“Silent disco anyone?”
Sŵn - Saturday
When asked the above question, if you’re response is unlikely to be “pardon?” then we probably wouldn’t get on. If you are likely to respond by saying “pardon?” then we still probably wouldn’t get on.
The silent disco was the Saturday night showpiece of Sŵn, if you ignore the many gigs from
the many bands playing at many venues across Cardiff (as we did).
Flapjack, who was wearing a bowler hat and sporting a
toothbrush moustache, asked the question to nearly everyone in the city, at least twice. He had to ask twice of
course, because not many people he encountered could resist a “pardon?”, while others
were just slightly alarmed that he was talking to them at all.
While Sŵn itself continued
unabated, Sandro was suffering silently. His double hangover hadn’t stopped him from
embarking on one of his famed Cardiff City inspired all dayers, but by the time
I joined him afterwards, it was clearly catching up with him.
His eyes were bloodshot, his skin was blotchy and his hair
was dank and greasy. But although his appearance remained unaffected, he admitted
that he was feeling the worse for wear.
“I’m feeling the worse for wear,” he said.
“I know, you just admitted that,” I replied.
He looked confused. It must have been the booze. Meanwhile, I continued to downplay my own deeply debilitating and life-threatening illness.
He looked confused. It must have been the booze. Meanwhile, I continued to downplay my own deeply debilitating and life-threatening illness.
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Our meeting place was
the downstairs area of Clwb Ifor Bach
and North Walian band Gallops were
playing when we arrived at half past seven. Sandro didn’t hide his scepticism when
I mentioned that they were an instrumental band, but they proved to be quite an
enjoyable listen nonetheless.
I say nonetheless, because
Sandro and I are in agreement that, in the same way that we generally prefer a
film with dialogue to a silent film, we also prefer a band with a singer to one
without. As long as Danny Dyer’s not in the film and the singer is a good one, that
is. Apologies to the likes of Chaplin, Keaton, Mogwai and Oasis.
(Calm down J-Mo, I’m
only kidding. We’re both huge Danny Dyer fans.)
Midway through Gallops’ set we dashed up the street to Dempsey’s to see DZ Deathrays, a hotly tipped Aussie band who were playing upstairs.
Downstairs meanwhile, were a couple of people we vaguely knew, who were enjoying a
quiet drink. It would have been rude not to say hello, so we did.
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We said a happy hello to P. Mushy and Salazar, a warm hello
to Gavlova and Nicko B, a sincere hello to The Wiggler and a “Shit it’s him,
hide your face! Damn, he’s seen us,” hello to Flapjack.
Before we knew it, DZ
Deathrays had come and gone while we’d been supping on our ciders. Flapjack
and The Wiggler had been tempted to get one-off tickets to see The Fall, who were the big name band of
the day and were playing at The Great
Hall.
In the end they decided against it, as did we.
There were plenty of closer alternatives but we were
seriously struggling. In an effort to restore energy and enthusiasm, Sandro and
I took a stroll to Snoop Dogg’s favourite
chippy, Dorothy’s. It didn’t work.
We had enough energy
for one last hurrah, so we poked our heads into Undertone, where a band called
Melodica, Melody and Me, were playing. Not only did they have a catchy
name, they also had a ukuleleist, always a delight to see.
There were more
photographers in the audience than normal folk (photographers being abnormal)
so it must have been quite an experience for the band.
Most of the snappers
were sprawled across the floor poking their lenses up at the stage where, as
Sandro pointed out, the musicians were stone faced, and looked like they’d
rather have been anywhere else. Even Swansea.
“Miserable fuckers
this lot aren’t they?” he said eloquently.
They were pleasant enough,
if a little subdued. Even so, we left after about twenty minutes or so. Our intention was to check out The Jim Jones Revue in Clwb,
but capacity there had reached ‘one in, one out’ levels. When we reached the front
of the queue I was allowed in, but Sandro wasn’t, so I came out. The bouncers then
let Sandro in, but wouldn’t let me in until Sandro came back out, so he did.
After ten minutes on this merry-go-round we finally decided that the ‘two out’ concept was superior, much to the relief of the bored bouncers. Sandro was out on his feet and I was still extremely ill, so we decided that Sŵn was over for the evening. It would have been rude not to have had a skittle bomb though, so we stayed out a little longer.
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I’m glad we did, as we were able to witness a riveting ten pound bet between Flapjack and Salazar at Dempsey’s. With
ten minutes to go in a game between the Greatest Team of all Time™ and Sevilla,
Flappy made his play.
“I bet anyone here a
tenner that this game will remain goalless,” he said bravely.
Despite the attacking
talents of Messrs. Messi, Villa, Iniesta and Fabregas, only Salazar had the
balls to take his bet. It looked like she’d made a mistake, until injury time,
when Barcelona won a penalty.
With the greatest
player in the world taking the penalty, Flapjack prepared to
fork out. However, Sevilla Striker Freddie Kanouté delayed the outcome, as he mischievously kicked
the ball off the penalty spot and playfully pushed Fabregas to the ground. Later he cheekily
accused Cesc of racism. What a scamp.
Amazingly he was red
carded for his hijinks. Whether Messi was affected by any this is debatable,
but a hush descended on the pub as he finally stepped up.
All were left speechless, as Messi missed, meaning
Flapjack won. Suggestions that Flapjack had managed to somehow
influence Kanouté’s behaviour using his psychic abilities were denied, but his eyes had
been glowing mysteriously.
It’s a measure of the man that he then refused to take Salazar’s money though. What a sexist.
It’s a measure of the man that he then refused to take Salazar’s money though. What a sexist.
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When the time came to move on, as I was very ill I decided
it was probably time for me to go home. It would have been rude to leave now
though, so I didn’t. Nicko B however, disappeared without a trace, as his
allergy to The Old Library kicked in.
It was then that the idea of attending the silent disco at The Great Hall was floated.
Though I was clearly a little ill, it would have been rude
not to go.
Sandro and Salazar thought so too. Gavlova and P. Mushy
didn’t however, mainly because P. Mushy couldn’t remember his own name and was
dribbling profusely.
Entry cost six quid for those without Sŵn wristbands, and it went on until four o’clock. I don’t remember
much of what followed, or many of the songs (Bjork may have popped up), but I do remember that I felt a teeny weeny bit ill, but
thought it would have been rude not to stay ‘til the end.
At 4am, the lights finally came on, the music finally stopped
and I finally realised everyone else had gone home, and that I was dancing alone
with a pair of oversized headphones on.
I hadn’t even heard the others say goodbye.
Oh, they didn’t say goodbye?
How rude.
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