Oh amber nectar! What has become of me! Will I ever escape thy vile clutches? Will I ever want to escape, for that matter? 

Just in time to round off the year, your humble correspondent has embarked on a plan of action that will either make him one of the most cultured men in Belfast, a rakish wit who will be glimpsed at every social gathering, adding that little special something to the proceedings, or it will make him an alcoholic. 
 
I have joined the Rum Club. 
 
Every Sunday to Tuesday, The Spaniard Bar in Belfast is host to Rum Club, one of only four such Rum Clubs in the world. The concept is remarkably simple: 25 rums from around the world, which one endeavours to work through, developing one’s palette and learning a little about rum in the process. Upon drinking all 25 rums, the club member achieves a status of Tiki Godhead, and is gifted with a new Tiki God name, which is engraved upon a silver tankard, which is hung behind the bar, and only to be used by the person bearing the name on the tankard. 
 
Simple enough, one might think. But sadly your correspondent has never been much of a rum drinker, preferring the dark pleasures of gin (or latterly Bushmills whiskey). So rather than this just being a regular booze eating competition, there is a degree of determination required in order to complete my task. Truth be told, it hasn’t been that arduous, and I have developed quite a taste for a little number called Clements Crelole Shrubb, which is delightful orange flavoured liqueur.  
 
Another thing to recommend Rum Club is that all the rums are cost price to Rum Club members, which means that this trans-continental jaunt is not quite as bank balance crushing as usual. However, it was with no small amount of horror that your correspondent watched as a round of three drinks came to the whopping tag of £37.50…for two rums and a cup of tea. Don’t get me wrong, the rum tasted like honey drawn straight from the rear end of Lovely McBuzz –Buzz, the god of bees, but I suffered a minor stroke with that one. 
 
And in case you think the wonderful Spaniard is promoting binge drinking, never fear: the 1^st rule of Rum Club is that you can only have three per night. The 2^nd rule of Rum Club is…etc. 
 
After the delights of Rum Club, myself and my two companions moved on to our next weapon of choice – The Manhattan.  
 
I’ve never tasted a Manhattan before, and it was with great anticipation that I watched our friendly neighbourhood barman, Dale, mix this most illustrious of drinks. Fine, elegant, classy – I am none of these things. But with a Manhattan in my hand, I feel like I should be attending a gathering of Warholian superstars, or perhaps a soiree hosted by Truman Capote. 
 
Another drink which was sampled was the Nuclear Daiquiri, a delightful blend of rum and wizardry, which definitely soothed the palette of myself and my two companions. And without wishing to gush on about it too much, there really isn’t a nicer spot in Belfast for this sort of thing, the environs perfectly complimenting that laid-back Sunday feeling. Belfast can get a bit claustrophobic from time to time, and there’s something about the Spaniard on a nice day which makes you feel that you’re somewhere else, somewhere very far away indeed. In many respects, everything that the Cathedral Quarter is supposed to represent is embodied by the Spaniard – its compact, has a great atmosphere, friendly staff, and it has an unusual odour 
 
However, this particular Sunday was not just about Rum Club, as alluring as it might be. Our next port of call (after a quick pit-stop at Muriel’s, where I thrashed my companions at chess) was the Archana Indian restaurant on the Dublin Road. Archana has the distinction of being one of Belfast’s oldest and most respected Indian restaurants, as well as being a restaurant which has never turned your correspondent away, regardless of his current condition. Never having been one for anything too spicy (I’m man enough to admit that I once accidentally ate a pizza covered in chillies, and actually wept) I normally go for a korma, despite every single person I’ve ever met telling me that this is the way of the loser. Regardless of whether it’s wimpy or not, I positively relish the thought of a nice creamy korma, and once again, Archana didn’t disappoint. 
 
Stuffed with curry and rum, I made my way across the road to Auntie Annie’s for a bit of post-hardcore action. On the menu for this evening’s entertainment were two of Northern Ireland’s hidden gems – Spectator and Black Bear Saloon. Spectator hail from the North West, and specialise in breathtakingly tight arrangements which pummel you into submission. Black Bear Saloon kick you to death with riffs and shouting, and seem to have a particular aversion to psychics. A good time was had by the few who were there, but attendance was low, which is disappointing for bands of this calibre.  
 
But I was there, and I guess that counts for something. After all, when you’re a member of the Rum Club, “Determination” is your middle name. 
 
And perhaps having your name engraved on a silver tankard is something that would get people to more gigs? 
 
Promoters…take note.

I like adventures, but only in theory. Occasionally the prospect of doing something terrifies me, preventing me from taking any kind of action. So whilst you are out there, rad-ing it up in a fine style, I can frequently be found curled up in a foetal position on the living room floor, clutching a bottle of wine.

However, sometimes destiny comes a-knockin’, and there’s nothing you can do about it (probably as it has the keys, and can let itself in without your approval). These are the times when it’s almost as if your course of action is predetermined, and there’s nothing you can do to get out of it.

I’ve never been a big fan of determinism, as I think that ultimately human beings possess too much of the random factor to remain tethered to one particular course of action. I know it’s a proposition that will probably never be resolved, but the four years of philosophy that ate up most of my time in the early part of this decade have cemented in my mind the existence of free will. I guess I like the thought that I have some kind of input into my behaviour, rather than being the product of circumstances. But sometimes, an event will become lodged in your headlights, and no amount of manoeuvring will shake it off. These are the times when rational philosophical discourse goes out the window, and you just have to uncork a bottle of wine and go with it.

So it was that I found myself stepping into a car on the Ormeau Road on a sunny Saturday afternoon, with at least one person I’d never met. The seeds for this piece of pre-determined fun were sown on the previous Tuesday, when I interviewed a man about a music event taking place in the future. At the time, I had no idea it would involve MY future, and as he handed me five VIP passes to Pigstock 09, I thought nothing more of it.

Fast forward to the weekend, and the long-predicted heat-wave finally exploded upon our collective skins. My initial plan for the day was to simply listen to punk rock and nurse my hangover. However, several garbled phone calls later, and myself and two compatriots were tooled up with wine and hats, and getting ready to go to Killinchy. Pigstock, it appeared, was on.

I have to admit that by this point, I didn’t really want to go anywhere. When the idea of going to Pigstock was initially mentioned, I was enthusiastic enough to rope in someone else for the journey. As we walked aimlessly up the Ormeau Road, this burst of excitement had faded, being replaced with a despondent hunger for food, and a desire to lie down. However, the immovable power of destiny intervened, and the car showed up at just the right time before I gave up and went home. There was something in the cosmos compelling me to go to this particular field, and I was powerless to resist it…

Pigstock is an open air music festival in Killinchy, which features lots of local bands playing in a field, whilst people drink heavily and eat a roasted pig. The event is now in its second year, and initially started as a kind of party thang, before solidifying into the festival it has now become. I’ll admit that I was expecting something fairly low-key; a few bands playing to a few people, all very civilized and reserved. The reality was very, very different.

Upon reaching the site, I was immediately struck by how many people were there. It was like a gathering of the tribes, with groups of people wandering around, eating, drinking, and generally having fun. We set up camp somewhere in the middle of the field, and promptly began to make a little nest, ostensibly to give a home to my wine.

The stage was a considerable distance from where I was positioned, but the music was loud enough to float over our heads into the stratosphere. Without being too dismissive to the bands playing, we didn’t really pay an awful lot of attention to them, instead making our own amusement back in the nest. In fact, at one point we were happily singing our little hearts out, tackling a handful of popular classics.

The sun beating down upon us, our attention soon became focussed on the drumming group that marched through the field, featuring two of our companions. Emboldened by their rhythms, I marched with them, munching on my pork burger, which was truly horrible (but the salad was really nice). The drumming seemed to attract more attention than the rest of the bands, some of the more adventurous spectators (i.e. drunk) attempting to dance to the samba rhythms. One particularly exuberant chap danced so hard his trousers literally fell down.

As the evening wore on, the sun melted into the sky, and beverages were quaffed. As a result, memories become a little sketchy as to exactly what transpired. All I do know for certain is that I threw some hay into a man’s face, after he had thrown beer over us. Also, two of my companions revealed themselves as talented boglers, a skill which has, as yet, not been at all useful.

I’m not much for the great outdoors, but something about that field in Killinchy touched me (and it wasn’t just the bugs that tried to eat me alive). Standing there, surrounded by revellers, I looked around me and felt a contentment I don’t usually have. The moon hung low in the sky, and the light of the fires upon people’s skin made them all look very happy and pleasant.

The following is all based on reported information, your correspondent being too ‘distracted’ to be a reliable source.

Then we returned to Belfast in a car which, according to the recipient of a phone-call whilst on the journey, “Sounded like a nightclub”. The action continued in my apartment, with Loveless by My Bloody Valentine being thrown on the turn-tables, prompting shoegazing dancing. A discussion on the work of Alan Moore sent yr humble correspondent into a feverous whirlwind of excitement, distracting him from the knowledge that his Facebook status was being repeatedly vandalised.

It is here that we return to our theme of the unbeatable power of destiny. A party somewhere in Belfast soon became a magnet to our attentions, and just as it was a cosmic inevitability that I would be taken to Pigstock, so too did the universe intervene and prevent me from partying, by causing me to fall asleep on the sofa, entering into a weird limbo-death state, oblivious to any form of physical contact.

Like I say, when the universe wants you to do something, free will goes out the window, and you have to just accept it.

It’s bigger than us, and it always wins.

Can you picture the void?

The actual nature of true nothingness cannot be understood by the human mind. It is simply too vast and awesome for us to comprehend. ‘Nothing’ is beyond the realm of the human mind.

Put something on yr desk. Then take it away. What do you have? Nothing? No, you’ve got a desk. Take the desk away. Nothing? No, you’ve got the floor.

Etc.

Our lives are so filled with content that the absence of everything is a notion that will always squirm and squiggle its way out of comprehension. Which is probably just as well, as the notion of nothing is a pretty terrifying thought. I’d be pretty upset if I woke up and discovered that there was NOTHING at all in existence. In fact, it would totally put a cramp on my whole day.

But, dear reader, yr correspondent has stepped forward to the precipice and looked directly into the void. I do not do this for myself, but for you mere mortals who lack the moral compulsions that drive one such as I.

Gripping the rail, I hoisted my head over the big barrier, and stared into oblivion, the winds of creation howling around me. Dazzled, I pulled myself back and composed myself.

It looked a lot like Enniskillen.

I have discovered that the place pretty much shuts down after 6.00pm on a weekday. I found myself on this foreign soil on a wet Tuesday evening, to conduct an interview with a very pleasant young man. However, after the interview was over, I discovered – to my horror – that there are no buses back to Belfast after 6.25pm. The time was now 7.10pm.

This is the first time I truly wish I had learned to drive. I did attempt to do it once, but I discovered certain hurdles that persuaded me to give up. Most notably, I had a few difficulties with the hand-brake. On one memorable occasion, I was attempting to start a friend’s car, and had started the ignition, and found the ‘biting point’ (that’s a little technical term for all you drivers out there) but – alas! – forward momentum was not forthcoming. As I put pedal to the metal, there was still no progress. I couldn’t fathom it! I’d done everything right, but was still stationary. The owner of the car leaned in through the door, and discovered that I had not released the hand-brake yet. I struggled with it, but could not let it go. He leaned in through the door and released it for me, and the car hurtled into a hedge at about 80 mph.

After that, I wasn’t even allowed in the passenger seat.

But if I’d stuck at it, perhaps I wouldn’t have been sitting in a Wetherspoon’s pub (!) in Enniskillen town centre, spinning my phone round and round and round and round and round…

My boredom threshold is pretty low, so after reading the complimentary magazine a few thousand times, I began to get desperate. I left the bar and went in search of cigarettes, and found myself aimlessly walking for what seemed like an eternity in search of a shop. There were none to be found.

I don’t want to sound disparaging about Enniskillen, but where do all the people go? Even in the two lonely bars I found, there was scant evidence of human life. My only company was my own inner narrative, and the void.

The utter bleakness of my situation struck at me like a knife in my soul. My only other option of escape had been to get a bus to Dublin, and then get a bus to Belfast from there. But that moment had been and gone, and I was left trapped. There was no escape – this would be for the rest of my life, sitting in Wetherspoons, spinning a phone on a dirty table.

“But how are you writing this now, safe within the confines of your poorly lit, Belfast-based office? What miracle occurred for you to escape this purgatory?” I hear you ask.

I phoned my father, and he came and got me.

Which, although very kind of him to do so, crushed part of my spirit. I am a young man, forging my way through this cruel world! I am canny and cunning, and can out-think even the most perilous adversary! I shouldn’t be phoning home for help! Especially when the phonecall is as follows:

“Hey! You know how you always say I never call unless I’m after something? Well…I’m in a bit of a pickle.”

Either way, five hours after my brush with the void, I found myself back home, safe and relatively sound.

And what did I learn from my voyage?

Here’s the punch-line:

Nothing.

Space and time are confusing things, existing completely outside our sphere of existence, whilst simultaneously defining everything we do.

Or at least that’s the conventional school of thought regarding the issue. I, on the other hand, prefer to march to the beat of a different drum, and as such have attempted to crack the mysteries of time and space – all within a two day period.

You can thank me for it later.

The first step on any quest is often the most difficult, and it was after great consideration that I chose the first step of my personal voyage to be in Botanic Gardens. Although it was not so much a ‘step’ and more of a ‘fall’, and a fall with potentially fatal consequences.

Foolishly, I had been balancing on a fence in the park, in a misguided attempt to convey what ‘fun’ was to one of my companions. After a heated ‘debate’ in Common Grounds Café, where I had been cast in the role of destroyer of culture, and living representative for everything that is wrong with the 21st century, we had gone to the park where I planned to end this ‘Magical Misery Tour’ by behaving in a totally rad, Ferris Beuller-type manner. Or at least what I thought to be a totally rad, Ferris Beuller-type manner.

Unfortunately, whilst I was doing this, I hadn’t noticed the soles of my sneakers getting wet and proceeded to climb atop a particularly spiky and dangerous fence. Balancing and pirouetting, I began taunting my companion. Then, fate finally intervening, I slipped and lost my balance. I was literally inches away from having a large metal spike go through my chest (or – worse, perhaps – my groin). Luckily, my mutant powers saved me and I was able to avoid disaster. I pushed myself back, and landed on the grass, unscathed.

But the experience left its mark on me. That moment where I was balancing and, indeed, falling, caused me to contemplate the intricate relationships between all things we perceive in the modern world – the space between things, if you will. It was an exciting moment, to be sure, and I appreciated the fact that my almost certain demise would be precipitated by an object I had never previously considered, something so unimportant to me that I had previously denied it’s existence, considering it unworthy of even one miniscule brain-wheeze. And then it nearly had its revenge on me, by driving itself through my chest (or groin). Truly, the relationships between space, time and objects – inanimate or otherwise – would have to be considered further.

But before I could do that, I had to heed the call of the night, imploring me to cast away such heavy philosophical notions, and embrace the call of the wild. (ie. I received a text message asking me to go out.) After such highbrow postulating, I was only too happy to travel across town to meet an acquaintance in the Duke of York. Space and time being what they are though, I was a little late by the time I arrived. However, my companion didn’t seem to mind, and we sat soaking up the atmosphere of this most esteemed of Belfast watering holes.

The Duke of York is an unusual bar, seemingly having been designed by a person with absolutely no idea of what shape a bar should be. A narrow bottleneck exists in the exact place people would naturally congregate, whilst the seating area is cramped and uncomfortable. Both of these factors combine to render it almost impossible to be served at the bar when there is more than about 5 people there (this is a slight exaggeration). Despite these factors, however, it still has a great atmosphere, and generally attracts a good crowd.

On this particular evening, both I and my companion opt to sit outside, her sipping Magners, I opting for white wine (Chardonnay, if you’re curious). The air is cool, but pleasant, and conversation and laughter filter through the air. The fading glow from the sunlight, coupled with the ever-present hum and shine of the electric lights outside capture my thoughts, and take me off in different directions. This could be anywhere I want it to be, but for now I’m content for it to be exactly where I am, and be with who I am with. We discuss drunken episodes, and compare notes. I am found to be the more irresponsible whilst under the influence of alcohol – whiskey in particular – and then we travel to the other side of town.

Our destination this time was Mr Joe Lindsay’s rather superb carry-out disco, Palookaville. After initially launching in Ruby’s Diner, it has now settled in Brown’s Café on James Street South. The premise of the evening is simple: bring thy own booze, and get yr groove on, as Joe and Kenny Matheson man the wheels of steel.

By the time we arrive, there’s not too many people there yet, but even still, the atmosphere seems right. Palookaville has the feel of a proper ‘club’, or a gang; something you’ve got to be part of, but something that still feels secret. Wine is poured, and conversation continues to flow.

As for the music, I have no idea. But they somehow brought out the sleeping groove-behemoth out of its torpor, and I found myself doing the Harlem Shuffle (or possibly the Voodoo Krispie, or the Diesel Jerk, I can’t recall). This is particularly note-worthy as I NEVER DANCE. So a proverbial tip of the cap to the people involved.

There’s something about the way Palookaville works that just seems to suck me in. I’m not going to say it’s the perfect night out (only one toilet!) but it’s pretty darn close. I begin to fill up with a hitherto unknown confidence, and begin to properly interact with the humans again. Establishing physical and emotional contact, I am transported out of the constraints of this world and taken to another, leaving behind the shackles of space and time. Indeed, the events of the next few hours are difficult to pin-point.

However, there are a few facts:

1. At some point I fell over onto my skull, with a small amount of blood being shed.

2. I was apparently told to “get a room”.

3. Food was consumed. It looked like chips, but it was allegedly chicken.

I woke up in a confused state and said my farewells to my companion. As the light streamed through the windows, I once again began to ponder the mysteries of time and space. I had, indeed, had a good evening. But I also have precious little memory of it. I also have various aches and pains, with no idea of how they were sustained (with the exception of the skull smashing). The only explanation I can come up with is that I somehow broke the boundaries of time and space in order to have an amazing night.

But the Universe was not done with me yet, not by a long shot. An accomplice recommended that we take a trip to the Black Market, to perhaps pick up some machine guns or something. However, these are not the kind of goods one would expect to purchase in this kind of market (well, certainly not from the stalls that I visited, anyway…). Instead one would find different kinds of food, comics, records, clothes, trinkets, crafts, equipment, books, scrap and junk, and all manner of forbidden lore. All the kind of things I’m interested in.

I immediately spent my last few pounds on a vinyl copy of the Minutemen’s Ballot Result album (DOUBLE LIVE!!!) and a refreshing beer. It was around this time that I began to realise that I was possibly still affected by the alcohol, and as such my judgement might have been impaired. Staring at the double live album I clutched in my hands, I decided that this was a ‘good’ thing, and that all my actions were now taking place in some kind of twilight zone, outside the clutches of time and space.

The atmosphere in the Festival Marquee was utterly contagious, with my accomplice being lured into a cardboard fort, which was apparently ‘smoking friendly’, which is a nice courtesy in this day and age. I bravely attempted to play a solar powered slide guitar, using naught but a Zippo lighter, whilst a crowd of people looked on.

After a short while, Heliopause, who had set themselves up in a corner of the market and were selling copies of their new single, began to play, treating us to a set of beautifully delicate sounds and whispers, which hummed by on the warm summer breeze. The perfect balance of Richard Davis’ acoustic guitar and voice, Chris McCorry’s expertly treated electric guitar, and Niall Harden’s rhythmically complex, but evocative drumming, merged perfectly with the guest vocals of Cutaways’ Grace McMacken. Indeed, this hushed and intimate music attracted a sizeable crowd, all of whom were perched on every note, every word, creating an eerie pocket of calm at the heart of this bustling market.

Few bands can handle this kind of balance, but Heliopause make it look effortless, every sound in exactly the right place, but still managing to draw us in further and further, until we are wrapped completely in blankets of beautiful noise. Their own self effacing charm perfectly compliments the atmosphere, and by the time they finish, everyone is walking around with smiles on their faces, a general feeling of, “Wouldn’t it be great if something like this happened every day?” permeating through the market.

Indeed, the longer one spends in the slight carnival atmosphere of the market, the immersive nature of it’s existence takes hold, and visions of some kind of bohemian existence, outside the constraints of ‘normal’ society, becomes apparent. At one point, a man walks around with a pair of scissors, offering to give people a haircut, and it seems like the most normal thing in the world. Well, not ‘normal’, exactly. In fact, it’s around this time where the veneer slips slightly, and one can see that there is a lot of indulgence going on, but it’s all perfectly acceptable After all, we are artists; it’s our job to be indulgent.

With the sun baking on our skulls, we continue to drink beer, and time slips and slides out of our perception, hours feeling like seconds, seconds feeling like hours, until we have no idea where we are or what time it is. Such is the effect of displacement. And a pleasurable feeling it is, too! For a long time, I never wore a watch, enjoying being freed from the shackles of time. Of course, it meant I was late an awful lot, but it seemed like an easy price to pay. This day has a similar feeling, and we are happy to swept along on the ebb and flow of time and space. So much so, that we are drawn towards the cinema to see the new Star Trek film, in a slightly bemused (i.e. drunk) state.

There’s been a lot of talk about how Star Trek has now been made ‘cool’ to like, no longer the exclusive territory of the nebbish and isolated, but somehow socially acceptable. I have always been open about my love of Star Trek, but I’ve always maintained that I still am tethered to reality. Yes, I have forced every girlfriend I’ve ever had to sit through Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan (or at least attempted to), but I was doing it for their own good – it’s a great movie. Indeed, I always considered myself to be socially aware enough to realise the impact of what Star Trek could do to the non-believers. Hence my deliberate usage of Star Trek: The Motion Picture as a sympathy prompter; I know how boring many see this film to be, so I have no qualms about putting this film on, knowing it will cause my girlfriend to try and ‘distract’ me in order to get us to stop watching the film. It’s a kind of social experiment, I guess.

So, the new one, Star Trek 90210, or whatever the hell they’ve called it, is, as Mr Spock would have it, highly illogical. Full of colour and lights and lasers and explosions and black holes and people shouting and kissing and fighting…it was like being shouted in the face by an angry passerby for an hour and a half. And let me make it clear, this is no fanboy-type rebuttal (“Hmmm…the colour and rank insignia on the uniforms is incorrect, therefore this is a terrible film.”), rather it was a load of brain-dead nonsense that expects you to open wide whilst they keep on shovelling it into you for as long as you are prepared to take it. I didn’t like it.

After watching the black hole atrocity that is Star Trek, I staggered to the Garrick, to sip wine and once again ponder the mysteries of time and space. Time had certainly passed since I’d started thinking about this stuff, but not strictly in a linear way. It had seemed to jump and lurch, with some simple things taking forever, and some complicated things going on forever, whilst I was buffeted by the changes. Space had also played a key role in the proceedings, both in terms of distance and location. I felt as if I’d walked all over town (which, in fact, I sort of had), and the locations I’d visited had been key to my enjoyment of things. Joe Lindsay’s Palookaville – if it hadn’t have been where it was, would it have been as fun? Perhaps, but I loved the fact that it was somewhere new, somewhere strangely inappropriate and appropriate at the same time. The Black Market – everyone was creating their own space, and they were overlapping and interacting, creating a sensation of almost leaping out of reality. Star Trek – hell, they went over the whole damn galaxy in that one.

But what conclusion can one come to? What lessons have been learned? Well, none really.

Whadda ya want? Revelations? Read Stephen Hawking or something. I ain’t no guru, man. All I know is that the fourth album should always – always – be double live. Nothing else will do.

Amen.

[wp_geo_map]

Upon entering Common Grounds Cafe, my glasses instantly steam up. This could be because of the change in temperature from the chilly Belfast night to the warm and inviting cafe atmosphere, but it’s more likely to be from the sheer number of people populating the cafe. You see, rather than just being an ordinary Friday night, Heliopause have decided to unleash their brutally fragile muse upon the cafe this evening, and it seems I was not the only person wanting to be part of this.

The cafe is literally full to the brim, with every space occupied by a human being, their attention entirely focussed on the three gentlemen in the back of the cafe, creating a hushed intimacy that is increasingly rare in these oh so bombastic times. Rather than stand in the way, I opt to leave, going to Lavery’s for Cashier No.9 and Crystal Stilts.

The room is almost empty as I arrive, save for the members of the band and a few curious folk milling about. After the recent spate of well-attended gigs, it appears that things have gone back to normal again, with empty rooms and disinterested audiences.

Then Cashier No.9 strike up their first song, and the room instantly fills up. From having a wide open view of the proceedings, I have gone to being hidden behind a wall of bodies. Strategically repositioning ourselves, I become consumed by the noise Cashier are making. Having previously been underwhelmed by them, I’ve recently become a complete convert, absolutely in awe of them. I’d written them off as baggy-copyists a long time ago, but it seems that some kind of transformation has taken place, and I am left with no option other than to accept that I was very, very wrong about this band. Indeed, they are effectively playing a type of music I have no fondness for at all, but I find myself loving every note.

After they finish, I sit, elated and full of possibilities. Then fate deals me a cruel hand when I discover that a band I am very, very fond of have just recruited a new member – someone who happens to be my least favourite person in all of Belfast. As I try to ponder the odds of a city populated by over 320,000 souls vomiting forth the one individual I don’t want to see, Crystal Stilts start up. Theirs is a derivative racket, reminiscent of various bands, but not fit to touch the hem of their collective garments. I lose interest immediately – along with most of the crowd, it must be said – and try not to let anger completely consume me.

Eventually, they stop, and I manage to regain some sense of composure. Marshaling my rage, I find myself being swept along towards the Spring and Airbrake for A Plastic Rose’s ep launch. Until recently, the Spring and Airbrake had been one of my least favourite places on earth, having been the site of several of my most spectacular emotional failures, and the backdrop to the most dissapointing gig I have ever attended: Dinosaur Jr. The American indie legends had held me in thrall for over a decade, their tuneful brilliance, and belligerent noise being part of my very lifeblood. To be confronted by three aging, fat men, with no personality whatsoever was a disapointment. To have my eardrums raped by the sheer volume they decided to play at was insulting (although, I should have know that would happen, to be honest…). To find them widdling through their set as if they really didn’t give a damn at all was the final straw, causing me to leave the gig halfway through – the only time I have EVER done this! – and trudging home to sit nursing my obliterated eardrums.

This night finds the Spring about half full, with people disinterestedly checking out the synth-y new wave sounds of Disconnect 4. The Galway band suffer from nothing more than wanting to be liked too much, their attention grabbing hair and tight trousers leading many to dismiss them as ‘try hards’. Which is a shame as they are actually rather good at what they do, fusing Cure-esque guitar lines to melodic bass and disco drums. Either way, they go down like a pair of Jehova’s Witnesses pounding at your door all night.

It is at this point that the curse of the Spring and Airbrake begins to wrap it’s tendrils around me, with an inevitability so…inevitable, that I really shouldn’t be surprised at it’s arrival. I spot an absurdly attractive girl at the bar, and somewhere within my booze addled brain, I decide that it’s time to throw all the emotional wreckage out the window and start anew, phoenix-like from the flames. Of course, having the social skills and grace of Boris Yeltsin at a free bar, my chances at accomplishing are limited from the start. I elect to maintain a mean and moody distance, whilst simultaneously looking like that guy your parents always warned you about – not the dashing rebel, the bogeyman.

I’d almost forgotten about A  Plastic Rose when they bound onto the stage with an infectious enthusiasm. This is a band meant to perform, and seeing them in full flight is an experience one is not likely to forget. They have that elusive ability to actually CONNECT with an audience, feeding off the mystic energy that flows between performer and spectator. And when they know they’ve got that connection, they just get better and better.

I watch the attractive girl go to the front of the stage, and I elect to follow, positioning myself right at the front. I notice the loudness as I walk towards the stage, but – like a fool – think nothing more of it. The second Gerry and Ian begin to sing, it feels as if the entire world just shifted off it’s axis. The volume is INCREDIBLE. In fact, it’s so loud that it feels as if I am listening to everything through ripped fabric, the lines becoming blurred and indistinct. But somehow, unlike Dinosaur Jr, it passes, and some kind of chemicals kick into my brain. I regain my composure, and am party to the kind of performance you rarely get these days. When they’re not engaging directly with the crowd, they’re blowing minds.

And all the while, attractive girl is dancing right beside me, with about one atom between us. There’s plenty of room around us, but this is the way it seems to be going. I am powerless to stop it.

Unfortunately, I’m powerless to do anything about it as well. I just stand there, frozen with terror at the prospect of having to act in the face of emotional carnage. At one point, I receive a dedication from the band, and this leads me to do the unthinkable: I actually turn round to the crowd, point at myself and shout, “That’s me!” Twenty seven years of experience go straight down the toilet, and I stand there, open mouthed at the power of A Plastic Rose, and my own all-consuming idiocy.

Eventually it’s all over, and I’m standing at the bar, still wondering whether there’s any point in making a move, when a realisation washes over me, opening my eyes to the futility of my situation. I walk out of the venue, and light up a cigarette. It is at this point that the attractive girl also comes out for a cigarette. I focus my mind on A Plastic Rose, hoping that by doing so, I can tap into some of that charisma and charm, and begin the trudge home, shoulders hunched and mood black.

It was a foolish thought, really. You’ve either got it or you ain’t , and A Plastic Rose have it. If only they had enough spare for me.

POST-SCRIPT
The very next night, I saw both the attractive girl and Gerry Norman. She was dancing to appalling music, and speaking to the kind of guys whose faces eventually end up in mugshots. Gerry was creating a whirlwind around himself and sweeping a lot of people up in the process. Some things never change.