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Incognito
We got in the Guardian.
There were a few patches of thin ice on the night but I don't think the audience noticed.
There was some unglamorous shifting of tables and chairs, my little arms straining up and down the stairs. Waiting for people to stop smoking; rain.
Afterwards, we all got pissed and I was a bit delerious. I got chatting to the mother of two gay teenage boys, one of whom had been performing. "Yeah," the eldest son said. "She had me first and she thought 'Oh fuck, a ginger nut, and gay. Let's try again.'" We went to the last open pub in Lancaster. "You're a load of cunts and it's been a shit night. Bye!" I said. "My thoughts entirely!" said David Copperfield, and we broke up.
I came home to an email from Trina sending me a track she likes. Fuck. I don't like people sending me music. It's an effort to find a polite way of saying "That song that you passionately feel vicariously expresses your emotional history sounds like formulaic shite to me." The depth to which my drunken mood sank in the seconds it took me to scan the line was equivalent to the height to which it skied when she said it was a track I've got on the shelves behind me--which I played, and my eyes went glossy.
You can't do everything, you can't go everywhere, but oh how I wish I were at Ronnie Scott's tonight. I play the video over and over again in a masochism of longing.
Incognito - Colibri
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