Week 52

Week 52 – Friday 30/12/2011 - The Blackout – Cardiff Student’s Union: The Great Hall, Cardiff - The Blackout - £20

“Shall we just go to the pub instead?”

So this was it. Armageddon. The End of Days. The Apocalypse. Now.

Somehow, we’d made it to the final week of the year. 51 weeks had passed, with each featuring at least one glorious/ghastly gig, meaning we were hours from the conclusion of Gigaweek.

All we had to do was find one more gig and we’d be certified Gigaweekers.

(In actual fact, we had to also go to a gig on New Year’s Eve as per the rigidly flexible Gigaweek rulebook, but that’s beside the point.)

As throughout the rest of December, there were very few gigs on offer. Apparently, musicians celebrate Christmas too.

Christmas Day and Boxing Day were gigless, as is tradition. On the 27^th we were at Chepstow racecourse as part of Sandro’s birthday celebrations. While there was a live band playing in one of the marquees for most of the day, that didn’t satisfy our strict Gigaweek criteria, which was a shame because it would have allowed our older brother Bryce Val Doonican and younger sister Ugly Betty to make a Gigaweek appearance.

There were no options either on the 28^th so it looked like we might have to go to a gig by Hondo Maclean, a Bridgend band who were essentially forerunners to Funeral For a Friend. They were playing two reunion shows at Clwb Ifor Bach, one of which was on Friday and had sold out, while the other fell on Sandro’s birthday, Thursday 29^th.

Sandro decided that he couldn’t think of a worse way to spend his birthday, so we looked for alternatives on the Friday.

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The Blackout were playing at The Great Hall, which didn’t appeal to either of us, especially considering tickets were over 15 quid.

The always unhelpful Salazar pointed out that Wu Tang Clan were apparently in Cardiff, according to several unreliable websites. They suggested that Ghostface Killah and his chums would be appearing at Sherman Theatre (or Sherman Cymru as it’s now known). As if it wasn’t a busy enough time of year for rappers already.

Aside from the fact that the theatre would seem an unusual venue to host a hip-hop collective, I found it particularly strange as I was almost certain that it was the last night in the run of The Elves and The Shoemaker.

I was right to be suspicious. It turned out Wu Tang Clan were in fact playing the Sherman Theater (that’s Theater not Theatre) in Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania. I was wrong about The Elves and The Shoemaker though.

Just when we thought we were destined for a blackout, Sandro plucked a gig from nowhere. At Café Jazz in the city centre, the John Davies Quartet were apparently playing some traditional and vintage Jazz.


“Jazz is just musical wanking though isn't it?” I said.

“No. And whats with the Irish accent?” Sandro replied.

“I always speak with an Irish accent,” I said.


“No, you usually speak with an Australian accent,” he reminded me.

I was in a forgetful mood. The night began ominously as I met Sandro at a house that I’ve spent many nights at over the past few years, only to question myself as I stood at the gate in the dark and damp.

Those blinds look different, I thought to myself as I approached. That door looks different too, I thought as I hesitantly opened the gate. That head looks different, I thought as a face I didn’t recognise peered around the opening door.

“Sorry! I must have the wrong house, I was looking for my friend,” I apologised as I made to walk away, before hearing my name.

It was Mrs P, mother of P Mushy and Little P. She was visiting with Mr P. Fortunately for me, she’d recognised me and saved me from a confused walk up and down the street.

“Are those blinds new?” I asked K May once inside.

“Nope,” she replied.

“Is that door new?” I asked her.

“Nope,” she replied again.

“Is that head new?” I asked finally.

“Yes, that’s Mrs P’s head. P. Mushy is out.”

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Sandro and I were watching the first half of the Liverpool v Newcastle game in the house when he casually mentioned that the gig we were planning on seeing, didn’t appear to be going ahead.

“According to their website, Café Jazz is actually closed tonight,” he said.

“Oh good,” I replied. “Wait, what do you mean ‘closed’?”

“If I’m going to have to explain every word to you, this’ll take all night,” he replied.

“Wait, what do you mean ‘If’?” I asked.

“It says they’re closed online, but let’s give ‘em a ring,” he suggested.

We did. Fortunately, the website was wrong, they were indeed open.

There was however, no gig.

“Where did you see this gig advertised?” I asked.

“I’ve no idea, I can’t remember,” Sandro replied.

“It wasn’t one of the websites that were advertising the Wu Tang Clan gig was it?”

“Probably.”

It was gone 8 o’clock, so we had less than 4 hours to squeeze a gig into, or else the previous 51 weeks had been in vain.

“You know what this means don’t you?” I said. “It means we have to go to The Blackout.”

We bowed our heads silently.

“Shall we just go to the pub instead?” Sandro suggested.

-------

“I’ve no desire to see The Blackout and I wouldn’t mind watching the second half,” Sandro continued.

“But this is the last ever Gigaweek,” I said. “We can’t fall at the last hurdle.”

“Tomorrow is the last hurdle,” he corrected me.

“No, tomorrow is the home straight. There’s no danger whatsoever of us failing on New Year’s Eve,” I replied.

“What if we do a Devon Loch?” he said.

That was true. Could I guarantee that I wouldn’t suddenly fall down and knock myself out in the middle of the street tomorrow, and miss out on New Year’s Eve altogether? Past experiences suggested not.

“We’re unlikely to do a Devon Loch, although that would be a glorious end. But can we really give up now?” I asked.

“I’m quite comfortable with the idea,” Sandro replied. “It’s not the end of the world.”


I disagreed.


“We can tell everyone we did it anyway,” he continued. “After all, what’s the tagline to Gigaweek?”

“Say cheese and die?” I guessed.

“What? No. Based on real events. . . loosely.”

It was tempting. We could pop to the pub, watch the football, have a couple of beers, save money on attending a gig we were unlikely to be enthralled by and then lie about it and say the gig was great. Who wouldn't believe us?

To have come so far and to have spent so much time and money, only to throw it all away within touching distance of the finishing line did seem oddly appealing.

At the same time, it seemed like the single stupidest idea of the year, in a long line of stupid ideas.

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As Sandro admitted, we couldn’t afford to repeat it, so we’d never be closer to earning our Gigaweek stripes. Plus, with the world predicted to end next year (and yet nobody willing to bet their life savings with me that it doesn't), we may never have another chance. All we had to do was drum up the effort to get out of the house, walk for fifteen minutes in the cold (and possibly rain), fork out a few quid, stand and stare at a stage for a couple of hours, then we’d be more or less home and dry (or a little wet).

Essentially, that’s how hard it is to attend a gig and we’ve managed to do it fifty odd times this year.

While the temptation to fail was strong, the temptation to trick Sandro into failing and succeeding myself was even stronger. Luckily for him, the memory of my one and only gig alone flooded back to me and I decided against it.

“I tell you what,” I said to him. “As the birthday present I bought you was the same as one of your Christmas presents (a nose trimmer), I’ll pay for your ticket.” How could he refuse?

It was fitting that we returned to The Great Hall, where it all began with YMAS, with The Blackout playing the part of ZMAS. I vowed that, should any 17 year olds ask me to buy them a beer, I would, for old time’s sake. Of course for all we knew, the gig could have been sold out, so we approached the box office with some trepidation.

“Have you got any tickets left?” I asked the glum looking girl in the box office box.

“Yeah,” she replied glumly.

“Thank God for that!” I said. “Can I have two please?”

“Yeah. That’ll be 40 quid.”

“14 quid each? That’s not so bad,” I replied.

“No, 40 quid overall,” the girl said.

“14 quid overall? Even better,” I said delightedly.

“No, no. Forty. Four-Zero,” she said.

“Fourteen? Four-Teen?” I asked.

She held her hands in her head for a moment.

“It’s twenty quid each,” she said finally.

I turned to Sandro.

“Fuck it, let’s go to the pub.”

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We didn’t go to the pub. I did reach into my wallet and reluctantly hand over two twenty pound notes, and we went inside. The room was less packed than I’d anticipated, though there were still legions adorned in various Blackout T-shirts, with the usual mix of kids, adolescents with extravagant haircuts and multiple tattoos on their faces. It was like a scene from Mad Max.


There was also the odd chaperone, who no doubt secretly like the bands a lot more than the bored kids they accompany. 

Attack! Attack! were the band on stage when we entered and they’d followed two other Welsh bands I didn’t know. Sandro and I grabbed 3 Bulmers for a tenner between us, and hid in the corner not paying much attention to anything else. When the world does end, Attack! Attack! will provide a pretty decent soundtrack to it.

We didn’t have to wait too long for The Blackout, who took to the stage chanting “We! Are! The Dynamite!” which probably made more sense to them than us, at which point we decided to move to the other side of the room and prop ourselves against the bar.

From our new vantage point, we had a good view of the chaotic mosh pit in front of the stage, from which two youngsters escaped and stumbled over to us. One of them looked on the verge of death. He was sweating profusely but managed to lift his limp arms up to the bar to retrieve a glass of Water. He leant on the bar next to Sandro.

Sandro dwarfed him, but the boy revealed that he was a veteran of Download festival and was therefore experienced in this sort of thing. I couldn’t really hear their conversation, but it looked like he wanted Sandro to join him in the mosh pit to provide some extra heft.

“We could do with a bit of bulk,” I imagined him saying.

“If you call me bulky again I’ll sit on your puny head,” was Sandro’s imagined reply.

The boys returned to the pit, and my thoughts returned to The Blackout.

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Four albums in, the latest of which was a Welsh Music Prize nominee, and I couldn’t name a single song of theirs. Cousin Bish and I had briefly seen them at The Big Weekend a few years ago, but we didn’t stick around for long. They had duelling frontmen, one of whom was a growler called Sean, the other a singer called Gavin (the singer being the fella who’d supported Dopamine the week before).

My personal problem with this kind of music, has always been the growler. What is he saying? Why is he trying to swallow the microphone? Why do my ears hurt? I’ve never found answers to these questions, and never really wanted to. So when the growler first growled early on, I wasn’t particularly excited about what would follow. His spectacularly bad haircut and constant prowling of the stage weren’t promising signs either.

But who ever said you had to be likeable to be a good frontman? Slowly but surely, their energy and their relentless, furious pace won us over and I’m not ashamed to say I enjoyed it. Sandro was converted as soon as they unleashed their cover of Andrew WK’s ‘Party Hard’.

Both frontmen spent time whipping up the crowd and chatting away, but when Gavin addressed the crowd part way through the set, we were shocked and appalled.

“Today is a special gig. It’s a celebration, because yesterday was the most special day of the year. . .”

“What have you paid him?” I said to Sandro.

“. . . Sean’s birthday!” Gavin finished.

“For fuck’s sake,” Sandro muttered.

When Sandro told me that he later saw Sean classily spit in the air and try to catch it in his own mouth, I knew for certain that 29^th December was a cursed day for mankind.

Nevertheless we were enjoying the gig rather a lot when one of the frontmen declared that they would be playing their last song at around 10:40.

“Will there be an encore d’you reckon?” Sandro asked.

“Yeah, there’s bound to be,” was my verdict, so we bought a few more Bulmers.

No sooner had we sipped our drinks, than the band downed their instruments and walked off stage. The lights in The Great Hall came on and people began to flood out. Much to our surprise, we were actually disappointed that there wasn’t more to come.

We smuggled our drinks out of the venue, and our final post-gig pint of the year was therefore drunk en route to Albany fish bar. With that, it was all over, not with a bang but a whimper. Sandro was in tears.

Except, it wasn’t over just yet. . .

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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 - The Blackout - ✓
31 - ?