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Monday, October 02, 2006

Bypassing the zeitgeist

Hmmm.

Apparently I am now so tediously unfashionable that I can be at a supposedly noteworthy gig and not even consider it worth the entrance fee. This is further proof, if such thing were needed, that I am almost pathologically clueless as to what turns on the kids these days.

Thank our sweet lord jesus for that.

Gig, Friday night, Chalk Farm. Average indie band, sweaty people, painfully self-righteous 20 year olds with trilby hats and no sense of self, a handful of snotty-nosed teenagers in Top Shop finest, thinking they're doing a near-identical impression of debbie harry circa 1979, overpriced drinks, Liam Gallagher cameo... an entertaining way to spend an evening, I suppose, but not one I'll remember in years to come.

However I have since been told by a friend that the night was written up in near-reverential tones by the NME, and went further to suggest that the night must've been highly memorable. Now in fairness, I found this (on further inspection), to not be quite true. After all, the NME didn't do its usual, depressingly breathless arselicking routine:

"The crowd just started chanting 'Liam!', 'Liam!'," an eyewitness told NME.COM. "He managed to push his way to the front and got on stage with Dirty Pretty Things. He just stood there with his back to the crowd banging a drumstick."

but still, I certainly managed to bypass the Gallagher hysteria.

What is brilliant, however, is that the appearance of a sweaty drunken mancunian - banging along in simian fashion (more or less) in time with the music - apparently caused such a surge of teen adrenaline that the bar staff had to be drafted in as makeshift bouncers - yet the night was (prior to his unscheduled arrival) deemed such a pivotal event in modern musical terms that the NME couldn't be arsed to even send along a junior reporter. An "eyewitness" indeed.

The greatest possible thing about being 30 - and there are many - is that I cannot, even if I tried, belong to the zeitgeist, but unlike my 20s (when I was equally poorly equipped for a position at the heart of youthful society) I'm allowed not to care.

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