A drizzly Monday. So I write about something else that happened on the sunnier Saturday.
Saturday: I visit the V & A Museum. Utterly packed, particularly the cafe. With permission from the staff, I stick my head in the Members Room, to see what it’s like. Its door is hidden on the top floor, in the wall of mirrors to one side of the Glass Room. The Members Room itself is large and comfortable, with a small manned cafe, second level of desks, lots of books and art magazines and sofas. And barely three people in there. However, as the V&A is an old building, it’s also a bit stuffy, the only air conditioning on this warm day being an open window. Am in two minds as to whether I should join, at £40 per year. I do want to visit the Surrealism and Kylie exhibitions, plus the forthcoming Lee Miller show, and joining up would mean I could just pop in to these shows without queuing, and probably save money in the long run. But I’m also trying hard not to spend money full stop.
I’ve already joined the Tate as a member, a present from my parents. The Tate Modern Members’ Room has amazing views of the London skyline, and some people actually sunbathe on the Room’s south-facing terrace. Going to an art gallery to sunbathe is perhaps an unlikely pastime. But people do it. Not today, though.
The Gilbert & George show is very up my street, of course. I even dress like them. The Tate shop includes G&G cufflinks.
Some emails:
I am one of those people who thought Fosca were coming to play in Milan… Is the concert on, at all?
I guess not. Sorry. The promoter asked us, we agreed, then they just stopped replying to my emails.
This has happened before. The trouble is, the people who book us are often just fans having a go at being promoters, rather than professional promoters. So it’s all on the hobbyist, amateur level. Which has its benefits, but we’ve had our share of being let down and feeling a bit used. Their intentions were good enough: they just let their enthusiasm get away with them, forgot about the promises made, and hoped we’d sort ourselves out somehow.
There’s been times when we’ve been left outside venues long after closing, alone and vulnerable on the street of a strange city with our heavy and expensive instruments, wondering what’s happened to our promised accommodation and transport. And then it starts to rain.
I once heard of a Swedish indie band being treated in a similarly shabby fashion by an amateur London promoter, who vanished into the night. The sound man, of all people, let them all stay at his house. When I next saw the engineer in question, I commended his actions.
“Very noble of you,” I said.
“Oh… not really,” he replied, pulling a sheepish smile. “I wanted to sleep with the drummer.”
Whether he succeeded in this intention or not, he didn’t say.
I saw the pic of your hair on Easter Monday and I was fearing you might be becoming a hippy.
It was getting rather long. But no, it’s now freshly shorn and freshly bleached once more. I spent a couple of days between the cutting and the bleaching looking like a badger assassin.
