Dedication and professionalism, that's what I like to think that I bring to any job I put my hand to. Not to mention, tranquillity and some killer dance moves. But most of all I am efficient.
I'd been drawn to the Deaf Institute tonight to try to do some research for a piece I've been writing for Monk's Monthly. For weeks on end I'd been staying up at night, soaked in sweat, puzzling over a riddle as ancient as it is clichéd. A koan, which, if Master Hakuin was to believed, would expand my consciousness beyond my wildest imagination. Having spent much of the last decade trying to do exactly that, this assignment filled me a zeal I had never before experienced.
It must have been by the hand of fate that I decided to put away my dusty books and manuscripts for an evening and see what was going on in town- for if, as usual, I had dedicated myself to my studies, I would never have spotted my biggest lead yet. And even better, it had to do with that other topic I write about occasionally. Music. As a wise monk probably never said, I had the chance to catch two birds with one net. Who would have thought that the answer to the question which had so ruthlessly tormented me might be found at a gig? But, then again, who would have reckoned on the The Phenomenal Handclap Band? As I stared at the listings, I began to shake with excitement. If they didn't know the sound of one hand clapping, nobody did.
There is a real problem with trying to go to a gig after weeks of meditating in solitude. The crowds and the noise and (dare I say it?) the excitement can really be to much to take in. Fortunately, being the dedicated professional that I am, I know a few short cuts to reaching the party spirit. However, on this occasion, it meant trekking out to Moston and banging on a steel door for thirty five full minutes until it was finally opened by a sketchy albino called Frank. Eventually, I arrived at the Deaf Institute, but to my dismay I had completely missed the gig. Instead of the beatific sounds of hand clapped epiphany that I had hoped for, I found myself in the midst of an Electro night full of students.
On a projector screen, behind the DJ, a young Lou Reed looked down on us. Andy Warhol and Nico also made appearances, as if to suggest that this was some kind of artistic equivalent to 1970's New York. The only similarity I could find comes in the title of a Velvet Underground song- "Oh! Sweet Nuthin”. This was a club night totally lacking in substance, and from the speakers the sounds of Nothing blared at full volume. Any trace of decadence on display was merely the light hearted frivolity of those who still have Serotonin left to burn. In this crowd, I felt distinctly out of place, like Charles Manson visiting a Young Conservatives club.
Worryingly, being one of the few males present able to grow facial hair, I was beginning to attract unwanted attention. “I love beards”, cooed one girl, seconds before shrieking, “They're playing Battles!”, and bouncing around ,clapping her hands like the Jonas Brothers had just come on stage. If I had known it was this easy when I was a much younger man, my life may have turned out very differently. But now, I was just looking for an escape. As I made my way towards the door, another teenybopper leaned over as if to kiss me. It took me a second to realise that she was trying, instinctively, to sniff a mysterious white residue that had somehow gotten onto my moustache. Pushing her away, I downed my whiskey and stumbled out the door, beginning my long walk home. As I shivered in the cold night air, I tried to console myself. So what if I didn't manage to see the band I was supposed to review OR find the answer to my Koan? At least, I had, once again, failed efficiently.
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