Week 49

Week 49 – Thursday 8^th December – The Drums – O2 Academy, Bristol – £15.00

“It was so funny, that I told Mummy. . .”

December eh?

Our journey so far has been fraught with peril, but we’ve battled our way valiantly past legions of homeless people into the final month of a long year. It’s almost been as long as one of those pesky leap years.

This month, more than any other, brings people closer together, to eat, drink, chat, celebrate and generally do anything to escape the shitty weather outside. Maybe I should have invited those homeless people in.

It’s also the month that marks the birth many years ago of a special little guy, who went on to become a bearded, long-haired man and roam the world in a pair of sandals regaling the masses with tales of miracles and astonishing achievements.

I speak of course, of Sandro (they’re flip-flops rather than sandals).

This December is a particularly significant month for our family. As well as the small matter of my own 10^th birthday, Sandro turns 30.

Even more spectacularly, Parge turns 60 and Grandparge turns 90.

More importantly some would argue, Gigaweek comes to an end.

We’ll only be celebrating 4 of those 5 special occasions though. None of us like Parge.

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As with January, December can be a difficult month to find gigs, and is therefore a particularly testing time for Gigaweekers. It should serve as a reminder to those who attend numerous gigs throughout the summer and sneer at us (such people exist in my imagination), that quantity was never the challenge. What was the challenge again?


Very little happens in the gig world in December, with the rappers of the world understandably preoccupied. We did manage to find something though.

On the day after my birthday, Sandro and I travelled to Bristol once again. This week, we had tickets to see The Drums at the O2 Academy. The Drums are a band I’ve managed to see live twice before, without ever really getting into them, which meant them ideal Gigaweek candidates. 

It was no chore jump on a train and head in their direction. Aboard that train I sat next to a young man of East Asian descent, who was doing his level best to sleep while listening to his favourite lullabies, which were leaking rather loudly from his headphones.

Sadly there was no sign of ‘Rock-a-Bye Baby’.


Instead, about fifteen seconds worth of hypnotic beats looped at about 150bpm for almost an hour. It was the kind of thing one may have found slightly annoying if one is the type to be annoyed by such things. Is one?

Personally I found it oddly funny, especially when Sandro picked up the East Asian boy, and threw him onto the station platform at the Severn Tunnel Junction.

Once in Bristol, we made for a slice of Wales in the form of the Llandoger Trow pub where we sank a quiet pre-gig pint.

“Do you think he survived the fall?” I asked, sipping a cider.

“I really don’t care,” Sandro replied compassionately.

“I’m pretty sure I saw him slip back onto the track,” I said.

“I don’t care,” Sandro reiterated. “Jesus would have done the same thing.”

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A short walk away was the O2 Academy, where we bought a couple of Gaymers and found a decent spot to stand in. We’d stood in that very spot to watch Black Rebel Motorcycle almost a year ago to the day. On that night, I vividly remember looking into the heart of the crowd, where a giant of at least 8 feet (he wasn’t an Octopus) stood proudly, inadvertently obstructing the view of anyone silly enough to stand in the same building as him.

One memory triggered another and I thought back to last week’s post-gig pint discussion on the subject of height.

“Ha,” I laughed to myself, remembering how the inept J-Mo had thought Sandro was shorter than me.

“It was so funny, that I told Mummy. . .” I stopped dead.

“What did you just say?” Sandro said, his ears pricked.

“I, I said, ‘It was so funny, that I owed money’. . .” I lied, cleverly covering my tracks.

“No, no. No you didn’t. You said Mummy didn’t you?” Sandro replied.

“I meant to say Marge, but Mummy just popped out,” I admitted.

“You do realise that you’re a 25 year old man?” Sandro said.

I didn’t. How horrible. I was sure I was 10.

“I want my mummy,” Sandro will tell you that I then said, but I must insist that he’s lying.

“You make me sick,” he said finally, shaking his head as I sucked my thumb.

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Before I could embarrass myself further, the supporting band appeared on stage, led by a man in a red hood. 

“I think I’ve seen these,” Sandro said during their first song.

“Are you sure you’re not just thinking of the fairy tale?” I asked him.

“I think it’s Cloud Control,” he said ignoring me. 

It was Cloud Control, which meant I’d also seen them before. In my defence, when I’d seen them it was well past midnight and I’d been drinking for 12 hours. 

“You never really told me how that went,” I said to Sandro.

“Funny you should say that,” he replied, before beginning a tedious tale that went a little like this.

****
Sandro’s Supplement is supposed to appear at this point 
but Sandro said he couldn't be arsed to write it.
****

Since I’d seen Cloud Control at Camden Crawl, I’d neglected to listen to their album even once. 


Perhaps it was because Salazar had recommended them.


Tonight they weren't bad at all so I made a mental note to listen to them at least once in future, but I deleted it soon after to make room for a reminder about brushing my teeth.

Between bands, Sandro and I embarked on a toilet trip to end all toilet trips (until the next one). We bumped into none other than Buster Douglas. Sadly there was no sign of The Wendys but Buster, being a regular gig-goer had his ear caught by one song from The Drums, saw that they were playing locally and decided to check them out. That’s the spirit all Gigaweekers aspire to. Both of us.

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We bought another Gaymers each and returned to our spot. The stage was set for The Drums. Either side of it were bright white lights that formed the title to their second album, Portamento.

As the band appeared the crowd greeted them with delighted cheers, especially a group of enthusiastic fellow Welshmen next to us, who seemed to know and love every one of their songs.


They proved to be a rowdy bunch, particularly the big bearded fella in a twat hat (a tiny trilby), who was clearly covering his bald spot. What other reason to wear a horrible hat indoors in winter?

He came to my attention as he jumped around and knocked my cider-holding hand, spilling cider on my brand new purple daps in the process.

“Watch your step you stupid bald bastard!” I yelled, quietly enough for no one other than myself to hear.

(Before I’m accused of being a baldist, I should say that some of my best friends are bald and I abhor baldism in every form.)

Refocusing on the music, I have to say that I enjoyed The Drums’ set more than I thought I might, without being swept away and proclaiming them as the new Smiths or anything. They clearly have talent to spare between them, and the front-man’s shameless dancing is on a par with Frankie (friend of the Heartstrings), but I don’t think they have too many outstanding songs.

The ones that really stood out to me were ‘Down by the Water’ which was a lovely slower moment, new song ‘Money’ which was a lovely faster moment, and ‘How It Ended’ which was a lovely inbetweener, but I’m sick of inbetweeners. For the most part though, I still had the sound of the techno beats from the train looping in my head.

The Drums were on for just under an hour before they took an obligatory pre-encore break. Sandro and I stuck around for the 1^st part of the first song from their encore before it came time to bid farewell to Buster Douglas. We departed in a taxi, in a race to the train station.

Unfortunately, that meant we missed the one song we knew well, ‘Let’s Go Surfing’, and annoyingly it wasn’t much of a race, as we arrived at the station with 10 minutes to spare before the next train.

You just can’t find a reliable taxi driver these days.

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December


3-9 - The Drums - ✓
10-16 -?
17-23 -?
24-30 -?
31 -?