I think I may have a sickness. I suppose there are worse ailments (sciatica, piles, thinking any member of the Kardashian family is a worthwhile addition to the TV schedules) – but mine consists of an unending compulsion to buy gig tickets for every band I've ever liked, every time they come to London. I know, poor me, being able to afford such luxuries. Anyway, as I think I opined once before, every band I've ever liked seems to have realised that touring constantly is the only way they can continue to live their rockstar lifestyles, with champagne enemas and caviar face packs and whatever else these people do.
And fair play to them – if people won’t pay to listen to music over and over again to their heart’s content in the comfort of their own home/car/head, on their preferred delivery method, but will pay 7 times as much for a one-off session of standing for 2 hours behind someone with giant hair, being jostled by people who can't cope for more than 13 minutes without going to the bar and listening to badly mixed music being played too loudly, then what's a poor artist to do? (Remind me why I like going to gigs again?)
Anyway, the upshot of this new music business is that my gig calendar is filling up at a ridiculous rate for this year, my self-imposed last year of full-on gigging. Ah yes, next year it's going to be time to buy a house and start doing other assorted scary stuff that I secretly want more than anything, despite pretending that I'd rather be out in London every night- so I'm making the most of this while I can.
It's for all of these reasons that last week I found myself with 4 gigs to go to over a seven-day period. And I know that given the chance you would all gorge yourself on my words until they spewed out of your earholes, but for your own safety I think I'll spare you my usual treatment on each one of them. I'm therefore going to attempt something I've never tried before – limiting myself to 500 words on each. Let's see how long that lasts - given that I've now written 400 words about not writing much, it doesn't look promising, does it?
And fair play to them – if people won’t pay to listen to music over and over again to their heart’s content in the comfort of their own home/car/head, on their preferred delivery method, but will pay 7 times as much for a one-off session of standing for 2 hours behind someone with giant hair, being jostled by people who can't cope for more than 13 minutes without going to the bar and listening to badly mixed music being played too loudly, then what's a poor artist to do? (Remind me why I like going to gigs again?)
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| I swear this guy follows me around to gigs. Or, presumably, I follow him - otherwise he'd be behind me, wouldn't he? |
Anyway, the upshot of this new music business is that my gig calendar is filling up at a ridiculous rate for this year, my self-imposed last year of full-on gigging. Ah yes, next year it's going to be time to buy a house and start doing other assorted scary stuff that I secretly want more than anything, despite pretending that I'd rather be out in London every night- so I'm making the most of this while I can.
It's for all of these reasons that last week I found myself with 4 gigs to go to over a seven-day period. And I know that given the chance you would all gorge yourself on my words until they spewed out of your earholes, but for your own safety I think I'll spare you my usual treatment on each one of them. I'm therefore going to attempt something I've never tried before – limiting myself to 500 words on each. Let's see how long that lasts - given that I've now written 400 words about not writing much, it doesn't look promising, does it?
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