Hatfield and The Last Hurrah - Bulletin 14
I've spent the past two days with a house brimming full of people staying after Saturday night's frolics and some who'd anticipated staying in London for Sunday and Monday's Rhythm Factory gigs. And beginning to think about Christmas Shopping and clearing up the tip our house has become in recent weeks. So I've not been on line to see what I'm sure have been many many posts on the last DPT show on Saturday. But with a sense of completeness, I'm adding my tuppence-worth to the lists, and when I've managed to catch up on a few other things, I'll post an overview I've been working on about this autumn's touring.
Hatfield and the Last Hurrah - December 18 and 20 2008
I don’t think I can really think about Saturday at the Astoria 2 with any sort of perspective. My brain just doesn’t work that way. After all, it was the Last Hurrah. DPT’s final gig. And it had been coming for almost three months. More than anything, I didn’t want to spend Saturday evening thinking, ‘this is the last time I’ll hear this’, or ‘why didn’t they play xxx so I could hear it one more time’. I wanted to enjoy this gig like I’ve enjoyed the others, by allowing myself to get carried away by the music, the intensity and the crowd. I wanted to be in the moment, not thinking about the end. I wanted to have a good time and party with all the people I’ve gotten to know going to gigs over the past couple of years. A challenge? Perhaps, but one with a rather simple solution, no doubt adopted by many of those there on Saturday. Get shitfaced.
I’ve been feeling a sense of the end for the past few weeks. It crept in at Leeds, the last UK gig before the European tour. And then kicked in rather more effectively at Swansea. It felt like the beginning of the real end, then, the first of the scrag-end of a little series of rescheduled dates culminating in the final show at the Astoria. The Hackney Round Chapel stood out from the rest of the final run, transcending the DPT count-down to be something more, an event in its own right that raised consciousness and was somehow bigger than Dirty Pretty Things or their imminent demise. Hatfield had it in spades, though. A somewhat forlorn little gig tucked away in the students’ union of the holiday-deserted university campus, this, more than the final fling in London, seemed like the last ‘real’ performance. And so, for me, Hatfield had a taint of sadness throughout the evening.
The band hadn’t played in a week - since Hackney - and as is often the case with DPT, it showed. Everything seemed a bit like an un-oiled wheel at first, gaining energy and momentum as the set progressed. By middle of the set, the band had found their wave and was riding it hard, and by the encore, everything had loosened up and the band was giving it their all. A bit of conferring and shuffling delivered a surprise, Death on the Stairs, preceded by Carl muttering, ‘OK, we’ll play it though one of us doesn’t know it’. I Get Along provided a fitting, and cathartic end to the show, the small audience bouncing and screaming, ‘Fuck ‘em’ along with the band. Always a great communal moment. When the Doors, ‘The End’ came over the PA as we made our way out, it really did feel like the end.
It would have been bizarre, though somehow rather fitting, if Hatfield really had been the last show. But as was right and proper, it wasn’t, just the foreshadowing of it. By the time Saturday rolled around, I’d found a way to pack any sense of the finality of that gig into a box and gaffer-tape it firmly shut. I didn’t want to blight the last experience by feeling sad.
The ever-wonderful Paddingtons were the perfect antidote to any lingering gloom. Not only was their presence incredibly appropriate - old Libertines associations, Josh Hubbard having served his time as an honourary member of DPT when Carl broke his collarbone back in 2006 - but their smash-and-grab style was designed to get you to bounce not reflect. Just what was needed.
Then Dirty Pretty Things came on. Like mine, their party had begun some hours (days?) in advance. Like me, they seemed determined to enjoy the set and go out with a bang, not a whimper. From my perspective, wedged in tighter than a sardine, barely able to move, it was a set full of interest and charm. It had its ramshackle moments, as well as some musical delights. Craning to see either Didz or Carl, for me the slightly restricted view of the third row actually added to the experience, making it easier to just enjoy the music rather than to observe. They crashed their way through most of their usual set list of WtA and highlights of RASN, with a delightful interlude of a few songs they’ve not been playing much: Best Face, No Signal, No Battery and Blood on My Shoes. The encore included the lovely Truth Begins (with Kieran Leonard on keyboards), BURMA, Bang Bang and You Fucking Love it.
What can I say? They did us and themselves proud. If I allowed myself to spend a lot of time musing, I might bemoan the decision to dump Faultlines and Hippy’s Son (both on the setlist). I might wish that there had been a slightly less formal setting for the last gig. I might have felt a bit sad that the crowd was so unresponsive to The Paddingtons. But that seems churlish in the extreme. Organising the evening must have been a bit of a nightmare, with literally dozens of people sticking in their oar, giving, no doubt, their opinion of where it should be, what the band should play, and how it should all fit together. So, no doubt, the end result was a compromise, and was never going to be able to meet with everyone’s expectations. None of it matters, though, because it was great fun. And that was more than enough. Thankfully, they refrained from forcing us to listen to The End (a great song, I hasten to add, just a tad loaded in the circumstances) when the music was finally finished.
After the show, band members dribbled out into the crowded bar, and did the rounds, talking to fans, saying their goodbyes and graciously accepting gifts. I’m sure we’ve not seen the last of any of them.
A final word. This is not the end from me. As I’ve promised all autumn, I’ve begun to write an overview of the Last Waltz, which I plan to post over the holiday period for those of you interested in post scripts.
Have a lovely Christmas, everyone!
X Alice
Hatfield and the Last Hurrah - December 18 and 20 2008
I don’t think I can really think about Saturday at the Astoria 2 with any sort of perspective. My brain just doesn’t work that way. After all, it was the Last Hurrah. DPT’s final gig. And it had been coming for almost three months. More than anything, I didn’t want to spend Saturday evening thinking, ‘this is the last time I’ll hear this’, or ‘why didn’t they play xxx so I could hear it one more time’. I wanted to enjoy this gig like I’ve enjoyed the others, by allowing myself to get carried away by the music, the intensity and the crowd. I wanted to be in the moment, not thinking about the end. I wanted to have a good time and party with all the people I’ve gotten to know going to gigs over the past couple of years. A challenge? Perhaps, but one with a rather simple solution, no doubt adopted by many of those there on Saturday. Get shitfaced.
I’ve been feeling a sense of the end for the past few weeks. It crept in at Leeds, the last UK gig before the European tour. And then kicked in rather more effectively at Swansea. It felt like the beginning of the real end, then, the first of the scrag-end of a little series of rescheduled dates culminating in the final show at the Astoria. The Hackney Round Chapel stood out from the rest of the final run, transcending the DPT count-down to be something more, an event in its own right that raised consciousness and was somehow bigger than Dirty Pretty Things or their imminent demise. Hatfield had it in spades, though. A somewhat forlorn little gig tucked away in the students’ union of the holiday-deserted university campus, this, more than the final fling in London, seemed like the last ‘real’ performance. And so, for me, Hatfield had a taint of sadness throughout the evening.
The band hadn’t played in a week - since Hackney - and as is often the case with DPT, it showed. Everything seemed a bit like an un-oiled wheel at first, gaining energy and momentum as the set progressed. By middle of the set, the band had found their wave and was riding it hard, and by the encore, everything had loosened up and the band was giving it their all. A bit of conferring and shuffling delivered a surprise, Death on the Stairs, preceded by Carl muttering, ‘OK, we’ll play it though one of us doesn’t know it’. I Get Along provided a fitting, and cathartic end to the show, the small audience bouncing and screaming, ‘Fuck ‘em’ along with the band. Always a great communal moment. When the Doors, ‘The End’ came over the PA as we made our way out, it really did feel like the end.
It would have been bizarre, though somehow rather fitting, if Hatfield really had been the last show. But as was right and proper, it wasn’t, just the foreshadowing of it. By the time Saturday rolled around, I’d found a way to pack any sense of the finality of that gig into a box and gaffer-tape it firmly shut. I didn’t want to blight the last experience by feeling sad.
The ever-wonderful Paddingtons were the perfect antidote to any lingering gloom. Not only was their presence incredibly appropriate - old Libertines associations, Josh Hubbard having served his time as an honourary member of DPT when Carl broke his collarbone back in 2006 - but their smash-and-grab style was designed to get you to bounce not reflect. Just what was needed.
Then Dirty Pretty Things came on. Like mine, their party had begun some hours (days?) in advance. Like me, they seemed determined to enjoy the set and go out with a bang, not a whimper. From my perspective, wedged in tighter than a sardine, barely able to move, it was a set full of interest and charm. It had its ramshackle moments, as well as some musical delights. Craning to see either Didz or Carl, for me the slightly restricted view of the third row actually added to the experience, making it easier to just enjoy the music rather than to observe. They crashed their way through most of their usual set list of WtA and highlights of RASN, with a delightful interlude of a few songs they’ve not been playing much: Best Face, No Signal, No Battery and Blood on My Shoes. The encore included the lovely Truth Begins (with Kieran Leonard on keyboards), BURMA, Bang Bang and You Fucking Love it.
What can I say? They did us and themselves proud. If I allowed myself to spend a lot of time musing, I might bemoan the decision to dump Faultlines and Hippy’s Son (both on the setlist). I might wish that there had been a slightly less formal setting for the last gig. I might have felt a bit sad that the crowd was so unresponsive to The Paddingtons. But that seems churlish in the extreme. Organising the evening must have been a bit of a nightmare, with literally dozens of people sticking in their oar, giving, no doubt, their opinion of where it should be, what the band should play, and how it should all fit together. So, no doubt, the end result was a compromise, and was never going to be able to meet with everyone’s expectations. None of it matters, though, because it was great fun. And that was more than enough. Thankfully, they refrained from forcing us to listen to The End (a great song, I hasten to add, just a tad loaded in the circumstances) when the music was finally finished.
After the show, band members dribbled out into the crowded bar, and did the rounds, talking to fans, saying their goodbyes and graciously accepting gifts. I’m sure we’ve not seen the last of any of them.
A final word. This is not the end from me. As I’ve promised all autumn, I’ve begun to write an overview of the Last Waltz, which I plan to post over the holiday period for those of you interested in post scripts.
Have a lovely Christmas, everyone!
X Alice