And that’s what we got.

Cave has a new book out – The Death Of Bunny Munroe and the evening opened with him doing a reading.  Then to some music (with Martyn Casey and Warren Ellis from The Bad Seeds/Grinderman).  And quite splendid music it was too.  Take a ganders at the video below.  Seems some bloke spent most of the night videoing the thing.  I find this very slightly odd but it does mean that I get to have another look/listen.

Here’s Cave and the boys with Lime Tree Arbour:

As it turns out, there was a conspicuous (and odd) lack of annoying people in the audience too.  There were three idiot-women in the balcony who danced, out of time, with pretty much everything but they were distant and unobtrusive.  The audience was quiet and respectful which was lucky as the music and atmosphere was soft and understated.

All told, an excellent evening.

Apart from the fact that the chip shop was closed by the time we left the pub later.  Can’t have everything I suppose.

No longer will others laugh and point.  Follow these simple rules and seem instantly cooler when you go see a live band.

1. Don’t wear a T-shirt with the band’s name on it.  Wearing T-shirts with a band’s name is acceptable in some circumstances but never at that band’s gig. Just say no.
2. While, ostensibly, the same point, it’s worth elaborating and stating that if you bought your band-name T-shirt at Next or Top Shop or a similar high-street chain and/or, if the band’s name is spelled in sparkly sequins, you shouldn’t even be in the same building as the band.
3. Don’t dress like a member of the band. This is even more unacceptable than a T-shirt with the band’s name (unless it’s sparkly).  There’s a bloke who’s turned up to every Paul Weller gig I’ve ever attended who dresses like Weller and has hair like Weller’s (complete with bangs). He’s probably a very nice person but… you know.
4. Never sing along with the band’s most popular song. You know, that one that all the people who were quiet up to that point are now singing their little heart’s out to.  This has fair-weather fan written all over it.
5. Learn to clap in time.  If you’re going to clap along, hands in the air like you just don’t care, it’s important that you understand how rhythm works.  Try listening to the song, particularly the drums, and try to clap on the beats rather than at self-determined, arbitrary intervals.
6. Don’t hold up your phone so your mate at home can hear the band.  He can’t really hear it and you look like a twat.
7. Don’t spend the entire time texting your mates.  The lights in the audiences laps shouldn’t rival those on stage.  There’ll be time enough for texting when the dealing’s done.
8. Shut up. Pretty much everybody around you paid to hear the band, not to hear you chat with your mate about Big Brother. Zip it!

That’s it. Easy peasy. Now you’re too cool for school.  You’re not just Kool, you’re The Gang too.  You’re so cool you’re hot.

I’m still not going to talk to you at gigs, although I may not nudge my mates so much.

So many things wrong.  So many things

Still though, thigh-high boots…

Granted, it’s in a bloody tent in the bloody Phoenix Park and I’m in bloody Row ZZ, Block 99 or something. That doesn’t change the fact that I’m going to see Tom Waits. Am I allowed an “all fucking righty”?

Granted also, there are some insanely draconian restrictions on the tickets in an attempt to stop touting:

Only two per person and the purchaser has to bring a passport or driving licence to the gig so they can match your name to that on the tickets. Jesus! All are completely non-transferable so I’d better not get sick or something. There may be fingerprinting and DNA sampling. It’s like Gattaca or something.

Still, I’m going to see Tom Waits.

It’s Saturday night though, you see. My wife has popped off to visit her folks and taken my daughter with her. Free gaff! So I made a (spicy as fuck) chilli for dinner and settled down to have a few beers. After watching Pan’s Labyrinth on DVD (really good – really, really good), I’ve ended up watching the poptastic channels.

Had Bonnie Tyler on a few minutes ago. That video with the scary, flying, kid with the shiny eyes. Bleedin’ terrifying. Don’t they know I’m in the house alone?

Whitney Houston. Some set of pipes on her before she got shacked-up, knocked-up, and smacked-up with Bobby. Probably too far off her face to do much these days. I had a bit of a crush on her in the late eighties. Then again, I was in my late teens/early twenties and probably had a crush on everyone.

Four Non-Blondes. Jesus. What’s with the stupid hats and goggles anyway. She looks like some sort of weird cartoon character.

Now we’re talking. Bohemian Rhapsody. What more could a red-blooded, half-pissed man ask for? Not much, that’s what. Maybe a kebab. It’s lucky that those Queen blokes were talented ‘cos they’re not much to look at. A good line in white satin jumpsuits in this video though. Brian May’s got his guitar plugged in with a curly lead. You don’t really get curly leads much any more – for good reason. I kind of miss them though.

Oasis. Oddly, this is the first time I’ve ever seen the video for Don’t Look Back In Anger. I hadn’t realised that poor old Patrick McNee was in it. I could do all the obvious stuff about how Noel nicked his riffs and how Liam’s a wanker but I won’t.

‘Look Back In Anger’ – now there’s a good film. Anything with Richard Burton in it is good by default. And Claire Bloom was a fine-looking woman.

Don McLean’s on now (guess which song). I wonder if they’ll play the whole thing. It seems to be some sort recording of a live show. Huh, they played the whole thing. Who’d have guessed?

Peter Kay. Miming annoyingly to Amarillo. I’d better not get started.

Gloria Gaynor. How does something become a gay anthem? Why is Kylie a gay icon? What exactly is a gay icon? Does my heterosexuality preclude my knowing these things?

Ahhhh, Kylie. Lovely, lovely Kylie.

Bleedin’ Coldplay. Yellow, of course.

Pah, I’m going back to thinking about Kylie.

Mmmmmmmm.

Anyway, I’m having a listen to remind myself that I’ll soon be popping along to see him.  In June, thanks to some dodgy dealings leaving him stony broke, I’ll be sitting down to see him do his thing.  Hurrah for dodgy dealings as I’d never have gotten to see him otherwise.

.

Did any of that matter?  Really, though?  I have to stop posting when I’m full of beer.  I’m not my usual engrossing and erudite self.  I also delude myself into believing that I’m normally engrossing and erudite.

Sorry everyone.  Normal captivating and learned levels of posting will be resumed shortly.

One person that I do remember, however, was Paul McCartney. The reason I remember he was there is that, as the party progressed and as the booze continued to flow, he began to slow dance with me to Octopus’s Garden. Now, secure in my sexuality as I am, I didn’t protest at this and assumed it all to be a merry jape. I did protest however, when he started trying to French-kiss me a minute later. That was a little too much and I had to put a stop to things.

Paul McCartney. Trying to tongue me. To a Ringo song. It’s not right, is it?

Ten o’clock, I hear you shout, surely that constitutes a lie-on? Not if you got to bed four hours earlier after consuming a pond’s worth of Stella. It’s a young man’s game, that. A game that’s fine if you’re able to lie in the bed until two in the afternoon without a problem (as were my colleagues). Not so fine if you’re up and about at ten however.

This pattern was repeated for the duration of our stay. I wiled away these solitary morning hours before my colleagues’ rising by feeling like I was wearing someone else’s head, drinking a small plantation’s worth of tea and reading. Got to finish my book (the excellent John Banville’s “Eclipse“) and start a new one (the so far excellent “Fugitive Pieces” by Anne Michaels). I’ll long remember those woolly-headed, hungover mornings, shivering in the chilly conservatory (as it was the only sitting spot that wasn’t covered in beer bottles and fag-ash).

As to the recording, any ‘engineering’ I had was a doddle. The boys know what they’re doing so once levels were set and the record button hit, I usually had very little to do until the track was finished. A bit of rewinding/overwriting here and there. A bit of tweaking for the odd clip. A little shouting of ‘break now’ over the talkback if they weren’t 100% on the song. The occasional kicking of the Mac as Pro Tools complained about holding off interrupts or some such. Other than that, all I needed to do was press the right buttons at the right time. Easy-peasy.

And, contrary to my previous boasts, the time there was groupie and limo-in-duckpond free. The only vices on offer were beer, a little pot, some serious shite-talk and many, many cheese toasties. I’m sure Keith Richards would approve. I hear he loves a nice toasty.

This type of operation was performed before by my talented friends for their first album (sounds damn good and was pretty well received). This time they’ve asked me to pop along with them to help them engineer the thing. This is an overly impressive way of saying that I’ll press buttons, twiddle knobs and poke microphones into places.

I expect that there may well be some drinking involved too. I reckon that we may partake of a sweet sherry or two after a hard day’s recording (rock and roll types, you know) and I look forward immensely to that.

Anyway, I’ll be lucky if they have carrier pigeons where I’m going, much less a high-speed, broadband connection with which to make blog updates so this will be a post-free zone until Saturday or Sunday. Given the pretty sporadic nature of my posting, I doubt anyone will notice. On my return I’ll, no doubt, regale you with tales of groupies, class-A drugs and limos in duck-ponds.

Rock and Roll (I’m making devil’s horn signs with my fingers as I type)