Support Your Local Spaceman: The Swiss Story Part 3   Leave a comment

So, uh, yeah. Then I come offstage and although I’m a bit pissed off I’m philosophical about it because that’s what I did in college and it sure doesn’t prepare you for any other job. Keyboard-dude from Morbius buys my CD (first copy of The Old Album sold to anyone in the world) and this cheers me up quite a bit, and then the slightly camp older barman buys another one and, as I always do, I take this as a good sign. I have to, you see. He even wants me to sign it and I feel a bit silly putting my jobseeker’s allowance name down so I do a goofy drawing too just to show I’m an artist. He asks me how much I want for it and I don’t understand the currency because it’s numerical and so I ask how much Morbius are charging for theirs and then ask for two thirds of that sum and then he gives me the full whack anyway in a manner that suggests that he doesn’t want to argue about it. Then Morbius play and I find myself getting into the thing they do between songs where Bones starts talking random crap at the audience, sometimes amusingly and sometimes totally randomly, and then the rest of the band crash into the next song whether he sounds like he’s finished or not, which can be very funny. All the time I’m feeling sorry for Phil because he’s got sleep deprivation, fading drug psychosis and a room full of nobody at all to take into SPACE. Sometimes that sort of shit can do you a favour though, and it must have because he comes on and does the best set I’ve ever seen him do, and I’ve now seen him do a lot of really good ones. It’s only now that I realise that all the fucking about with the lights earlier on in the day is because they have a really good set of lights and MFU looks like a ASTRAL HEFNER MOTHERFUCKER and not some dude who has to TAKE SHIT FROM MORONS IN DIFFERENT-COLOURED HATS IN A FUCKING JAM FACTORY just to feed his kids and bring us DER SPACE MUSIK. And I’ve got it all on video, or most of it anyway. He does this brilliant new tune called Dead Astronaut or something where he puts on a simple paper mask that makes his face look blank and then pretends to float lifelessly as his machines bleep and bloop along, seemingly without purpose. It’s a nothing idea but it’s so effective, like Japanese theatre or something. He does a lot of upbeat, catchy stuff that any consumer could relate to too, a lot more polished like he’s really got his chops together. His theremin sounds decreasingly like a WOW MACHINE and more like a judiciously used favourite colour in his sonic palette. I start thinking about how maybe MFU isn’t such an acquired taste anymore and how he could really rock something like All Tomorrow’s Parties or whatever, and I mean that in a good way. People would love it. SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL SPACEMAN, I say.
Finally DJ Dolomite, who looks a bit like Simon (fuck it, he is Simon OK?) gets up and starts wading through a charmingly all-over-the-place set that defies my trainspotting by and large. Me and Morbius and Sandro all play table football and I drink about a zillion corn beers because the fridge never empties because these sophisticated Europeans understand that THE ARTIST’S PAIN manifests itself as THIRST. I feel kind of stupid and cheap though, because they have Orval (plus various Chimays) behind the bar and this is about my favourite beer in the whole world, and yet I don’t drink a single one.
Then some young geezer with long hair who is very tall starts talking to me and I can’t remember if he didn’t speak English or whether I had lost the ability myself but we couldn’t seem to communicate whatsoever, and yet he still wanted to stand very close to me indeed. Phil wandered up guilelessly and I pointed at him, and then at the bloke by way of introductions. Matey ignored Phil and continued to set up camp in my personal space. I was too drunk for diplomacy so I wandered off somewhere else. Matey appeared at my shoulder. I wandered off somewhere else quite fast. Instantaneous materialisation of Homo Europus in that zone too. I sprinted for the balcony to escape, only realizing as I got there that if I leant on the railing and looked out into the night sky I might as well be wearing a powder-blue off-the-shoulder cocktail dress, even if the available vista mainly featured staggering punks and junkies jacking up rather than elegant examples of topiary. Too late! He was behind me! I pegged it away with wild eyes, and a chase ensued until I made it to the safety of the backstage area. Thereupon Phil and I rolled the only joint I smoked over the weekend, and afterwards I was too fucked to tell Simon (who was being held to DJ ransom by a small group of dancing people on ecstasy) that I was going to call it a day, let alone go back out and have to deal with HAIR-BOY’S PURSUIT OF WHATEVER. I go upstairs, climb into my bunk and crash out in about ¾ of a second.

Posted September 24, 2003 by peteum2013 in Uncategorized

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