We played at Silver Rocket this week. Apart from Tom, we all arrived on time (unusually), from our various corners of the country. Time enough to hang around listening to Big Joan’s basstasmic soundcheck, grumble about the weather, and eat pies. The soundman was good. As a result, the sound was also good. Our hosts played nice records. We drank free coca colas and token lagers.

Huw warmed up by providing some improvised drumming for friend and former Clamper, Former Utopia. About 90% of this worked extremely well. We nodded our heads, sang along to Double Negative, and smiled at Mr Utopia’s big ole grin.

Rob from Airport Girl turned up, unexpectedly, and happily drunked, and so I missed Herzoga, who were up next, while I chatted to him. We reminisced about the Go-Betweens. Imagine that!

We played. It seemed ok to me. Gigs quickly acquire a familiar momentum or identity. Sometimes this doesn’t become apparent until you’re underway, sometimes its evident even while you tune up and poke at stray leads with your toes. This was quickly one of those easygoing affairs where maybe we undersold ourselves a little, but enjoyed the process of doing it. I changed guitars too often and mumbled off-mic a lot. It didn’t really matter. Stagecraft. Pff.

We played three or four quiet ones to start (I remember Thieves & Curses, Sniper, and Night of the Steep Learning Curve). This was probably not a very Silver Rocket decision, but I enjoyed those ones the best. The sound was clear and crisp, and the room felt attentive. We played Liar then, which broke the shush, and although it perked things up, I wished we’d skipped it for once – but we then gave a very good account of Black Plumes, and a few other songs on the baritone. I remember a slightly clunky Canon (at least, I personally clunked – everyone else seemed fine), and an odd conversation with a rather polite heckler, which I probably asked for, having complained about my sausagemeat fingers. She came up to apologise, at the end – quite unnecessarily. Seriously, I get worse than that at home. Very considerate of her, though. We finished on Stone Beats This, which felt very good to me, despite the sausagemeat fingers.

We broked camp. In the DJ booth, Ms Smith admired the baritone. I was too flaked out to do justice to the conversation. We drank more coke and stared into space, thinking about our beds, while Big Joan got up and did it again. We ummed and ahhed about staying or going. The beds were calling, and we went, feeling a bit rude and trying not to make a big noise about it. Andy ran after us to pay us. Now THAT’s a promoter.

There’s a clip of the gig here (with some subtle subliminal messaging added by Mr Utopia) –

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p39XBduJwRI



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