Tunes, not chat

As much as I loved Massive Attack's set at Portsmouth Guildhall last night, and an excellent array of tunes and arresting visuals it was too (including a nice Terry Wogan tribute), my enjoyment of said gig was somewhat hampered by the drunken chatterboxes stood behind me who willfully bleated on throughout the show. It is my gig-going bugbear. My prime punter annoyance. Why pay £30+ for a ticket if you're going to talk all the way through the gig? Why cheer loudly when Horace Andy takes to the stage if you're just going to gab during his performance? Surely not just to piss me off, that they could've done far easier and cheaper than spending £££ for a ticket plus whatever to cover the amount of booze they'd imbibed. No matter, the Dave abides and, by shuffling my carcass slightly forward, I moved myself just about out of earshot (though slightly more up close and personal to some flat-cap wearing hipsters then I'd like) and could enjoy the show (and damn good it was too).

By my own admission, and no surprise to you reading this, I'm a bit of gig whore. I have been to a lot of shows over the years and, yes, I've sadly stood through too many that have been spoiled by someone crapping on about something when they should be listening. Venues have bars, if you want a chat go and stand there, prop up the counter and chew the fat. Don't stand next to me and talk to your mate about your favourite song, the one you want played at your wedding, that you then talk loudly through when the artist plays it (that was one time seeing Ed Harcourt) or just witter on incessantly and ignore the very British looks of umbrage that are being thrown in your direction (as happened at gigs by such fine artists as John Grant, Midlake and Sleaford Mods to name but three).

Last night's experience reminded me of times in The Cellars (RIP) where they had a notice pinned near the bar advising that it was a "listening venue"; if you spoke too loudly during a set then one of the bar staff would tell you off, and they weren't kidding either. Slightly less full on is a poster campaign by Independent Venue Week that makes the point very clearly; if the band is interrupting your conversation you're in the wrong place. Ideally venues shouldn't have to post up nanny state posters telling punters how to behave, nor should I have to waste pixels venting a small amount of spleen about some people I don't know who couldn't care less, but sadly that's just the way it is.

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(update - unfortunately the link to the IVW campaign appears to have expired, the posters are present via the illustrator though; click the image below to view them on Robbie Porter's website)

Life on Mars

One of the sad facts about gaining years is that, with every day, there's an ever increasing chance that someone you know, love, appreciate, admire or respect will disappear. It's one of the choice parts of the human condition, a happy/sad twist that makes you reflect on what you have, what you've missed out on, what hours there are in the day to make something new or maybe just that it's high time that you bought that new shiny thing that you'd promised yourself. It may be that someone you know has passed on, or it may be that someone you've never met, but to you has had an equally important impact on your life, has died; the writer of a book you can quote offhand perhaps, or an actor who's work you enjoyed, the painter who's way with colour makes the juices in your brain fizz or the performer who's music lifts your soul. If life is like a box of chocolates, and you never know what you're going to get, there's a likelihood that some days you'll be handed the Peanut Cracknel and not the Noisette Triangle. Today was one of those days.

David Bowie is dead and, not to put too fine a point on it, it's bummed me right out. It bummed me out when I woke up to the news, half-dreaming the report read out on the radio, and it's continued to do so as the day has progressed. It's bummed me out, it's pissed me off, it's made me sad and, from the tweets I've read and the items I've seen populating my newsfeed in Facebook, unsurprisingly I'm not alone in how I feel. Today may be beyond Peanut Cracknel, today was a big bar of Marmite chocolate, chewed with a grimace. David Bowie is/was a genius, an artist, a chameleon, a creator of beautiful music and, by most accounts, was a really nice chap to boot. Part of me thinks that this is just another way of him reinventing himself, that he'll reappear as a new creation tomorrow, but that's just the dreamer in me. Bowie has left the planet. The body may be gone but the body of work remains and will always be with us. He really made the grade, and for that I am thankful.

RIP David Bowie (1947-2016)