White on white. I hope it had come in from the sea. Sinister driftwood, beguiling nocturnal void.
Inside. Narrow by the door, creating the illusion it was more choked than it was. Unhealthy pallor hanging in the air, heavy with fevers left from last summer. Brown wood and darkness, middle aged men and a conspiracy of tall people. Overpriced drinks at the bar, £3:70 for a can of Red Stripe lager. Not a glass, not even a plastic one to pour it in. Went to the toilet, covered with an inch of piss and waste. Black walls and sickness. Thinking to myself that The Haunt must be the worst venue I've been to for a long while.
O Paon (a French singer / songwriter) I enjoyed, Mount Eerie, not so much my cup of tea. Then Earth. Ah, Dylan Carson. The man rumoured to have given Kurt Cobain the gun he shot himself with, all lean and ex-heroin addict chic, chiselled cheekbones probably hidden by a deep desert beard. Drummer like an earthquake slowed down, cello player scraping out the last remnants of some rumoured apocalypse. The moustache on the bass player looked like it was watching me. 'This is a pop song' Dylan introduced to a hideous bray of laughter from someone in the crowd behind me, before playing another five minute hypnotic instrumental dirge.
Getting crowded at the front, everyone beginning to sway like monoliths uncertain there was an earthquake. Body temperature creeping up and wishing I didn't feel quite so hemmed in. Bad spiritual acoustics, sick building syndrome. Felt like the air was sweating some comedown. Followed Em to the back, she pale and drawn, and suddenly nauseous. Andy is at the back too, also sick and nauseous, a state of play that had come on when Earth started. I was feeling pretty ill too. Creeping comfort, a disquieted stomach.
Stayed at the slightly fresh air at the back and listened to Earth's armageddon from a distance.
