To the London School of Economics to watch the groups Client, Riviera and Vic 20. Not a drum kit in site. Keep music programmed, I always say. Soft Cell's "Memorabilia" plays over the speakers, the original version. It sounds like it was created yesterday. Matt Haynes whispers to me, "the future's not what it was…" Indeed, there are many people of a certain age who stand around at this gig smugly scoffing "I remember 1981 the first time around". But I for one am extremely happy whenever even a small part of the Real World resembles Dickon's World.
In my world, in the kingdom of The Blond, the one-fingered synth line is king.
Far better this than wanting to sound like The Stooges. Which all the other new bands insist on resembling, being unlucky enough to be saddled with real drummers and no synths. Though that doesn't stop many of these new rock groups still using their guitars like disco keyboards, the Electric Six being a prominent example.
Still, if it's The Law that all new bands have to either sound like Soft Cell or The Stooges, far better that than having to sound like Radiohead. Which every new band was obliged to do in recent years. Or worse, having to sound like Oasis. Which every new band was made to do in 1995. You have no idea of the <i>relief</i>! I fought in the Romo Wars, you know. On one side was Britpop and Oasism. On the other was Orlando. And arguably, Dubstar.
Dubstar were firm favourites of Orlando, both musically and as people. Their sound was genuinely original. Dreamy widescreen synthpop songs, Cocteau Twins-ish guitars, and Sarah Blackwood's sublimely English singing style. Although they had plenty of actual Top 40 hit singles, I felt the press and public never quite appreciated them as much as they deserved. I always associate their first album, "Disgraceful" with London memories from the mid-90s. The lyrics of the title track seemed to sum up myself and Tim Orlando extremely well, being the haughty music biz hustlers we were:
<i>I know why you came
This time that we've borrowed
Imagine us now talking tomorrow
We're not very big, but we're certainly clever
To go on together… well… what makes sense now?
Disgraceful… will we ever say no?
It's wine that we feel that drives us together
This hormonal vision that won't last forever
We're old enough now & we should know better
To go on together… well… what makes sense now?
Disgraceful… will we ever say no?
This match that I'm burning, two people still looking for something else</i>
Tonight, Dubstar are no more, but guitarist Chris is in the audience watching Sarah onstage, singing with her new band Client. She looks and sounds exactly like she did in 1995. I feel the years melting away.
At the gig, I recognise The One Out Of Depeche Mode That No One Recognises, as he is something to do with the evening's proceedings. The one with glasses that isn't Martin Gore or Dave Gahan or the one who left. Norman Stanley Amelia Fletcher, I think he's called. He resembles an entirely ordinary-looking, dressed-down 40-ish man, but it dawns on me that he must surely be a millionaire. If I were a millionaire, I would at least have the courtesy of looking like one.
To compound the sensation that tonight is 1995 all over again, I stroll into this gig without paying, just like myself and Tim always did. Albeit entirely accidentally: I had mistaken a fire escape for the front door. I tell the promoter Val this, and she doesn't seem to mind too much, presumably grateful that I've alerted her to this potential loss of income.
But I continue to act the freeloading, slightly tipsy, ersatz celebrity that I was in Orlando, because a few hours into the gig I am whisked off to the club Nag Nag Nag by some Friends Who Know Someone On The Door There.
Who needs relationships, or even money, when there's celebrity attention, even on a very minor scale? I have to admit I feel entirely at home with the idea. I feel it's My Place. I look more famous than I really am. I no longer have the nerve or stamina or youthful energy to gatecrash every vaguely interesting London event like I did eight years ago, and I can't use the Next Big Thing card I had then. But on the occasions where I act or am treated like a Superstar, at least in the tragic Warhol definition (eg Holly Woodlawn), I absolutely feel it <i>makes sense</i>. Because nothing else does.
Indeed, lately strangers have approached me to say that two distinct things spring to their mind on seeing my appearance:
1) The club, Nag Nag Nag
2) The band, Interpol.
I'm ashamedly not too familiar with Interpol's music, though I shall remedy this forthwith. But I have seen their photos and approve.
As for Nag Nag Nag, I had been there before the club became so ridiculously hip and popular, but tales of the queue around the block had rather dissuaded me from attending lately. However, if people insist on saying I belong there, then I should really go more often.
The Orlando feeling returns once more. The feeling one gets when walking up to the door of an extremely fashionable club (Nag Nag Nag currently is the Studio 54 of 2003 London), swanning past the head of a queue of people that extends around the block, watching the bouncers part like a Red Sea Of Big Men as I move among them, always looking straight ahead, acting like I own the place. And then getting in for free. Though I do have a genuine reason for being able to do this: I wrote a small praiseworthy piece on the club for a supplement on Hedonistic London that appeared in a recent edition of Time Out magazine. The club people hardly need any more write-ups, but they are kind enough to let me in for free. And I am extremely grateful.
Later, I am taken aside and asked to have my photograph taken. It's for a new club called The Egg that is starting up in Kings Cross soon. They want me to be on the flyers or some such publicity.
Them: Can you look away from the camera, and look really pissed off?
Me: I can look away from the camera.
