Kate
Tempest, Motion, February 2015
So, I go to
meet N on a Sunday night.
“Yo, check
this: we got two options”
That’s his
opener.
“I was just
at a cocktail bar in Clifton, and I know the barmaid, and she knows you, saw
you play somewhere, so we could head up there, that might be cool…or, my mate’s got two tickets for Kate
Tempest and he can’t go, so we can do that.
What do you think?” Asks N.
I think I’d
rather go to see Kate Tempest than get set up with a barmaid, I say – no offence
to the barmaid, mind…
He was
thinking more like I’d be his wingman, he says.
That makes me want to go there even less, I say: let’s go see Kate
Tempest.
We walk up
the hill to retrieve the tickets from under a bin. Auspicious.
Because I
was late, and because we have to walk to the mate’s flat to get the tickets and
then walk to the venue and I take us (slightly) the wrong way, we rock up and
the security dude says “You’re here to see Kate Tempest? She’s on now – she’s nearly finished”
OK, well, we
didn’t pay, so…
Turning up
late for a gig makes a refreshing change from my usual turn-up-early-
get-a-good-spot-only-for-someone-a-foot-taller-than-me-to-slide-in-right-in-front-of-me-just-as-the-thing-starts
routine.
We pile in
and KT’s on a poetry tip.
I’ve seen
her do her poetry before. It’s pretty
intense.
And people
listen, intently – it would probably be shocking if they didn’t – we’ve walked
in well into the set and maybe we’re just not into the atmosphere that’s been
building…
In one of
her many monologues (we only see about a quarter of her set, judging by the
time we arrive, and she does four in this time, each longer than the last) she
says it’s been twelve years she’s been doing this.
It’s good to
see a poet get this much recognition (the gig is sold out, I think), and it
seems we’ve been building towards this for the last ten years or more. And it’s good that it’s someone so passionate
about words and their effects. KT is crazy passionate about what she’s doing,
there’s no escaping that. And she’s
really good at it. That’s probably the
main reason she’s here and so many people are here to see her do her thing.
I just don’t
think I like it that much.
Frankly,
it’s all a bit much for me. Maybe for
her, too. Clearly most people disagree
with me on this, and find it very moving.
It’s a taste thing innit? To each
their own.
I’m not
really sure what the band are doing (I think there are four of them, but I
can’t see), but it’s all very kick-heavy, that kind of bassy, house/techno-flavoured
rap I don’t enjoy.
“I’m not
telling you what to do, I don’t know who you should vote for”
“Green
Party!” someone shouts.
“Wow, you
don’t hear many party political heckles, do you?” N remarks.
True. Welcome to Bristle...
For an encore,
Kate comes back on her own, looking emotional.
I don’t know if she’s actually crying, but it looks like she probably
is. She performs a poem about soldiers, which
is typically long but pretty good, and characteristically hard-hitting.
Her heart is
on her sleeve, which is odd, because most people keep theirs inside, despite many
claiming otherwise.
“She left it
all there, didn’t she?” I say to N on the way out, “She’s not took any of it
away with her.”
That makes
me sad not because I disagree (I disagree with everything, including that last
sentence. (It’s a reflex but I do enjoy
it)) but because the difference is probably just hard work and the
luck/opportunities hard work earns. I
don’t work less hard than successful people because I’m lazy. It’s because I’m fearful and lack confidence
and determination. Or maybe I just don’t
work hard enough.
And that’s
the saddest thing of all.
So, I
suppose it got to me emotionally, after all.
Well played.
Frontier
Ruckus, The Gallimaufry, February 2015
And the
Award for Most Instruments Played In One Set goes to…
Wait a
minute, I’ve lost count:
Keys, synth,
trumpet
(with AND
without mute),
French horn,
melodica, saw
Yes: saw.
At one
point, there’s a guitar solo, followed by a banjo solo, followed by a saw solo.
Fuck.ing.Hell,
this is brilliant.
Then they
play Moonriver on saw and banjo.
Does that
sound like it might have been terrible?
Then you are
a fool.
Because
Fuck.ing.Hell,
this is brilliant.
Tonight, I
learned something about me:
I need to
get really really good on the banjo, as a matter of urgency.
So much more
energy
Than most
bands of this kind.
They sound
like a mix
Of Port
O’Brien and Bright Eyes
And The
Decemberists,
But that
doesn’t do it justice.
And
Eyepennies would love it
I should
really phone him
(This gig is
life-affirming,
I’m going
home to re-assess everything.
And tell
everyone that I love them.
Once I’ve
had some sleep.)
The band are
from Ann Arbor, Michigan –
Well,
actually,
I discover
after,
They’re from
Detroit.
“Is it still
there?”
I ask.
“It is – and
it’s coming back”
Says the
banjo man.
“We have
vinyl records,
And compact
discs,
And also T
Shirts
Featuring
Seinfeld characters
Which will
hopefully result
In a lawsuit,
leading to
A lot of
publicity.”
Says the
singer.
And the
Award for Most Instruments Played In One Song goes to…
That dude,
there on the right.
Great gig,
great night.
Nighty
night.
From
Detroit, The Exchange, February 2015
I love this
band, I just don’t know if I like them…
“Hello,
we’re From Detroit.
We’re not
actually from Detroit, of course…
This is a
song about menstruation, it’s called The Honeymoon Period.”
When I laugh
at this, everybody stares at me.
I say
everybody; not including the band, the support bands, the sound engineer, the
bar staff, or me, there are six people here.
Still, I feel nineteen pairs of eyes on me, registering intense
disapproval for enjoying what I innocently took to be a joke.
Which sets
the tone for what follows: half an hour of nerve-shredding noise, screamed
lyrics of which one or two delicious vignettes are intelligible and a seemingly
endless cascade of amazing inter-song banter:
“The purpose
of this song is to mitigate the rapacious effects of what is euphemistically
termed ‘globalisation’”
“Love makes
the world go round….well, it’s either that or conservation of angular
momentum.”
Again, I
laugh – that’s a good line, by anyone’s standards. Again, everyone else in the room looks at me
as if I were laughing at a dying child.
By this
point I just don’t care; this is the only enjoyment I will get from this whole
thing. For a fleeting moment, I regret
coming on my own; I wonder if I will make it out alive. Honestly, if looks could kill…
I make it
out alive – just. I feel hounded out,
but I leave with a grin on my face.
I might just
go and see this lot again.
But not on
my own.
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