2009 Great Escape to Brighton, Day 2

because, apparently, this blog still exists on google, and because this will never see the light of day anywhere else (narcissism galore):


Contrary to popular opinion, rum and energy drinks mix well. Especially when yr out to a show so early that the club (Revenge) hasn’t even opened yet and it’s cold and raining in the south of England and you understand why 18th century explorers really wanted to discover places that were different and warmer and southen-er. Anyway, here we are huddling underneath a large steel doorway drinking Jolt, Bolt, Zolt, whatever it’s called it’s making me feel warm. It is going to be a good night.

We go in.

Mystery Bands - 730ish - The first band is somehow just finishing up despite the fact that the place only opened five minutes ago. [maybe it was ten. Time perception is not my strongest asset.] It’s ok though, they’re not that great, a bit too jagged to be likeable and a bit too soft to be loveable. The second band uses mostly keyboards and boy-girl harmonies. They are the right kind of accompaniment to observe that roughly 85% of the girls in Brighton (and maybe 95% of the girls around us) are currently wearing short skirts and leather jackets. They also try to look soft but end up looking a bit scary [I note that I obviously have some women issues]. But the drinks are too expensive and there is something better happening not too far away (isn’t that always the case?) so we get out.

Mystery Jets - 8 - On the one hand, we can’t get any wetter, so waiting in line is sort of okay. On the other hand, we are waiting in a VERY long line. [On the third hand, on the opposite side of the road there’s a really nice park and I think the Brighton Pavilion is somewhere around there as well, so I feel cultured and worldly like George the 3rd, a man who was not daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary.] Hector’s House is warmly and invitingly winking at us from the near distance (a mirage?). We saw Calories there last night and they were heart-explodingly good, so a precedent is already set. And besides, the drinks there are famously cheap and the bartenders are famously swift.

We break formation and head over.

Hospital Bombers - 810 - Violin, guitar, bass, and drums = classic rock’n’roll quartet? If it isn’t, It sure as hell should be. The band is enthusiastic and they sing about girls and heartbreak and themselves and how rock music is the devli’s music which is all true you know - fuck the world, fuck Radiohead, just keep telling me how unhappy young people are and I’ll take it hook line and sinker for the next four years or so and then I’ll reconsider. We engage in an involved argument over whether they sound more like Pavement, Los Campesinos!, or The Thermals. No one wins. They sound like all of them. This is good. We are later surprised to learn that they’re from the Netherlands. International Twee(x)core Underground! I purchase a tape, and tell the violin/bass player that I’ll put it right next to my Crooked Rain tape. She is visibly chuffed. Time to go elsewhere.

Basement Band at the Ocean Rooms - 845 - They are all from India, and they make some jokes about the British weather [I think]. Understandable. They sound like…who knows…Indie rock? We’re just killing time anyway, and we’re okay with it, and they’re okay with it too, I think, because at least we’re there and not somewhere else, and maybe the way that we half hide them from the group behind us makes them sound better and more epic and more distant and cool (although they’re from India already, so they’re pretty distant and cool) for those people (who could be record executives or eNeMEe writers or Apple ad men for all anyone knows). The bar is selling/giving away shots of sambuca for a pound. Moments later, twin trails of black liquorice are warming their way down throats. This scenario repeats itself.

Joy Formidable - 9ish - We meet up with more of us, so now we (WE) are larger, stronger, and more prepared to push our way through crowds. This is useful, because the Joy Formidable [say it with me now in a French accent: Ju-a Formida-bleu] show is packed/rammed. They operate with a carpet of distortion pedals on the floor, though distortion is an ugly word for something so elemental and pounding and pretty and penetrating. SEX is a sign that flashes to the right of the stage. We are not sure what it means, but Ritzy (that’s the tiny blonde haired singer/guitarist who looks like she should have wings) and Rhydian (that’s the bass player and Ritzy’s husband) have to be it as they move towards each other away from each other towards the audience and back. For weeks afterwards, I want every single song I hear to have high and urgent “ooh-ooh” backing vocals.

WE split up. We (they) want to go see Times New Viking. A very respectable choice, and it would have been a great show to catch, but we (we) go elsewhere.

Vivian Girls (Pavilion Theatre) - Hazy. My head is swimming a little bit at this point and I know that we reach a dividing line: men, boys, women, (Vivian) Grrrls. Fuck divisions, revisions, decisions, indecisions - More drinks! The stage is in a large auditorium and it appropriately resembles a school dance where there are clusters of people milling about and wearing clothes that are too tight/old for them despite the fact that they know better. We don’t know better. The music is thick and viscous and it envelops us and smoothes our hair, pats us on the back and punches us in the stomach, all friendly like [and the girls and the haze make me think of someone that I really shouldn’t be thinking about].

We’re out of cash. I go out. There are no cash machines, or lights, anywhere. Crowds of people with plastic congregate on street corners, lost. I don’t know where to look. Sometime later, I step back inside and I am warm again.

We want to go see Holy Fuck, but it’s too busy, and then we want to see Dananananakroyd but it’s too busy, and is there any place to get a drink in this town? We head back to the theatre, we’ve heard good things about Abe Vigoda but haven’t heard them, the band was always slightly out of reach, part of the next hype cycle.

Abe Vigoda - 11? - What the hell is “tropical punk”? We expect palm trees, but it’s the same space as the Vivian Girls. Closer maybe, there’s a bit less white noise and everyone is closer together, closer to the stage and to the band. There is almost no space at all, suffocating and liberating at the same time. The music is abrasive and it’s welcoming, pushing us into each other in waves; we are all in this together, co-conspirators, co-jumpers, co-dancers. However long the show lasted, at the end, there are more people on stage - the Grrls come out and sing and there are yet more people there, the singer is waving, the band is leaning forward, we see our chance and we rush upwards, upwards, upwards. Somehow, we have a bass. Somehow, we are jumping/standing on top of an amp. Somehow, we fall. Actually, that last one probably doesn’t count under the “somehow” heading - I know exactly why we fall - we’re standing on a tiny fucking amp and trying to dance and play bass even though we can’t dance and we can’t play bass. The landing is soft. We are in an abevivianpeopleusweusgirlsaeronautswevigodameotherpeople pile.

We are waved off the stage by security.

The rest of the night is a bit of a blur. But who cares, you know? It probably wouldn’t have been interesting to read about anyway. All I know is that I wake up the next morning in a bed, which is pretty neat, and that unlike the other times when you go hard and feel very empty afterwards, I feel almost content. Bring on day three. Well done Brighton.