There were many positives about the Motifs/Crayon Fields/Heptagons/Standard Fare gig last Saturday: I was with a group of friends I love and admire and cherish for being patient with me when I'm being a selfish twat and dragging them everywhere; there were also quite a few people at the gig, which is always nice; and it confirmed to me that The Crayon Fields are really quite a splendid band indeed, and that I can't get their songs out of my head even now.
But one thing spoilt the evening, and it's the hoary old chestnut of gig etiquette. I'm not a complete fascist when it comes to expecting people to hang on to every word spoken or song, or every note played or every beat drummed; but it would be nice if people didn't stand right at the front of the stage, turn their back on the act playing, and talk like a huge, loud clown to their baying mates.
We've all been through this of course. I remember when me and Jamie went to see Darren Hayman at Junktion 7 and paid seven bloody pounds for the privilege of listening to two fucking Guardian-reading twattocks behind us talk about how their mortgage is costing them each month. It's costing you an extra seven pounds to talk about now, was what I meant to turn around say, but of course I didn't - I just kept turning around and glaring like a big scaredy-cat. That's what most of us do, isn't it? Apart from the really brave people who approach the noise and tell it to be quiet. But there aren't many of that breed around.
And so, yeah, the gig went fine, when you could actually hear it.
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