Wednesday I got paid. My policy on getting paid is that even if you have gotten far less money that you hoped/needed (which was certainly the case this time around) you should still allow yourself some fun. Because if you can't waste a bit of money the day/weekend you got paid. . . well shit, son.
So I went home and stashed most of my wages (paid in cash) where I always do and left the house with twenty pounds. The leaving-with-only-what-you're-willing-to-spend policy is also helpful in keeping things on the "oh, I shouldn't have bought that CD/last beer/t-shirt" range as opposed to "Shit>.!! I just spent everything i own and some of what I don't on dogfights, cocaine and women of the night."
Headed to Coyote for a punk gig. Coyote is about the size of someone's living room, so the music doesn't have to be great, just genuine. As it was, I saw Exeter band The Dead City Stereo who I keep ending up seeing on accident; I'm starting to recognise their songs. I don't go to many gigs at all, so the fact that there's a band (from out of town, no less) I've seen more than twice surprises me.
I also remember when that was my life.
At the gig I met up with Dave Beer and his Newport buddy Stubbs and we headed down to Mozarts for their first ever Open Decks Night. That's right. Show up with music, the in-house DJ shows you the ropes and you get 20-30 minutes to play whatever you want.
No one was there. Which was ideal, really. The Punks (john&jess) showed up and Keiran (who had his best buddy from back in the day visiting. It was mainly us and the staff, so I ended up getting to spin for an hour. Thing is, Rick had just played a pretty great set of proto-punk and leather-coated indie (Sonics, Brian Jonestown, The Only Ones) and Gemma went before me with a consistently bang-on set of '60s soul and r 'n' b. I knew I couldn't compete on that level of single-minded focus.
so what to do?
The answer (as is often the case in matters of life, death, taste or religion) lies with Steve Albini and The End of Radio. (see video above.) I believe the song to be one of the great combinations of music, lyrics and ideas of the last five years. . . that, however doesn't make it traditionally melodic, atmospheric or less than nine minutes long.
The beauty of leading with something like that is you can pretty much do anything you want after it.
This had a drunk-off-Stella-and-Tuborg Dave Beer jumping around and shouting HIT THE NOOORTH! into the faces of anyone there. There were a few people there by then and I just ended up playing a fairly trad-Graham set; some "anything by Ladytron" for Keiran, TV on the Radio and so on, closing with McLusky's "To Hell With good Intentions." Which i'm not posting here because if you know me, you've probably heard it. Enjoy some synth pop and Welsh instrumental maths, though.
This segued nicely into the next set, which was Hollie playing a mix of classic rock song and bands that sound like The Bronx.
"This is a total abortion of taste."-- Keiran, on the aforementioned set, possibly during a track by Boston.
So. From one abortion of taste to another, Adam, Keiran and Ian and I went and got Curry. At 2 a.m., when eating more always sounds like a good idea. The problem is, while nominally better for you than the dreaded Kebab, Curry is even worse the next day. It sits inside you and seeps through your skin; even the act of showering feels like you're wallowing in your own filth. The day after a post-midnight curry one genuinely feels like while there may be fleeting joys in life, nothing will ever be clean or whole again, for the rest of your life.
Which isn't necessarily how you want to feel getting up at 9:30 and rushing to the station to meet your girlfriend to catch a train to Cardiff.