Week 51

Week 51 – Thursday 22/12/2011 - Dopamine – Buffalo Bar, Cardiff - £8

“Is there anyone alive out there?”

’Twas the week before Christmas and in Cardiff, not much was stirring. With my larger brother having already covered his sizable behind with an expensive Saturday night out with the Manics in London, for the second week running I’d be gigging sans Sandro.

He spent the rest of the week counting his money and throwing humbugs at any little boys he could find called Tiny Tim.

The weather was frosty, and so were the receptions from the city’s live music venues. The gig landscape was so barren that I feared I’d miss out on a Gigaweek certificate. I’d thought Gigaweek was too big to sink, but I was in serious need of a lifeboat.

My search was long and arduous but using all my powers of investigation I eventually found a lead.

I’d worked my fingers to the bones, typing several different words over the course of several minutes, until I finally found a gig on Thursday night (which was Christmas Eve Eve Eve) at buffalo bar.

Fortunately, while most bands are using up their annual leave visiting their mums, there’s a certain type of band that can be relied on to plough on through the fallow period.

This time, that band was called Dopamine, who are from Caerphilly. Although I’d never heard of them, considering they were being supported by Gavin Butler from The Blackout, it was a fair guess that they would be one of those Valleys Alternative/Nu-Metal/Pop-Punk/Something or other bands that we’ve come to know and tolerate.  

So, who could I rope in to join me this week? Was there anybody alive out there?

Cousin Bish had served his sentence last week and I doubted whether I could hoodwink him again. He was still pestering me about why I felt Tiger Please were comparable with Right Said Fred. Besides, I’m sure he’d been planning a trip to Whoville to steal Christmas (although that might have been my mind wandering as I noticed the unusual shape of his nose).

Surely it wouldn’t be too difficult to persuade someone else to accompany me in the name of Gigaweek. But as I trawled through the contacts list on my Nokia 0010 (which took 7 seconds), a thought crossed my mind (I was surprised too.)

The thought was: What if I go it alone?

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People go to gigs on their own all the time don’t they? I’ve seen them there, standing still, and then occasionally moving. Looking around because they’ve nothing better to do, except to stand still and occasionally move.

Of course, some of those who go alone know full well that they’re likely to bump into half a dozen people they know, so they don’t count. I’m talking about the people who head out knowing that they’re unlikely to see anyone who knows their name, and don’t care a jot. They are there solely for the gig itself. I most certainly wasn’t doing it just for the music, my reasons were much more sensible.

Just two weeks ago we’d bumped into Buster Douglas who’d gone it alone to see The Drums, and as far as I knew he’d made it home in one piece. Surely I could do the same.

Throughout Gigaweek and before its inglorious birth, I’ve always had someone to hold my hand. To buy half my drinks, chat about cheese between bands, and to stop any strange men from approaching or painting me naked. I’ve never before had the guts to go solo.

But I’ve done it at Glastonbury and I’ve done it at Reading in wellies. Surely I could pull it off in Cardiff in daps and a life preserver.

I’ve always maintained that should the situation demand it, I would go to the cinema on my own, but I’ve never put my money where my mouth is. Except for that time I swallowed a fiver.

I could do this. I didn’t need Sandro. I didn’t need Cousin Bish. I didn’t need anybody.

Except for Parge. I needed a lift.

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As I neared the venue, with Bruce Springsteen blaring through the car stereo, I began to have second thoughts (or at least a second thought). This time the thought was: What the hell am I doing?

It was Christmas time after all. Nobody should be alone at Christmas, apart from really weird people. Oh.

All I could think about was a big bellied, jolly man in red, sipping sherry and scoffing down mince pies, and that was when a third thought struck me. Candy, who is a student at the North Pole University (he calls it Aberystwyth), was back in Cardiff for Christmas.

I sent him a text to see if he wanted to join me.

‘Hey Candy. Going to a gig. Do you want to join me?’

‘Hi m8. Who u going 2 C?’ He replied. I slowly worked it out.

‘A band called Dopamine. They’re like Right Said Fred.’ I texted back.

‘Lol. I don’t like Right Said Fred,’ was the response. Bugger, that was the other guy.

‘I meant, they’re like Beyoncé,’ I texted again, remembering Candy’s love for the bootylicious one at Glastonbury.

‘Lol. Really? Thats not wot the net says. Pmsl. Soz, busy ne way. BB4N x’. He replied.

I didn’t know what half of his reply meant, but he clearly wasn’t buying it. It didn’t matter anyway, because in the time it had taken to have a conversation via text, I’d entered Buffalo, paid £8 for a ticket, bought myself a drink and found a wall to stand still near. I should have rung him.

I occasionally moved and looked around as though I expected to see someone I knew.

I didn’t see anyone I knew.

There was no band on stage and people were chatting happily, presumably discussing what presents they’d bought for Christmas, and asking each other who the weird guy sipping a Magners very slowly and staring at them was. It’s only paranoia when you’re wrong.

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It was 8:03. I’d arrived way too early. Perhaps if I walked from one side of the room to the other and back, time would go quicker. I did this. It was still 8:03. I lingered over everything, trying to drag a few extra seconds out of everything I did. I even scratched my nose in slow motion. 8:04. It was a good scratch.

I got my phone out and looked at it. Unfortunately I don’t own a smart phone, so aside from the indispensable coin toss game and the handy converter that told me that 0° Celsius was 32° Fahrenheit there wasn’t much else I could do with it.

Nevertheless, I figured that if I stared at it for long enough, eventually a text would come through. 8:07. Still nothing. Is 4 minutes usually a long time to go without a text? I wondered. I suppose that depends on one’s popularity. I thought to myself, as I stood alone in the corner of a busy room. It’s certainly a long time to stare at a phone.

I could have been home alone watching Die Hard, but here I was staring at an old Nokia.

I retried the trick of walking from one side of the room to the other and back. 8:09. I was clearly getting slower but it was working. I tried it again. 8:11. I did it twice more. 8:15. It was a cunning plan, but people were definitely staring at me now. Perhaps a trip downstairs to the loo would prove a useful time waster.

The floor of the toilet cubical was soaked with piss. If I use the toilet paper to wipe the floor clean, I’ll use up loads of minutes! I thought excitedly. Five minutes later when I rose from my hands and (wet) knees I decided that was a bad idea.

Now people wouldn’t just wonder who the strange fella on his own was; they’d wonder who the strange fella on his own who stunk of piss and had wet patches on his knees was.

Fortunately when I returned upstairs, I could hear music, which meant I could happily stand and stare in one direction without fear of ridicule.

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The man on stage making those comforting vibrations was Gavin Butler, one of two frontmen for the greatest Alternative Rock band to come out of Merthyr, The Blackout. They’re a band who aren’t really my cup of tea so I’m unlikely to ever see them live (although that doesn’t usually stop me), but I imagine one of their shows would be a lot more frantic and loud than Gavin’s solo set.

Of course, once he’d said his goodbyes, I had the loner’s predicament all over again.

More mentally strong loners than I wouldn’t have even flinched. I, on the other hand, started flinching uncontrollably. I needed a beer to calm myself, so I headed back to the bar. I also needed to eat up as many minutes as possible and I didn’t fancy cleaning the women’s toilets. Or did I? . . .

No, that would have attracted too much attention.

There were five people waiting at the bar when I reached it, and the sole barman made light work of their requests, which was bad news for me.

“Yes mate,” he asked me in turn.

“Err, he was before me,” I said nodding to the guy who’d arrived at the bar just after I had.

“Thanks mate,” the guy said in surprise, before ordering his drink.

The barman then returned to me.

“I think she was next,” I said referring to the girl who’d been behind the guy who’d just been served. The barman arched his eyebrow, but served her nonetheless. She smiled to acknowledge me, before noticing my knees and scurrying away.

Unfortunately, no one else was waiting, which meant the barman came back to me again.

“What can I get you then pal,” he asked.

“Err,” I looked around for others but I was alone.

“Um, how much are the Magners again?” I asked.

“£3.70,” The barman replied.

“Hmm, quite expensive. . . What about the Brothers?”

“£3.60,” he replied.

“That’s a saving of 10p isn’t it?” I said.

He didn’t reply.

“Right. How much is the cheapest lager?” I asked.

“Stella IV is £3,” he replied.

“Blimey! That’s the cheapest? How much is the most expensive lager?”

“Are you genuinely interested in this type of thing?” he asked back.

“Well, a little. How much is the average lager?” I probed.

“Do you actually want a drink or not pal?” he asked with an air of finality.

“Uh, I’ll have a Magners please, with a glass of icebergs,” I said at last.

He stared at me.

“Uh, I mean ice,” I said sheepishly.

I’d done my best and whiled away a few more minutes but I still had a good ten minutes to waste. Luckily I received a text. It was only from Orange but nobody else knew that.

By the time I’d finished texting my reply (which Orange had specifically requested me not to do), Dopamine were on stage.

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They were exactly as I expected them to be. Hard, fast and loud, which was no bad thing but they weren’t really my bag. Still, I applauded their energy and their lively fans seemed to enjoy them a lot. I decided not to stick around ‘til the bitter end, patting myself on the back and pushing past several women and children to abandon ship about three quarters of an hour in.

I left full of admiration for people who go to gigs alone, people who’d no doubt wonder what all the fuss was about. For me it was a harrowing ordeal.

Perhaps I’m just not a mature enough candidate to gig alone yet. I vowed that I would try again in the future, perhaps to see a band I’m actually a fan of, as soon as I’m able to grow a beard.

As I wandered home alone, cold and lonely, listening to Celine Dion on my iPod, it suddenly dawned on me just how close Sandro and I were to completing Gigaweek.

I wasn’t sure whether to cry or to rejoice, so I did both at the same time and I’m pretty sure people started staring at me again.

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December

3-9 - The Drums - ✓
10-16 - Straight Lines, Cuba Cuba & Tiger Please - ✓(2manydjs + Manic Street Preachers)
17-23 - Dopamine - ✓
24-30 - ?
31 - ?