There IS a Hell. Walkabout be thy name.
Walkabout. I can safely say that place is the biggest, most stagnant, most odious, most abhorrent, fly-infested, leper-repelling shit-hole I have EVER been to in my LIFE. And I've been to France. Such is my hate for this repellant abode of a the damned, that if it were a person I would give serious thought to raping, murdering, and dis-emboweling it. And that would be letting it off lightly.
Where to start? To begin with, Lucy, Simon and myself were appaled with the very idea of playing in such a venue. But Will was adamant he wanted to do it, so we reluctantly agreed. Lucy was on the receiving end of a nasty kidney infection and in a great deal of pain. Mel has been away at a conference in Birmingham and just got back yesterday evening, so I would much rather have spent the night with her. Simon walked in the joint and immeadiatley got a bunch of disgusting, braindead morons goading him with Elvis jokes. And that was BEFORE they saw Will in his garish red suit an stetson. The DJ earned the name of "Disco Dad", and was the cheesiest stereotype I have ever had the displeasure of meeting. This was gonna be a SHIT night, make no mistake.
The drum kit. PIECE OF SHIT. The pedals were loose as the drummer had neglected to bring a drum key. The way he had set up the kit meant that I literally had to stand up every time I wanted to hit anything that wasn't the snare. The high-hat certainly lived up to it's name - it was so fucking high there was snow on it. The seat was so fucking low Satan himself could have probably perched his horned red ass on it should he so have desired. When I attempted to raise it, I was told by the guy that "Yeah, huh huh, I've never been able to adjust that, that's why it's really low, huh huh....". WANKER!
The sound was appaling, absolutely dire. No guitars, no bass, in fact ALL you could hear was the fucking high-hat ringing away on it's mountain top perch, shattering anyones eardrums in the near vacinity. Of course we played shit, because we all FELT like shit. The very MOMENT I hit the last beat on the last song, I stood up, picked up my snare and walked the fuck out without saying goodbye to a single soul.
My brain has already started to protect me by blanking out as many details about the gig as it can, and instead filling up with the endorphine-enducing memory of making sweet love to my beautiful girlfriend afterwards. Here it goes.................
..............Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Where to start? To begin with, Lucy, Simon and myself were appaled with the very idea of playing in such a venue. But Will was adamant he wanted to do it, so we reluctantly agreed. Lucy was on the receiving end of a nasty kidney infection and in a great deal of pain. Mel has been away at a conference in Birmingham and just got back yesterday evening, so I would much rather have spent the night with her. Simon walked in the joint and immeadiatley got a bunch of disgusting, braindead morons goading him with Elvis jokes. And that was BEFORE they saw Will in his garish red suit an stetson. The DJ earned the name of "Disco Dad", and was the cheesiest stereotype I have ever had the displeasure of meeting. This was gonna be a SHIT night, make no mistake.
The drum kit. PIECE OF SHIT. The pedals were loose as the drummer had neglected to bring a drum key. The way he had set up the kit meant that I literally had to stand up every time I wanted to hit anything that wasn't the snare. The high-hat certainly lived up to it's name - it was so fucking high there was snow on it. The seat was so fucking low Satan himself could have probably perched his horned red ass on it should he so have desired. When I attempted to raise it, I was told by the guy that "Yeah, huh huh, I've never been able to adjust that, that's why it's really low, huh huh....". WANKER!
The sound was appaling, absolutely dire. No guitars, no bass, in fact ALL you could hear was the fucking high-hat ringing away on it's mountain top perch, shattering anyones eardrums in the near vacinity. Of course we played shit, because we all FELT like shit. The very MOMENT I hit the last beat on the last song, I stood up, picked up my snare and walked the fuck out without saying goodbye to a single soul.
My brain has already started to protect me by blanking out as many details about the gig as it can, and instead filling up with the endorphine-enducing memory of making sweet love to my beautiful girlfriend afterwards. Here it goes.................
..............Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.