A Grand Night Out

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People irritate me.

I'm putting my obsolete music equipment on ebay - so I can get some less obsolete stuff from, er, ebay. One such piece is a drum machine I bought second hand in 1992, currently on extended loan to a band who use it for practice sessions when their drummer can't make it. Or rather they would, if they hadn't split up a year ago.

So, I want to ask for my drum machine back. To do this I need to ask the former bandmember to spend probably half a day finding where he stored it. For which favour I need to butter him up somewhat because, well, the higher he goes professionally, the more manicuring his ego needs.

Egos are like balloons - the more inflated they get, the more fragile they become, and the more noise when they burst and tumble.

Now, the way you butter up musicians is: You go to their gigs, see their new bands, and tell them they're great. Or conversely, you annoy them by not going to see them after they've spent a month dropping hints to everyone that they're playing.

For some reason it's more annoying to complement a band you didn't want to see but wound up enjoying...than a bad one you did - make of that what you will. So last night I went along.

The gig was at a completely stupid location, miles from where anyone lives, in a slightly seedy events hall. It was a fundraising gig, so of course it made perfect sense to have it in a place that's GBP200 to hire. I got to spend GBP10 on a taxi, 5 on entrance fee, 5 on drinks...and the remaining 2 into the fundraising bucket at the end of the night, because that's how all fundraisers everywhere work.

After five hours and four bands (two of who were actually good) I got the chance to speak to the man with my drum machine. Except as soon as his band went off stage he disappeared and no one could find him. So I didn't.

Oh, and I turned down an offer of sex to do all this.

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