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One for the golfers: An eagle with a bogey.  Huh? Huh?

In February I went to see Mogwai play Mandela Hall. They played on a Sunday night. Two days before was The Hold Steady, which, if you read the review, you know involved me getting shit hammered. I went to work with an epic hangover and then on Saturday night I went to a house party. I got home about 4am, and went to work again on Sunday with the cumulative effects of two nights too much whiskey and not enough sleep. After my shift, I just wanted to go to bed. I sat down in my office chair with a whiskey and seriously considered skipping the gig. Going out would mean spending what was left of my money on beer and taxi fare and after two consecutive nights of just that, a third seemed a bit much. Sitting there I got very comfortable, and when one is comfortable, comfort seems very important. I thought maybe a lifetime of comfort wouldn’t be so bad, and I started to daydream…

I could get a proper job. It might not inspire me creatively but it would offer benefits like security and a regular income and a routine that, once I succumbed to it, would remove the pesky question, ‘What should I do today?’ because the answer would always be the same. Wake up too early, put on a shirt and tie and go to work. Hell, that’s what Don Draper does every day. Of course I wouldn’t be as wealthy as Don so my suits wouldn’t be as nice. And I’m not as handsome as Don so I wouldn’t get a woman as beautiful as Betty. But I could have some version of it, and damn if that wouldn’t be nice. I poured another one, a little more generous this time, and it really started to look like I would just skip the gig. I recalled a scene in Mad Men when Betty angrily confronted Don and, seeing that he was somewhat distraught, halted her anger long enough to tell him to sit down while she poured him a drink. I could have a woman to pour my drinks! Even if she wasn’t quite up to Betty’s Grace Kelly-esque magnificence, it would still be pretty cool. I put my feet up, enjoying my little fantasy. If I had a full time job and a wife, I’d need a house. My own house with my own rules. Maybe even my own crapper! A luxury I have longed for for years now. I’d have a second one, of course, since the woman would probably want kids. That would be okay. They tell me you never really appreciate what it’s like to have kids until you actually have them, so maybe I would like them, even if right now I hate the little snot nosed bastards. If I had a wife and kids and a job to go to on Monday morning, a Sunday night gig would be out of the question. I wouldn’t be having this dilemma. Life would be easy – like this – sitting in my chair with my socks off, sipping a drink. Man, that would be lovely. Who wants to be jostled by a bunch of students on a Sunday night anyway? I poured another drink and went to my desk with an aim to tear up the ticket and settle in for the night. Then I noticed how much I had paid for it. £25! I can’t afford to throw money like that away, I have a wife and kids to feed! I shotgunned the whiskey, pulled on my boots and hopped on the next bus into town.

For the first time in my many visits to Mandela Hall, there was no queue outside. I put it down to my wasting time on indecision, but decided I still had time for a drink in The Parlour. It’s dark and they serve Maker’s and when it’s not hiving with freshers I actually kinda like it in there. On the quiet nights it has the sort of atmosphere a settled down family man like me can appreciate. One drink turned into three, and by the time I actually went over to the Union, the roadies had the stage set. I thought about trying to get my hands on a pair of the earplugs everyone seemed to be wearing. Nah, it couldn’t be that loud, I thought. Ten minutes later Mogwai came on and after a very polite ‘Hello’ they melted my face with the most elegantly heavy music I have ever heard.

Standing at the very back, I wondered who the hell could be bumping me from behind. I turned, and found it was just the wall I was leaning against pulsing like a fucking cheap sub woofer in some spide’s electric blue Corsa. I found myself glad I hadn’t eaten a big meal, as I was sure the bassist came dangerously close to the infamous brown note on several occasions. Not that the volume was the only impressive thing. Go to the Limelight on a Saturday night and stand too close to the speakers and you won’t hear the sermon the next day in church. The volume was just unusual. Unusual for the level of musicianship on display. Here was music – real, proper music – not a three chord riff over a four-four beat, played at bone liquefying levels. Like an orchestra with a Marshall stack. Like a Motorhead version of a Pink Floyd song. To put it simply, and in Eighties parlance, it was mega.

The next day I went to a coffee shop to write a This Is Not A Review about the gig. I had forgone the shirt and tie for a t-shirt and a leather jacket that has been dropped on too many bar floors, deciding that being forgiven for terrible dress sense is one of the (very few) perks of being a writer. As I sat pondering how to start the article I looked around at all the old folks drinking tea and eating scones and the frazzled mums with their large latte caffeine fixes. One such lady lifted a little bugger out of his pram and very matter-of-factly sniffed his arse. Then she just nodded solemnly at her husband, sitting across from her. As they packed their things and headed for the nearest changing facility I had one of the epiphanies I love to tell you about. I hope I die long before I ever find myself whiffing some toddler’s arse in public, like that’s not FUCKING DISGUSTING. And I hope that before I do croak it, I see a few more gigs even half as good as the Mogwai one. The only reason I didn’t write about it sooner is that I was mildly embarrassed that I had only recently discovered them. I was sure all you switched on, tuned in Bandwidth followers would already be well aware how ‘mega’ they are. If you didn’t, now you do. And as for me, I’ll just keep pouring my own drinks and being broke all the time as long as I can still rock the fuck out on a Sunday night. Because as Mogwai taught me, hardcore will never die, but I will…