Bandwidth

Anyone who reads this shit on a regular basis…

[Editor’s Note: Ha!  That’s a list I’d like to see.]

… will have noticed that I haven’t been to a gig in a while.  To be honest I’ve been avoiding the Bandwidth building altogether.  Every time I’m in there it’s the same bloody thing from Will: ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got that money you owe me Ian?’  I mean talk about fucking rude.  Anyway I finally ran out of ideas for articles, and with no money to take myself to a gig, I gave in.  So, with my tail between my legs and my best attempt at a sincere expression on my face, I texted Johnny and told him I was resigning.  He must have been in Will’s office because within seconds I got an irate text from him, demanding he get his money back.  I tried to explain to him that that would not be possible, as the 28 day money back guarantee I got with the hot tub was voided when the filters became clogged with sodden Jaffa Cakes.  He didn’t seem to accept this as a valid excuse.
So with sorrow in my heart I went to the bar, ordered up my first shot and brew of the day and tried to zone out in front of the football.  By my third round I was close to broke and even closer to tears, and then I got a text.  It was from my friend Gill, which is strange because the only time she ever texts me is to ask about money I owe her.  This one was different.  ‘Want to go see Pearl Jam on Wed?’ is all it said.  You’re goddamn right I did.
‘You’re goddamn right I do,’ I replied.  Then I remembered she’s a Christian and I might have offended her.  ’Fuck, sorry about that,’ I added, and ordered up another drink.  This was my chance.  I’d write my way back into Bandwidth’s heart with the best This Is Not A Review article they’ve ever read!  Hell, Will might even forget all about that five hundred…

[Will: It’s six motherfucker!]

Wanting to make sure I had an exciting, eventful night so the article would be the best ever written, I decided to get good and loaded before the gig.  Having drank the last of my money in the bar celebrating my good fortune, though, I couldn’t afford any more booze.  I hunted through the house and all I found was half a bottle of peach schnapps and a bottle of Pimms.  Jesus, even I don’t sink that low.  So I went to visit my granddad and stole a bottle of his whiskey.  I laid into it with serious vigour – brought on by my deep-seated loathing of the Odyssey Arena.  The entire complex, in fact, can suck it.  It is without a doubt the most vomitous, scum sucking night spot in all of Belfast.  The only reason I went is that I was so desperate for something to write about, and I rationalised that on a Wednesday night, with a proper rock n roll crowd, it couldn’t be that bad.  The rationalising didn’t help much though, and I arrived with a heart full of hate and a belly full of whiskey.
I was instantly herded into an abattoir-esque queue so the security people could pat me down.  ‘Lucky I put my knife in my shoe,’ I joked to the girl next to me in line.  She looked at me stony-faced.
‘My best friend was stabbed to death,’ she said.  Anyone who knows of a suitable response to this is welcome to let me know in the comments section.  I’ll be fucked if I’m giving up my knife in the shoe joke – I use it all the time!  I just stared blankly at her and shuffled along.
‘Remove your shoes please sir,’ said the security guard.
‘You have got to be kidding me!’  To add insult to injury they took my whole ticket, instead of giving me back the stub, which infuriated me.  Tickets are designed to be ripped, so that each party can retain one half, and losers like me can collect all their tickets from every event they ever go to.  I digress…
Finally inside I located Gill, whom I’m sure is delighted to feature in this article.  I suspect, in fact, that it is the only reason she invited me, because she didn’t even try to act happy to see me.
‘You look drunk,’ was her greeting.
‘How would you know what I look like drunk?’
‘Because I have that picture on my phone of you wearing a nurse’s outfit and a cowboy hat.’  Touché.
‘Well anyway, how come you invited me?’ I asked.
‘Oh you were literally the last person left to ask,’ she said.  And she wasn’t even joking.  I thanked her for her honesty and told her I was off to find the bar.
‘Oh this round’s on me,’ she said.
‘No, I couldn’t possibly…’
‘It’s no problem.’
‘Okay then I’ll have four pints,’ I said.  And I wasn’t even joking.
The joke was on me, though, when she returned with four pints of Harp.  I could have mistaken it for piss but for the temperature, because as everyone knows – it’s not the quality of the beer, it’s how cold you can make it that counts.  I downed the first one and it was so bad I gave the other three away to a couple of hipster chicks, whom Gill informed me looked too young to be in the standing area, let alone be drinking.
‘Lucky the only thing I tried to give them was beer, huh?’ I said.  And that joke went down about as well as the knife in the shoe one.
Gill dragged me to the front, got herself a good space and let me wedge myself between two couples who were none too happy about my intrusion.  One of them was the chick from the queue and her boyfriend.  She gave me a dirty look and tried to move away but the crowd was too tightly packed for anyone other than small chicks with innocent smiles and a complete disregard for common courtesy.  Like Gill, who shouted ‘That’s Ben Harper.  I love him,’ and ducked under some guy’s arm, disappearing into the crowd.  And that was the last I saw of her that night.  She presumably spent the rest of the evening front and centre, gawking at Eddie Vedder.  Ben Harper was the support act, of course, and he was admittedly very good.  If you don’t believe me, check him out for yourself.  Gill’s space was quickly nabbed by the two hipster chicks with innocent smiles, a complete disregard for common courtesy, and three pints of Harp between them.  I considered asking for one of my pints back and couldn’t bring myself to, so I spent the rest of the gig trying to decide whether giving up my good view was worth an over-priced pint of shitty beer and never quite making my mind up.  So I stood there like a thirsty fool, watching the two underage boppers drinking my beer and wondering why the hell I ever bother leaving the house.
Pearl Jam took their time about coming on.  When they did, and Eddie Vedder said something about having a long set planned, I a have to admit my heart sank a bit.  I was already bored of standing, much too sober, and soaked with sweat – only some of which was my own.  It would have been a different matter altogether in a different venue with easy access to a proper bar, which is why I will never go to the Odyssey ever again.  That’s my complaining all done, though, because as for the actual show, I couldn’t fault it.  For some reason I was expecting something rather tame.  What I got was balls out rock n roll.  I obviously underestimated the band because despite the fact that they’ve been doing this for about as long as I’ve been alive, they haven’t lost any of their energy and stage presence.  Eddie wasn’t climbing the rafters, of course, but he still smashed around the stage swilling champagne and interacting with the crowd the way any good front man should.  I can’t help but smile when I see that sort of enthusiasm – obviously a band still enjoying what they’re doing.  The set list was indeed long and pleasantly varied – lots of songs I knew well and lots of ones I’ve never even heard before that were surprisingly badass.  They also dedicated a song to a couple in the audience who just gotten married, and got everyone in the arena to sing Happy Birthday to their producer Brendan O’Brien, which sounds like a bunch of soppy shit but was actually a lot of fun.  I admit it – even though I’ve liked Pearl Jam for years, I didn’t expect to enjoy the show quite as much as I did.  Our wee town isn’t exactly a high profile gig but they honestly put their heart and soul into putting on a damn fine show, and that’s all I ever really ask of a band.  That and strippers, but no band I’ve seen has ever come through with the strippers, so I tend not to hold it against them.
By the time they came back out for the encore I was dying of thirst.  The security guards had been handing out cups of water all night and I had failed to get my hands on one.  When they started floating around again I grabbed for one and, in my excitement, bumped into one of the drunken hipsters, knocking her camera out of her hand.  I necked the water, never having tasted anything so refreshing in my life, and quickly stooped down to pick up the camera.  ‘Look out, he’s got a knife!’ screamed the girl from the queue earlier, and went scrambling off through the crowd leaving her bewildered boyfriend behind.  Luckily Pearl Jam were still blasting away and no one took any notice of her.  I smiled a smug, vengeful smile, and handed the camera back to the hammered hipster honey (Huh? Huh?).

[Editor’s Note: (cringing) Oh my God…]

Almost tearful with gratitude she said ‘Awww, thank y…’ and puked beer all over me.  Amazingly, it was still kind of cold.

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