I went to see Eliza Cathy with a mate who'd travelled especially for the gig. We had to wait for a while – it was standing only and the only places to sit were outside in the cold with the smokers. Approximately forty minutes late, Eliza appeared on stage, gave no apology and just launched into it.
After the initial mix of excitement and disappointment, we decided to just enjoy the music. But it was all music we didn't recognise. Not only was she determined to promote her new album that went in a different musical direction, she wouldn’t even sweeten it up with a few favourites scattered around. Come the break, a big chunk of audience leave. She eventually finished, had pretty much no requests for one more song or an encore, and the remaining audience fled.
We staggered out and concluded that it was the most self-indulgent and out of touch performance we'd ever seen. To this day, I still can't hear her music without instantly thinking about it; she destroyed my enjoyment of her whole back catalogue with just one shit gig.
I was invited along by my friend’s band to go and see one of their gigs, but upon arrival it became clear that none of the bands really knew what was happening, and the promoter was nowhere to be seen either. In the end we had to help run the show, and the other acts were hard work to say the least.
After the gig ended, we went to leave and found police everywhere – someone had been attacked near the venue so everyone was being searched on their way out, including the van we’d arrived in. Just when we thought the drama was over for the night, we found out our friend had fallen down the stairs and potentially had a concussion, so off we went to A&E. I didn’t get home until 6am the next day… all on a weeknight.
I was playing a DJ gig in Denver and decided to have some drinks to keep me going. Bad idea. Due to the altitude, the drinks must have hit me harder… long story short, the police ended up arresting me for drinking a beer in public. But that’s not even the worst part.
They thought I was Australian due to the fact I called them “mate,” and after being made to take a compulsory drug test, I ended up in rehab for two days and hit by a four grand medical bill. There was no way in the world I was paying that – I gave them my neighbour’s address and, luckily, never heard anything back from them. Slowthai was wrong when he said there was nothing great about Britain. Try living in America.
Me and my mate, emo as you get, went to our very first gig at Rock City when we were thirteen – Bullet for my Valentine. After lacing our eyeballs with liner, we stood in the queue necking vodka and ripping holes in our fishnets hoping to blend in with all the cool kids. A couple of songs in, we were in the middle of a trembling, on-the-edge mosh pit that suddenly erupted with sweeping black side fringes windmilling their way to the centre of the circle. We were laughing our heads off, being pelted around by all the blokes, until my mate got punched in the face and the vodka kicked in, creating a drunkenly concussed teenage girl for me to try and look after while rocking out. Luckily, I was twice as pissed as she was and threw up all over my fishnets while I was sat on the toilet. Oh, to be young again.