This is my submission for a creative writing contest on my college campus. It's a rewrite of one of my first posts ever here, about an ill-fated yet wonderful Pete Doherty gig.
It starts like all the best concerts do: watching an enraged man buy takeout chicken. My friend Andrew and I are nearly dying from excitement when we score tickets to a tiny, last-minute London gig with erstwhile British rocker Pete Doherty. By the end of the evening, we’re just dying.
Let’s talk about Pete for a second. The epitome of the junkie-musician stereotype, he was once a member of beloved and shambolic British punk band The Libertines. He now spends his time dating improbably attractive models, creating Youtube videos with Amy Winehouse, feeding pot to London Zoo penguins, and making a mockery of rehab facilities from Teignmouth to Thailand. With these factors in mind, Andrew and I know there might be some hitches (Pete might be late/not appear/have trouble remaining upright/throw things at us from the stage resulting in grievous head injuries). However, things go downhill with the speed of an Olympic skier from the moment we attempt to pick up our tickets before grabbing some pre-concert food. A dramatic rendition follows:
Andrew and Caroline enter the upstairs of indie mecca Rhythm Factory. It vaguely resembles a bar. Random employees and patrons mill around. Some of them appear to be rearranging the furniture. We spot a man with creatively large hair and an officious-looking clipboard.
Caroline: Hi, can we pick up tickets for the gig tonight?
Man: In a tone suggesting that Caroline and Andrew are egregious simpletons and possibly criminals No! There will be a list at the door. He turns away, glaring at his clipboard.
Caroline and Andrew retreat in confusion, dodging two men who are inexplicably shuffling all the chairs in the room to one side.
Thus rebuffed, Andrew and I wander around Whitechapel and decide that our best option, considering the temperature (just above “Arctic tundra” but significantly below “locked in a walk-in freezer”), is hot corporate beverages. We repair to the Starbucks across the street from Rhythm Factory, where we can watch the queue and decide when to brave the frozen wastelands to secure a good place at the gig. As we sip our mochas, we see the furious man burst outside. After a short and heated interaction with an ATM, he stops at one of Whitechapel’s myriad and inexplicable fried chicken stands then storms back in, tub of chicken in hand. Confusion ensues. Why does this unusually coifed man want chicken? Why is he so unhappy about it? (Warning: these questions will never be answered.)
Time passes. Frigid queuing occurs and we cram into the basement venue space, which is not significantly warmer than outside and has the distinct disadvantage of ceiling pipes that drip icy water over the crowd. Fortuitously, we manage to get front and center spots. Less fortuitously, the barrier before the stage is made of splintery old boards and comes up to my neck. My nearest neighbor is a middle-aged woman in a leopard print headband, holding a massive handbag and a glass of wine. I realize she is going to slap me in the face with her stupid handbag whenever she takes a sip from her stupid wineglass. It is the first but not the last time during the evening that I feel the urge to punch someone in the head.
Onward to the pinnacle of our saga: the opening bands. Andrew and I expect two, maybe three. There. Are. Eight. One less than the circles of hell, but close enough.
One: Nondescript. The crowd, lulled into a false sense of security by the timely start of the gig, applauds politely for them. Birds sing, the sun shines. It’s a more innocent age.
Two: Their logo is a creepy Masonic eye symbol. They’re called “Mad Staring Eyes.” At least they’re straightforward.
Three: This band could be good; they have an array of catchy three minute songs. Unfortunately they’re buried inside six minute songs. I start to waver toward a coma near the end of their set, but Andrew and I console ourselves because this must be the last opener. Pete will appear soon in all his crack-addled splendor. Everyone else seems to agree; they have been steadily pressing toward the stage between sets. The barrier and I have some close, personal bonding time.
Four: A woman in a tunic adorned with a bedazzled tiger appears. She’s holding a guitar made of at least 75% duct tape. A drummer and a man with a trumpet follow. She shrieks something incomprehensible about how the trumpeter's name is Foxy Horns then announces the band’s name: DADDY AND THE GOOD GIRLS. Words that will haunt my dreams eternally. Tiger Tunic makes sounds with her guitar, perhaps impersonating the slow, painful death of a water buffalo, then starts “singing.” By “singing,” I mean “shrieking in the worst way at the highest volume imaginable, like a fighter jet taking off inside a closet.” The words of the “song” are: “deliver me to Christ, please forgive me.” I refuse to believe that there’s a deity benevolent enough to forgive this. Mercifully, the “singing” stops as she tunes her guitar. I am tempted to point out that it’s poorly tuned because it’s made of 0% guitar and 100% materials available at Home Depot. Eventually the “music” resumes. I text Andrew because we can’t speak over the din:
Caroline: Kill me.
Andrew: ME FIRST.
After several centuries, DADDY AND THE GOOD GIRLS depart, having broken the spirits of everyone in the audience. Near the end of their set, the furious man, who we’ve determined is the venue manager, appears at the edge of the stage. Furious Manager’s eyes expand to the size of the Milky Way Galaxy, then he disappears at a speed rarely seen outside documentaries about cheetahs.
Five: I barely listen to this band because I’m busy suppressing the homicidal urge to find DADDY AND THE GOOD GIRLS and bludgeon them with the duct tape guitar. Band five is a duo dressed like gypsies. One has a guitar. I don’t think they’re aware that all band members usually play the same song, because they aren’t. At some point a tambourine appears, coinciding with the disappearance of my will to live.
Six: They’re like The Libertines, except Swedish. The woman next to me has somehow procured another glass of wine. She drinks it and elbows me in the neck with gleeful abandon. I wonder exactly how much force it would take to snap off someone’s arm.
Seven: By this point the crowd is all but piled in front of the barrier. It’s 12:30. Furious Manager is stage-side, gripping his clipboard with one white-knuckled hand and his phone with the other. He’s screaming into it. Andrew and I determine that he’s calling last-minute filler bands because Pete is late. In spite of everything, the current band thinks we actually want to see them. Their singer flails grandly like Ian Curtis/Jesus and taunts the woman next to me by reaching out his hand to her then pulling it back. She retaliates by grabbing his mic stand. The resulting struggle snaps it, a dangerously pointy end arcing millimeters from my face. I consider wresting it from her, skewering her giant handbag, then flinging it into the increasingly manic crowd. Lucky for her, I’m distracted when the audience starts throwing bottles so furiously that the drum kit is destroyed and the band retreats.
Eight: They distinguish themselves when the lead singer cuts his hand as the set begins, then bleeds profusely onto his guitar for its remainder. This occurs inches from my face, to my horror/disgust/fear of bloodborne illness. Mid-set, Pete finally appears. He shuffles around the edge of the stage before being corralled by furious manager and dragged off. Andrew and I notice that Pete’s wearing a barrette underneath his trilby. His outfit is also charmingly accessorized with white, lens-less women’s sunglasses. The crowd goes ballistic, shoving me further into the barrier’s splintery embrace. Band eight departs, leaving the stage like a leftover Dexter set.
Pete staggers forth around two, egging on the already violent crowd with his incendiary anthem “Fuck Forever.” He accepts a copy of his album and a Sharpie offered by a kid a few feet from me, throws the CD back, then draws all over the stage with the Sharpie, cackling delightedly. Halfway through the set, my wino neighbor decides she’ll climb the barrier to attract Pete’s attention, slapping me with her bag once more. Seeing my golden opportunity, I return one of her many elbows and she topples over. I cackle like Pete stealing from a fan, but display remarkable restraint and don’t stomp her handbag.
...I see you judging me there. I stopped caring around the time I learned that DADDY AND THE GOOD GIRLS exist.
Given a new foot of space, Andrew and I do a celebratory dance. Pete plays on. His guitarist mysteriously procures the bloody guitar from band eight. I would be concerned for his health, but he seems to have blood poisoning already. Or he’s a zombie. The set concludes with the lovely song “Albion” and we burst forth into the icy Whitechapel night, coated in sweat and sticky beer from endless thrown drinks. Our last sight of the evening is Furious Manager slumped against a wall, hair significantly deflated, clipboard gone.
Months later, we Google DADDY AND THE GOOD GIRLS. The Rhythm Factory gig is one of only two times they’ve ever played. Were they a joke? A mass hallucination? Our prevailing theory is that the crowd at their next gig mutinied and exiled them to Antarctica. It’s a comforting thought.
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