Things I hate: GigsPosted: 11/03/2012
The thrill of seeing my favourite band was once enough to eclipse the terror that accompanies spending time penned by a mass of sweaty, idiotic and tactile public. For the well-seasoned gig-goer, nothing rouses disdain like the realisation that in order to fulfil a rapidly fleeting interest in music, we’re to endure wretched people for extended periods of time. I’m talking about gigs.
Problems with attending gigs stem from the fact that you’re observing something highly personal in a public space. Regrettably, people that may or may not give a toot about the artist you’ve paid hefty pound to watch are invading the 20 centimetres of personal space you hold oh so dear, and most of the time they’re intolerable morons. There are several abhorrent behavioural traits that your common gig-going goon will observe, but for the sake of brevity I’ll limit myself to my five biggest gig grievances:
Claiming a place
You have to get to a gig early if you’re to secure a good spot. Fine, drink beer, but beware: once you’ve left your space for a piss/top-up, it’s fair game. Drunkenly elbowing a path back through the crowd and expecting your place to be there when you return is a definite no-no. Should you require a solid real-estate investment, why not consider booking a seat on the balcony? Although, no matter how much you try and justify sitting on your arse up in the nosebleeds, remember that you’ll garner nothing but disdain and expressionless stares from the floor dwellers who look like dumbstruck UFO witnesses among a mist of fart smells.
Hi, budding Donn Pennebaker: No one wants to see your ill shot, shit-sounding home movies from three miles back. You’re not in the press pit and your slipshod Youtube video won’t make you Internet famous. If you insist on taking grainy shots of the poorly lit fop on stage, do as the professionals do: take pictures for three songs, then put the camera away and enjoy the gig IN REAL LIFE! Equally as intrusive are those who, once filming’s begun, insist on holding their camera aloft, only to gaze into the diminutive LCD screen that now draws the gaze of everyone behind like moths to the flame.
Where’s the pickaxe? If there’s one thing that detracts enjoyment from a gig the most, it’s the number of blathering shits that find it impossible to cement their frothing rents shut. I’m always disappointed that an artist will simply play over the inane murmur of yammering dolts, knowing they’d have the support of the audience were they to unplug their guitar and dash it round the hollow skull of the discourteous shit who feels that his/her feckless conversation is more important than my £15…and the music, or something. There’s nothing wrong with the odd sentence here or there, but to be ignorant of a performer so much so as to engage in a full conversation is downright rude.
Bands! What the hell are you doing? You’re dull. This could be symptomatic of my once rich and varied gig attendance, but have you noticed that bands don’t put in the effort any more? There are, of course, exceptions; however, I’m getting a little tired of the endlessly dreary stream of tepid, guitar weary piss that dribbles onto stages of late. You know you’re onto a loser when the band takes to the stage with about as much gusto as a fart in a care home. I’m sure getting blown by groupies night after night, living on the road with no responsibilities and fulfilling your life-long dreams must be a real kick in the balls, but could you please try and make it worth me missing that breast examination special on The One Show to be here? Thanks.
Not just one for the girls. Having survived many a near buggering at an all boys’ school, imagine my horror upon learning that my sweet arse is fair game in the real world. You’ve managed to secure a great spot at the front. At first the pressing weight of the crowd provides a welcome support, but as the main act settle into their set and everyone begins to sweat, you wonder if that warm, throbbing protuberance you assumed is the soft hand of a fair maiden is in fact the bulging jeans-cock of a hairy sex offender. There’s nothing you can do. Your arms are pinned. You’re Bobby in Deliverance, but there’s no duelling banjos, just Mumford & Sons.
Have I missed any? What do you hate about gigs?