Hopeless. I'm piling up all my chores for wednesday, I can't look at my screen without feeling sick, and I'd call the service desk again but honestly, what's the point?
The Point is a venue in Oxford which I kind of liked. The Brewery just shut it down though, probably because indie rock is just too scruffy. They're going to put a big-screen football loud-music karaoke hell-hole there instead. Isn't that sweet.
There was a farewell gig, with tears and champagne (yep, this is Oxford), a "Your Song" special. Your song means lots of bands, doing covers, of songs they love and songs they hate, there have been a few of these before and in-crowdy it is. But fun for an outsider like me it is too. Even if I don't know everyone's names.
I got there a bit late because of chinese food and fireworks. Missed the first one and a half bands. It was pretty crowded, even for the Point (small, sweaty, black upstairs room, you know the sort) and only a few of my friends made it in. I could see the stage but only just (I was behind one of those irritating couples who won't leave each other alone or actually start having sex) and as far as getting drinks went ... well, I managed to buy one pint. So if the details are garbled, blame the lack of booze and heat exhaustion. I need at least a bit of alcohol and oxygen before my memory kicks in. However, it was a pretty f***ing unforgettable night.
I walked in on Kylie. Kylie was popular with the younger bands, while the older ones favoured Led Zeppelin. Shrieking, shouting, big guitar noise, bad costumes and worse wigs were the order of the night. All together now, reading copies of Nightshift like hymn sheets, "Bass, how low can you go!"
So, Six Ray Sun gagged the singer with duct tape and got in two singers from other bands, her from Meanwhile Back in Communnist Russia and I recognised the other one but can't place her to recreate Sugarbabes Train comes (or whatever it's called) as anguished goth poetry and cool superior chorus; work of genius! and ATL belted out Bikini Girls with Machine guns complete with a bikini girl with a supersoaker filled with champagne to cool off the crowd. Him from Dustball squirmed and choked but managed to do a work of true redemption on that f***ing Craig David Friday Saturday song as a solid anguished punking shout. Then back to Kylie again. We all love Kylie. Especially her arse.
In between bands, the fire escape was kicked open for air, and people took the time to rest and shout and run for drinks but the bands were hustled on and off pretty fast. Regulars start heading for the bar half way through the last number. I can never bring myself to do that. The last song is always the best.
The cock-rock gods (several of the bands went this way) headbanged their wigs off and waved stuffed crotches at the crowd, people trying to dive or surf (it was packed enough, but any crowd will part if it's feeling uncooperative -- a lonely stage diver disappeared floor-wards during a Spinal Tap number, feet up, head down, that had to smart) but The Rock of Travolta went off white rap-wards with Discovery Channel, crotch-grabbing and cheese-graters round the neck (ouch! ouch!) The Rock really know their stupid-rock stuff, wanky guitar madness, synchronised posing, dumb costmes and dumber songs, keeping the anger, but having fun with it.
After that, half a dozen Spinal Tap songs. After that, the end. The Point is gone. Long live the Point (for the moment, downstairs at the Zodiac).
Things I hate: clingy couples at gigs. You know, the sort who seem to be worried that if they stop grinding their crotches into each other for five minutes they will instantly lose interest and leave. The sort who just won't stop whispering and hugging and touching each others' hair in this irritating, "Look at me, I have a girl/boyfriend way". The sort who keep compulsively scent-marking each other, in a repetitive, tedious, un-excited way. They're not going to have sex in public, they're probably not even going to have sex that night, but they won't stop fiddling with each other....
Yeah, well. Later.