Last weekend
Jul. 5th, 2003 02:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shermaramaWas the first gig by the current lineup of the musical ensemble known as Son Of Nothing..
The 12 Bar is a damn strange place. It has multitudinous rooms, all of them small, and sound and vision distributed by monitors and PA, but the actual space the bands get to play in is tiny - an old barn, effectively, where the stage is the hearth of a sixteenth century forge and the gallery, whilst pleasing, hangs so low that Paul kept his stock of plectrums on its bottom edge and guitar changes were accomplished by having people hand them down from there.
I felt I should paint faces on my knees as most of the audience had to crane to see the one on my head.
The view from the gallery..
...and the view from the floor..
And it all went well enough and those that were there liked us. Those that weren't avid Booze Boys fans, that is, who ought to be forced to carry warning labels. They were *bad*.
The Potions caused me a strange sense of perpendicularity as they turned out to contain a drummer and guitarist I'd last seen when I was rehearsing with them in Brixton with a man who wanted to be Marc Bolan.
Hacksaw, though, Hacksaw caused me to laugh an awful lot, mainly, which is good as that's what they're aiming for. I can't think why else they'd suffer having to cart round a set of equipment that includes torn cymbals, a snare in pink paisley wrapping paper, a dustbin lid and a giant economy pack of bog rolls, anyway. They're very good at what they do. With any luck I'll be seeing them again.
*flexes tweaky wrists*
mm, just come back from a drumming practice. And have to be up again in six hours to go to Bedford but am still far too awake. Still, we wrote two new songs tonight. This is easy enough when they're both under a minute long. One's called Iran Iraq Sunderland, and the other revels in the title of Tits and War. You're getting the idea here.
The 12 Bar is a damn strange place. It has multitudinous rooms, all of them small, and sound and vision distributed by monitors and PA, but the actual space the bands get to play in is tiny - an old barn, effectively, where the stage is the hearth of a sixteenth century forge and the gallery, whilst pleasing, hangs so low that Paul kept his stock of plectrums on its bottom edge and guitar changes were accomplished by having people hand them down from there.
I felt I should paint faces on my knees as most of the audience had to crane to see the one on my head.
The view from the gallery..
...and the view from the floor..
And it all went well enough and those that were there liked us. Those that weren't avid Booze Boys fans, that is, who ought to be forced to carry warning labels. They were *bad*.
The Potions caused me a strange sense of perpendicularity as they turned out to contain a drummer and guitarist I'd last seen when I was rehearsing with them in Brixton with a man who wanted to be Marc Bolan.
Hacksaw, though, Hacksaw caused me to laugh an awful lot, mainly, which is good as that's what they're aiming for. I can't think why else they'd suffer having to cart round a set of equipment that includes torn cymbals, a snare in pink paisley wrapping paper, a dustbin lid and a giant economy pack of bog rolls, anyway. They're very good at what they do. With any luck I'll be seeing them again.
*flexes tweaky wrists*
mm, just come back from a drumming practice. And have to be up again in six hours to go to Bedford but am still far too awake. Still, we wrote two new songs tonight. This is easy enough when they're both under a minute long. One's called Iran Iraq Sunderland, and the other revels in the title of Tits and War. You're getting the idea here.