We creatures who dream of our own mortality
Who think of our deaths and then turn to our coffee
And scan the news for the hate and atrocity
And speak offhand ‘its oh such a tragedy’
We lie and we steal to feed our own egos
To pathologically turn our lives into shows
We are the characters who will never ever change
Create the same problems again and again
The statements we swear that we live our lives by
Are changed the next day to fit our changing lives
The situation’s not perfect, neither are our thoughts
But we say that we live by some book we have bought
A theory you pay your hard cash for
To make you have purpose, to make you want more
From the hole you have dug, the grain in your hand
To be more assertive, more specific demand
Can you fit your whole thesis in the lines of a song
Or will it just change when your needs move along
For something more fitting, to all your desire
Do you feel support? Do you grimace or smile?
Sunday 29 March 2009
Sunday 15 March 2009
Dinosaur Pile Up
Dinosaur Pile-Up
City Screen Basement
Imagine the worst gig you have ever been to. Chances are it was a shambolic event, maybe a PA broke or the singer stormed off. These are pretty standard grievances which go hand in hand with the clichés and pitfalls of rock ‘n roll, but my main gripe will always remain the middle of the road.
Dinosaur Pile-Up are a fairly interesting new band, dark basslines and crunching guitars mixed with enough shoutalong choruses to peacefully blend mass-appeal and blogger’s delight. Couple this with a tiny, intimate venue and enough hype to pack it to the rafters and it seems the scene is set for a myth inducing event soon to be the parable of the word on the grubby street. But, unfortunately everything runs smoothly. Too smoothly.Following a slew of dire indie-by-the-numbers support bands DPU take to the humid stage surrounded entirely in a pincer movement of hungry punters. Despite their rapidly increasing repertoire of anthemic gems every track seems to slide easily into the next with the minimum of banter or elation, the non-plussed crowd never really entering the spirit. Take nothing away from Dinosaur Pile-Up’s musicianship, every song is played expertly and with a minimum of fuss but by busting out easily their best track (the fantastic ‘Love is a boat & we’re sinking) in the opening ten minutes they crash the nail directly into their own coffin. Even drunken students wandering the stage and thrusting behind band members cannot bring excitement to what is a very disappointing and dull gig.
City Screen Basement
Imagine the worst gig you have ever been to. Chances are it was a shambolic event, maybe a PA broke or the singer stormed off. These are pretty standard grievances which go hand in hand with the clichés and pitfalls of rock ‘n roll, but my main gripe will always remain the middle of the road.
Dinosaur Pile-Up are a fairly interesting new band, dark basslines and crunching guitars mixed with enough shoutalong choruses to peacefully blend mass-appeal and blogger’s delight. Couple this with a tiny, intimate venue and enough hype to pack it to the rafters and it seems the scene is set for a myth inducing event soon to be the parable of the word on the grubby street. But, unfortunately everything runs smoothly. Too smoothly.Following a slew of dire indie-by-the-numbers support bands DPU take to the humid stage surrounded entirely in a pincer movement of hungry punters. Despite their rapidly increasing repertoire of anthemic gems every track seems to slide easily into the next with the minimum of banter or elation, the non-plussed crowd never really entering the spirit. Take nothing away from Dinosaur Pile-Up’s musicianship, every song is played expertly and with a minimum of fuss but by busting out easily their best track (the fantastic ‘Love is a boat & we’re sinking) in the opening ten minutes they crash the nail directly into their own coffin. Even drunken students wandering the stage and thrusting behind band members cannot bring excitement to what is a very disappointing and dull gig.
Monday 2 March 2009
The Bar Is A Beautiful Place (short story)
“I think I actually, like, fell asleep in the middle.” This clearly gains a positive reaction as someone actually lets out a noise certainly on a par with an elated pig inhaling. I stand up and unsteadily head through the strobe lights towards the bar, wrapping my ankles on a stray jacket and almost nosediving onto the gooey floor.
The bar-woman is stern faced and addresses me with as few syllables as possible. I point fixedly a drink offer for ‘Tuesday Madness’ and she returns after a few minutes with a double whiskey. Her features melt and contort in the uncomfortable heat. Heading back to my seat something completely unfathomable happens and I wake up in gutter around 4am smelling distinctly of urine and cigarettes.
The next night is planned much better and I am sitting alone quite happily in a 50s theme establishment with my head on the sleek surface of the bar humming ‘American Pie’. The staff are clearly well-trained and a different member of staff attends to me every half hour or so to check for vital signs without even the slightest hint of a smile.
Thursday night is the low-point of a week devoid of anything other than low-points. I can’t seem to reach anything beyond the stage of mildly intoxicated and every single one of my friends is an intolerable bore. I get a taxi home alone around 1am and sleep soundly. I dream of floating in a swimming pool in a shining light as the sides slowly deteriorate and dissolve in the chlorine until I lie in an endless ocean staring at the light and rotating slowly akin to a giant microwave.
I am invigorated and hopeful as the doors open and my eyes adjust to the intermittent lights and my nose composes itself from the sting of dry ice. After several drinks I am exposed to everyone’s greatest wit and observations, laughing like a hyena at a story about a friend of a friend who once got his head stuck in a blender and someone’s far cousin who once fell into a grain silo. As the day fades into the Sabbath my body relaxes accordingly on a subconscious level and I happily play out the rest of the night in a soft, comfortable corner sipping cheap wine and meeting those who happen to pass my way with kind words and clever remarks. Recognisable faces are met with dramatic exclamations and wonderfully insightful conversations bordering on the two-minute mark before excuses are made and we part company.
I stand in the shower for close to an hour, head rested on the wall, my fingertips contoured at steep echelons before stumbling into my room and collapsing on the bed. Most of daylight passed without me and I am greeted by a strange feeling of disorientation at the sight of the setting sun. After a few minutes enjoying a level of hush I make my way to the kitchen for a glass of water, dusting the crust from my eyelashes and coughing out the taste of cigarettes.
The bar-woman is stern faced and addresses me with as few syllables as possible. I point fixedly a drink offer for ‘Tuesday Madness’ and she returns after a few minutes with a double whiskey. Her features melt and contort in the uncomfortable heat. Heading back to my seat something completely unfathomable happens and I wake up in gutter around 4am smelling distinctly of urine and cigarettes.
The next night is planned much better and I am sitting alone quite happily in a 50s theme establishment with my head on the sleek surface of the bar humming ‘American Pie’. The staff are clearly well-trained and a different member of staff attends to me every half hour or so to check for vital signs without even the slightest hint of a smile.
Thursday night is the low-point of a week devoid of anything other than low-points. I can’t seem to reach anything beyond the stage of mildly intoxicated and every single one of my friends is an intolerable bore. I get a taxi home alone around 1am and sleep soundly. I dream of floating in a swimming pool in a shining light as the sides slowly deteriorate and dissolve in the chlorine until I lie in an endless ocean staring at the light and rotating slowly akin to a giant microwave.
I am invigorated and hopeful as the doors open and my eyes adjust to the intermittent lights and my nose composes itself from the sting of dry ice. After several drinks I am exposed to everyone’s greatest wit and observations, laughing like a hyena at a story about a friend of a friend who once got his head stuck in a blender and someone’s far cousin who once fell into a grain silo. As the day fades into the Sabbath my body relaxes accordingly on a subconscious level and I happily play out the rest of the night in a soft, comfortable corner sipping cheap wine and meeting those who happen to pass my way with kind words and clever remarks. Recognisable faces are met with dramatic exclamations and wonderfully insightful conversations bordering on the two-minute mark before excuses are made and we part company.
I stand in the shower for close to an hour, head rested on the wall, my fingertips contoured at steep echelons before stumbling into my room and collapsing on the bed. Most of daylight passed without me and I am greeted by a strange feeling of disorientation at the sight of the setting sun. After a few minutes enjoying a level of hush I make my way to the kitchen for a glass of water, dusting the crust from my eyelashes and coughing out the taste of cigarettes.
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