Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day (cleanskies) wrote,
Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day
cleanskies

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kimya sings sad songs : angel has white satin sheets

I ducked out of our regular night of pub confusion by going to a gig instead; Kimya Dawson in the Cellar, supporting Herman Dune. Early, in case they had a second support, which they did; the lead singer of latest Oxford-band-with-a-very-long-name The Epstein-Barr Experiment. Apparently with his band he's a lot louder, but on his own, he was pretty much a male KTB. Except more repetitive. Whatever happened to lyrics? I have nothing against repition, but if you're going to repeat yourself, a lot, you'd better pick a perfect line, not just some yeah-yeah-oh w/strummy stuff.

Still, the bar was a good place to be; tall Oxford boys with faces like antique sculpture, pretty girls actually wearing those 80s retro fashions that look like someone got creative with a primitive duvet cover, chatty out-of-towners just passing through (for a night, a weekend, seven years), rosy-cheeked boys trying to decide if they're gay, slump-mouthed trollops in embroidered halter-tops. I felt more alien than ever despite my Kimya Badge, and Gareth Jeremy Dennis!-ing me, and gossiping with Roz (in a band) about people (in other bands) I don't know. Green hair or no, now more than ever it seems stupid to be living here, and not just passing through, like everyone else; just a stopping place, not a staying place. Kimya's good for alienation, though, and family woes and drinking too much beer and wondering if anyone really likes you at all really. She's almost all lyrics. Lyrics and hair. The beer was half-price, so I bought a CD to play when everything's just not fair.

The cellar runs late so it was after closing time before Herman Dune came on. The sound seemed rather loud, so I kept edging backwards, eventually ending up wedged against the soundbooth with the band blasting in one ear and more musico gossip blabbing in the other. Though that did have the side benefit of putting me far enough back far enough to avoid Dune's bold anti-glamour statement (scowl, beard, back-hair) I was still feeling beaten round the head, and three songs in I started yawning and couldn't stop, so walked home, playing something a bit softer on the ears.

Back home, Damian showed me the second episode of new Angel, which seems to have turned into some unholy fusion of Sex in the McLA Law and slash fiction.

Interior, dark, ANGEL's room. ANGEL blunders in, takes off his shirt and slides into bed.
Spike: Well, this is nice.
ANGEL jerks upright.
Angel: Look, I know you're haunting me, but let's make one thing absolutely clear. This room -- my room -- is off limits!
Spike: Relax, I'm, not here to talk.
No dear, of course you aren't. [ ... ]
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