Friday, November 19, 2004
First gig ever, where I have not been able to see anything - until the encore, that is.
But I'm jumping ahead already.
It's a known fact that Mean Fiddler is the shitstain on London venues. Formerly known as LA2, it is like a smaller version of Astoria, without the G.A.Y. nights and the girls in cages. It is also a maze (fire hazard! Fire hazard!)that will have you running around in circles in order to find the loos. Loos which, by the way, employ a woman to spritz you with perfume and wipe your brow when you chuck. I have no problem whatsoever with women who are employed to display an array of scents and squirt handcream on your hardly wiped hands, but it just seems so...inappropriate. If you voluntarily enter into this building you will not have the slightest interest in personal grooming. At least not at that time.
Anyway.
Boyfriend is ever so excited, since his 15 minutes took place during a dEUS videoshoot - I have seen said video, and frankly, a bald head bopping up and down could be anyone. But he claims it is he. Doesn't have any proof though. Isn't even bald anymore.
So we want to be close to the action without actually being killed and take a stand next to the mixing desk. A camp Fleming is make some kind of electronic noise, alledgedly wearing red dancing shoes and incorporating 4 shirt changes into a half hour set. In the end he is topless. He is also surprisingly amusing, although already at this point do I realise that I am too short for this kind of thing. But the strobe lighting is nice.
Main act comes on - I still cannot see a dickiebird. Music is great, but it is interesting how much the visual means, even though I'm alledgedly there for the music. The guys behind me keep screaming "wheeeeeeeh" every 30 seconds. After having been squashed and moved and banged on the head by other people's elbows/jackets/breaths, the people behind stand so close to me that I can suddenly feel something which can only be described as someone's, erm, manhood - on me. No one I know. It's not even sexual. At which point I throw in the towel and let boyfriend be boyfriend and leave him in the crowd.
From the 1st floor I can actually manage to see the tops of the band's heads and enjoy a brief encore, before it is all over.
And then I go home. And that was that.
But I'm jumping ahead already.
It's a known fact that Mean Fiddler is the shitstain on London venues. Formerly known as LA2, it is like a smaller version of Astoria, without the G.A.Y. nights and the girls in cages. It is also a maze (fire hazard! Fire hazard!)that will have you running around in circles in order to find the loos. Loos which, by the way, employ a woman to spritz you with perfume and wipe your brow when you chuck. I have no problem whatsoever with women who are employed to display an array of scents and squirt handcream on your hardly wiped hands, but it just seems so...inappropriate. If you voluntarily enter into this building you will not have the slightest interest in personal grooming. At least not at that time.
Anyway.
Boyfriend is ever so excited, since his 15 minutes took place during a dEUS videoshoot - I have seen said video, and frankly, a bald head bopping up and down could be anyone. But he claims it is he. Doesn't have any proof though. Isn't even bald anymore.
So we want to be close to the action without actually being killed and take a stand next to the mixing desk. A camp Fleming is make some kind of electronic noise, alledgedly wearing red dancing shoes and incorporating 4 shirt changes into a half hour set. In the end he is topless. He is also surprisingly amusing, although already at this point do I realise that I am too short for this kind of thing. But the strobe lighting is nice.
Main act comes on - I still cannot see a dickiebird. Music is great, but it is interesting how much the visual means, even though I'm alledgedly there for the music. The guys behind me keep screaming "wheeeeeeeh" every 30 seconds. After having been squashed and moved and banged on the head by other people's elbows/jackets/breaths, the people behind stand so close to me that I can suddenly feel something which can only be described as someone's, erm, manhood - on me. No one I know. It's not even sexual. At which point I throw in the towel and let boyfriend be boyfriend and leave him in the crowd.
From the 1st floor I can actually manage to see the tops of the band's heads and enjoy a brief encore, before it is all over.
And then I go home. And that was that.
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