Monday eve – to Audio Underground studios in Stoke Newington, for the first of three Fosca rehearsals. Myself, Rachel Stevenson and Charley Stone. We’re just doing a one-off gig in Madrid on Sept 12th – barely 24 hours out of the country. But it’s been months since the last gig, so we need a decent amount of practice (1 rehearsal is too little, 2 is risking it, 3 is just about okay).
After Madrid, there’s talk of us possibly playing Berlin and Hamburg. It would also be nice to play just one more London gig, by way of a proper farewell to Fosca. One likes to properly draw a line under things, rather than let them peter out, if at all possible. I think Fosca were always going to be a Three Album Band, like Galaxie 500 and McCarthy. I’m still interested in writing lyrics for other people, though, so hopefully there’ll be some sort of new musical adventures to come.
As for a last London gig, I’ve now changed my mind about not playing club nights. In fact, I’d also be happy doing a support slot, even fourth on the bill at the Bull & Gate with some twelve-year-olds in Trilbys headlining, because I like an early night. We shall see.
Monday: I’m reminded why indie band life suits me less than ever. The rehearsal room mixer has a broken channel, there’s no ventilation, and I have to sing with a battered, filthy vocal mic which I’m still tasting hours later. The band rehearsing next door are, of course, the loudest and most awful band in the history of humanity. What’s worse is that Charley’s amp picks up some of their PA output when we’re having moments of quiet discussion, like a Minicab Radio from Hell.
Apart from that, it’s quite enjoyable.
***
Afterwards, at about 10pm, Charley and I are wandering the Stoke Newington streets to find the right bus stop home. Suddenly, a man brandishing a can of booze starts shouting something very loudly (thanks to Charley for reminding me of the details), but to whom it isn’t clear:
“Alistair! Alistair! Alistair!”
We look around at the zebra crossing, trying to see if this Alistair person is nearby. The man goes on.
“Oy, Alistair! Hello Alistair! HELLO DARLING!”
‘Darling?’, I muse. Is he addressing Charley? Or alluding to my apparent lack of butchness?
By now he’s standing right behind us, and is just shouting continually.
“Alistair Darling! ALISTAIR DARLING!”
The penny drops. Another name to add to the long list of Things Strangers Shout At Me In The Street.
File it alongside Rhydian, Max Headroom, Billy Idol, An Extra From The Mighty Boosh, The Albino Assassin From The Goldie Hawn and Chevy Chase Movie ‘Foul Play’, That Woman In ‘Liquid Sky’ When She Plays A Man, Paul Bowles (a literary reference from Shane MacG), Bob Downe, Andy Warhol, David Sylvian, Max Headroom, and (still my all-time favourite) ‘Oy! The Eighties!’
***
I turn 37 tomorrow. I’m not entirely happy about this, but prefer it to the alternative.
