March 19th, 2005

end of a decade

mad, bad, sad night out

After a day of meetings, copyshop, and fighting my printer tooth and nail to persuade it that I need covers for the comics, damnit (they're still printing ... 15 mins a pop and each sheet needs individually loading ... but gods, they look lovely) I really want to kick back and relax and instead of spending the next four hours printing (as I should be doing) 16 covers, instead find two slices of day-old pizza and a can of red bull in the fridge, and suitably fortified, piss off down to the Wheatsheaf where some band called The Exploits of Elaine is being really, really loud. Which is nice.

After that, discover [break to staple a comic] that pretty much the entire room is full of teenagers and mummies but fortunately I have the tiny sketchpad with me. I draw a picture for Merry Andrew -- fanart of his characters. Not the minicomic promised, but it's something...

Two songs into Wait for Coniston M. turns up to tell me who they all were and which bands they used to be in. Another blender band ... although I am enjoying it. A fairly soft wall of sound, kind of bouncy. A bouncy castle of sound. They have a singer, novel in this instrumental scene, and he's not bad. Although I do want to give him a kicking. Nothing personal, it's just that synaesthesic lass is digging all the incomprehensible dissonances and he keeps running this melody line that tries to make sense of it, and I'm not here for that. No sense, damnit. None of that shit.

(... oxfordhacker on synaesthesic lass: worst reveiwer ever.)

The final's detwiije. They play three tracks. Afterwards, the guitarist collapses in a heap by the stage door; when he's upright again, I go tell him it was worth it, which I'm sure goes down like a mouthful of ashes. Never mind, there's always one way to make it clear to artists that you really do think they're worth something [break to staple another comic] and so "Would you rather be followed by Forty Ducks for the rest of your life" goes home with me.

Via a rather circuitous route that takes in trick mountainbikers with overpumped wheels, the frontman of icelandic-ish band Eberg, Mr Bad-date-head-in-red-stripe and a very drunk man called Rim who was a bit too young to understand why we were all laughing at that.

Collapse )Well, I'd best to bed now. Busy day tomorrow. I guess.
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    detwiije - misspelt dutch architect