A basement full of people ignoring the news, briefly
The gig happened. Small miracle. Twenty-odd people in a basement in Dalston, ignoring Celtexit, ignoring the decline, ignoring Barry’s currency, for forty-five minutes of feedback and shouting. It was, genuinely, the best hour of my week.
Before we went on I was doomscrolling and landed on Guardian CEO pay again, still five million quid, still somehow framed as complicated rather than obscene. Told the crowd about it between songs. Got a proper laugh, then a proper groan, which is the correct order for that kind of news.
Someone in the crowd works local government and confirmed what Sarah’s cousin already told me: nobody actually knows what Celtexit would mean in practice. Comforting, in a way. If nobody knows, at least we’re all confused together.
Nige’s bass held together. The new amp, bought on Barry’s advice with money from an unclear source, did not immediately explode, which counts as a technical triumph this month.
Read a bit of the Mash on the walk home, still buzzing from the set, still broke, still living in a country whose economics I can’t explain and whose politics I definitely can’t. But the gig happened. Some weeks that has to be enough.
More noise at my author page.
