beastie Boys.
Then things took a turn for the better.
Next Band: four Essex lads called Dead Beyond Buried. Crap name, no mistake, but incredibly good technical death metal.
And their drummer was phenomenal. World class.
And then Adastreia (Hilary's band) were on next.
Being as they lost their drummer in as yet unexplained circumstances, the drummer from DBB filled in behind the kit.
And they were brilliant. Keys were great (even if the clueless engineer had no idea how to mix them), the guitars were heavier than on the demo, the drummer (who I later found out had previously played two rehearsals and one show with them) didn't miss a beat, pummelling the kit with ferocity, accuracy and flair and wassername on vocals showed none of the lack of confidence that I had been warned about, delivering her lines wonderfully.
They were amazing.
Also: I gave Hilary the signed copy of Rosenrot by Rammstein that I had been planning to give her. Since she likes Rammstein so much more than I do, it was always what I was going to do with the CD. I told her it was for Christmas, or some birthday or other occaision I had forgotten.
Though ironically, she did need to be reminded that my Birthday was last Sunday. Still, she had moved to England by the time of my last Birthday, and we weren't together yet the Birthday before that.
Later I would find myself wondering, what does it say that I have spent so much of the time in my relationships making sure that my partner is okay, trying to figure out what's bugging them if they seem bugged, trying to cheer them up if they seem down and sometimes doing my impression of King Knut at the Beach (trying to hold back the sea) in order to stave of a total meltdown, while I can't remember any one of my girlfriends doing the same for me.
What does it say... is it that I worry too much about the state of mind of my girlfriends, and I should take a more detached position? Do I tend to gravitate to people who need that kind of high maintenance attention? Maybe it's just that my early relationships with high maintenance (or even completely neurotic) girls has put me in a hypersensitive state when it comes to these things, even when I don't need to be.
Or maybe it's the opposite. Maybe they are making sure that I feel okay, their just doing it in a much more subtle way, using the weird feminine sublingual signals that are completely subliminal to the male.
I'd like to think that it is because I don't need reassurance that everything is okay, that I can look after myself, that I've got enough for both of us etc. But anyone who knows me (or has even read a few entries of my ever neurotic and self-obsessed blog) knows that is not true.
Notably, back in Brisbane I have had girls say to me "There is something about you that makes me want to give you a hug and tell you that it will be okay."
Possibly tellingly, I don't recall these being girls that I was interested in relationships with. I could be wrong, but these were a while ago.
Clyo is right. I am in danger of becoming Woody Allen.
Or at least making a bid for some of his territory, before I am quickly despatched in a bloody turf war of neuroses and over-educated introspection.
Enough of this diversion (thank God, sing the gallery).
After the show I hung around, before a bunch of us (including Hilary and this Polish guy named Luka that she seemed to like (I didn't ask him if he lived on the second floor, I didn't think he would
know the song, I'm not sure how big Suzanne Vega is among Polish Death Metal fans) took the tube, each of us peeling off at various connection stations on the Circle Line or something.
When we got to Monument, only me and an Engineer who four years younger than me but looked ten years older than me were left. He was a friend of the shockingly bad Grunge singer of the even worse Grunge Band.
I wasn't sure whether I wanted to go home and sleep (or sit up and read and/or otherwise entertain myself) or whether I wanted to head on to Slimelight.
We decided to catch a bus to Trafalgar Square and peel off from there, since that vicinity would provide us with the options we needed.
Initially we caught the right bus the wrong way. Which gave me my first view of the Tower of London.
I've been here nearly a year and I have only just seen the Tower of London. By Accident.
As a tourist, I suck.
No wonder I haven't done much travelling. I'd probably walk straight past what remains of the Berlin Wall just to look in some crappy Techno Club.
It was after midnight by this point. We waited in an ever growing crowd of multinational drunks etc but the bus never showed.
Eventually we split a taxi to get to trafalgar Square. The taxi followed the Thames, so I go to see more stuff I don't usually.
Trafalgar Square: I decided that I was going to Slimelight afterall, since I felt down and confused, and the only thing to do with that was to go to a place full of haughty people I don't know where they play music I don't really like and not really have a good time.
Don't ask me how this logic works. It made sense somehow at the time.
No wait, it didn't make sense either.
When I got to the Corner of Tottenham Court Road, I ran into Mick the Tall, Skinny Metal Dude I know from Leytonstone. He had completely forgotten meeting me properly on Thursday Night (I would later discover that this wasn't to be surprised about) but his slightly more Gothish friend Warren talked me into hanging with them at The Crobar, sinking some beers and maybe heading to Slimes later, since that was what they were going to do.
The Crobar was actually pretty full of Music Journalists, but I had no idea who any of them were so I didn't introduce myself.
I did get talking to another metal dude named Gary, who was quite knowledgeable about Australian Underground metal.
Crobar Closed.
We all bundled outside and headed to the Bus Stop, where we got talking to an American Woman with Bleach Blonde hair wearing a retro dress with cherries on it.
She was from Boston Via New York, but she lived in LA. She was working in London. She was some kind of accesory designer (I've been trying the URL she gave me for her website, but I think she transcribed it wrong).
In any case, she was looking for somewhere to kick up her heels and the metal dudes convinced here (quite easily) to head to Slimelight with us.
One busride later.
We're at Slimelight. Mick is soon to pass out. Gary is completely out of his element and is looking bored with a hint of annoyed and dissaproving but Warren and I are on the dancefloor rocking out to the weird EBM that the DJ is spinning.
And Christine, the American woman is having a ball and dancing up a storm.
"Who could have thought a Gothic Club could be so much fun!"
That's the weird thing. Morbid as they seem, Goths love to party.
Backtracking: on the bus, somebody Warren mentions that he is 28. I ask Christine how old I look. She calls me at 19.
I tell her that she is beautiful, and pass her my drivers license to illustrate why (29 last sunday for those who've forgotten).
Perhaps I should have said: You're near sighted.
Mick passes out.
I keep dancing.
I go to the powernoise floor and jump around.
Back downstairs I run into a friend of mine, a regular at Strenght Through Joy. I think his names Callan or something. He's cool. He agrees with me that despite what die-hard industrial kids say, there is NO SUCH THING AS TOO MANY GUITARS.
Or guitar solos.
Cue Forward: Seven Thirty in the morning.
Christine has gone back to her hotel, Mick is still comatose.
I'm still dancing.
The club closes.
I jump on a bus to Marble Arch, and ride it glued to the window, surveying the buildings on the unfamiliar route (I usually take a different bus that takes me to Trafalgar Square, so that I can grab a slice of pizza at Leicester Square on the way back to Tottenham Court Road. I'm a creature of habit: all the Bad Ones. Thank you Garfield).
Flashback: between Trafalgar Square and the Crobar, I notice queues of kids in Leicester Square with blankets and stuff.
Given that they look too fresh faced and organised to be homeless, I ask what they are queueing for.
They tell me that it is for the Harry Potter Movie Premiere. Interesting. I'll probably see it on the news.
Back to the Bus ride:
I am so entranced by Sunday Morning London (Regent Street replete with newly arranged Christmas Decorations (yes, at the beginning of November) that I decide to ride the bus past Marble Arch.
Then Past Hyde Park. Then into Kensington/Chelsea. Then all the way over the Thames into Battersea. At which point the bus driver turfs me out.
It is nearly nine oclock when I get back over the other side of the Bridge.
The contrast between East London and the inner West London is pretty damn stark. East London: bleak, dirty and dishevelled, West End (South West more accurately) clean, green and pretty damn picturesque.
But you can be sure that if I would like to live there that the rents are insane.
I buy some Bagels and keep wandering.
I wander past the hotel where I lived the first two weeks I was here in London.
Buying the bagels for 35p a piece reminds me of the panic I felt in the first few weeks I was here, not having a place to live or a clue what I was going to do.
Maybe I should get back in touch with that sense of panic.
In any case, I finally found a bus in Earls Court that took me back to Marble Arch (all the one way streets in Kensington/Chelsea borough made it hard to find the right bus stop).
Oxford Street: jump on a routemaster to Oxford Circus.
Observe that it seems that none of the shops in London open on a Sunday until 12. Lazy limeys.
Wander further down Oxford Street.
Charing Cross Road.
I realise somewhere along the way that off Charing Cross Road is Fopp the Record shop (soon to be the recipient of one of my tightly targeted CV/Coverletter one-two punches) and Forbidden Planet, the Comic Book/Collectables shop.
I stop at Leicester Square to attend to some matters best left unblogged.
Then I retrace my steps and have a look in Fopp (hmm, bio of Frank Zappa, 5 pounds, might get that later) and then look in Forbidden Planet.
Bear in mind that I am getting pretty tired by this point.
I look around forbidden planet then pick out a Transmetropolitan trade paperback and pay for it at the Cashier.
Then I wander up to Holborn Station and take the Tube to Stratford.
Here's my thinking: I'm determined to stay awake until 10 pm tonight.
So I'm going to employ all the bad habits I have that keep me awake.
I've already been wandering around in a daze.
Next I'm going to employ another bad habit: finding something to read that I can't put down.
So I go to Stratford Library, where I find that the two books I requested about working in Retail have come in.
Pukka! I borrow them and have my other library books extended.
Then I find some other books and magazines to read.
Upstairs I find a copy of "Wrong About Japan" by the Australian Author Peter Carey (who lives in New York, but I once saw doing a reading at the University of Queensland... one of those semi random things that happen to me that I get to tell people about).
First I read an interview with Deborah Harry in Mojo, followed by an excerpt from a new bio of Jimi Hendrix, same mag. I learned some new things about Jimi and his influences.
Apparently, despite the mythology, as a teenager he wasn't such an incredible guitarist. But if he couldn't play something, he would hold his guitar, pose like he was playing it and just make the noise that he wanted to make with his mouth.
Interesting. Something I read somewhere (backed up by and old guitar teacher) is that it will make you a better player to Sing everything you play.
Me, I don't have the melodic range.
But I digress.
I start reading the Peter Carey thing. From about three to four thirty I read. I'm about a third through the book (which is pretty damn fascinating) when I realise that I keep reading things that aren't on the page.
I realise that I'm fading again, and I decide it is time to gather my swag and make another move. I borrow the book out in any case.
257 bus down to Leytonstone and into here.
While I was still in Holborn I scribbled this in my notepad:
The other night (at My Chemical Romance) my friend Paul described Every Time I Die as having a surprising amount of Posing and Headbanging.
Which reminds me of the the movie Max, where Noah Taylor plays a younger Adolf Hitler as a struggling artist who is befriended by Jewish Art Dealer Max Rothman, played by John Cusack.
Adolf is already giving speeches in the Beer Halls of Munich. Rothman takes this as a kind of Perfomance Art, because Adolf's delivery is so over the top.
"It is totally Kitsch. He just poses and screams slogans."
So I got to thinking, as Hardcore/noisecore/screamo/extremo/whatever increasingly rises out of the basements and firetraps and threatens to spill over into the mainstream, is there a point where Catharsis becomes Kitsch?
Perhaps that line was reached and crossed a long time ago.
In any case, I'm going to throw that bone into a couple of forums for the kids to fight over, and most probably for them to accuse me of over-analysing Hardcore and starting threads that no-one is interested in.
Enough blogging.
It is nearly seven.
Before ten, I am going to employ another trick that keeps me awake when I should be sleeping: I am going to make a list of the things that I intend to do tomorrow.
And then I am going to set my alarm and sleep like a corpse.
Over and out.
J
