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o I decided that Monday night was obviously the best night in the week for a beer-fuelled gig-going frenzy and linked up with the fortuitously back in the country jinty to go and see swearing at motorists which as well as describing one of my common morning activities also boasted a description just on the right side of the insane/intriguing divide so was good enough to be my band-I-know-nothing-about for the evening. Went down to the cellar early with a vague (and thankfully never realised) idea of drinking some cocktails and promptly ran into Nathan Madonna, one half of vacuous pop (down the pub the next night: So, is Nathan vacuous or pop? Vacuous!) who was of course running the gig which I should have realised really but anyway. So we sat there and chatted to Nathan and laughed while the bands all got electric shocks from the sound checks. S.Rock Levinson were pretty tight, the band was all together, and Mr Jumpy the singer and Mr Bangy the drummer were pretty energetic, and it was smile-makingly good, but synaesthesic lass kept whining at me, they taste of plaster of paris, they taste of freshly broken bathroom tiles, they taste like tic-tacs and not even mint tic-tacs, those weird orange and lime green ones, they taste like, like puff-ball mushrooms! Gods, I'd forgotten what puff-ball mushrooms tasted like. So was she making a sort of metaphorical quality statement, or was it just random brain noise? You never can tell. At this point jinty wimped out and went home, the Cellar not being very good for falling asleep in, but she'd been tipping half of her beers into my glass all night, so I was far too drunk to feel self-conscious about staying. Next up Jimmy Barock were Dutch and noisy and had much more attitude (a couple of them even performed with their backs to the audience!) but other than that eerily similar, as if the first lot had been run through a few transforms. Not that surprising, I suppose, bands are chosen for a person's taste, but then it was time to get bizarre with swearing at motorists, who sang crazy noisy funny stuff in between oblique stoned ramblings, and were making a really surprisingly big and clever noise for just two guys touring the UK by bus. I'm not sure I could do a very good job of explaining why they were really cool, but this might help.

Tuesday night, I had a play to review, called After the Dance, by Terence Rattigan (The Winslow Boy, The Browning Version). The audience was all wobbling with turgid expectation, wreathed in the smell of their expensive soap and cigars, dripping devore scarfs and knobbly amber jewellery, discussing the awfulness of theatre provision in Oxford, but the programme suggested a fine evening of comedy turns from veterans of such classics as The Bill, Absolutely Fabulous, Spaced, Robin of Sherwood... and it really was pretty good, like one of those classic technicolour romances full of lipstick and stiff upper lips and being strong even though you're falling apart. It was glamourous, and sad, and outrageous, and funny, and Damian bought me ice cream, and, at the end, when the big red velvet curtain came down, I was fully expecting swelling romantic music and the cast list in curly gold script, but instead, everyone just got up and left. The heartless fiends. (more of the same...)

Addendum: for those people who keep asking me what they should be wearing to the Rocky Horror Picture show,

a) How should I know?
b) http://www.rockyhorror.co.uk/virgins.html

Comments

( 2 worms — Feed the birds )
applez
20th Nov, 2002 15:38 (UTC)
Rocky Horror garb
Hmm, people ask about that? Well, most anything goes, even the utterly convention, so long as one critical clothing item is worn and displayed at the appropriate moment (I figure).

:-)

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tinyjo
21st Nov, 2002 01:26 (UTC)
Ah but we trust you. You're our guru of cool, particularly where dressing up is involved :)
( 2 worms — Feed the birds )