Suede Gig

And as the smack cracks at your window
You wake up with a gun in your mouth
Oh let the nuclear wind blow away my sins
And I’ll stay at home in my house

We Are The Pigs, Suede

Went to see Suede last night at the O2 arena and they were really good. I ended up going on my own in the end, as a friend couldn’t make it (I had a couple of days to try and persuade a replacement to come, but I couldn’t be bothered); I actually enjoy seeing gigs solo. And I don’t say that glibly.

Suede were one of my favourite bands as a teenager (along with Supergrass), and I really like their seedy lyrics. They tap into a sleazy world of sex, drugs and council estates that I really dig. They always make me feel a bit sad to listen to – but in the best possible way. Their music always evokes certain memories for me too; for example, when I hear The Wild Ones it transports me back to sitting in The World’s End pub in Camden with a mate – probably around 1998. I knew that we wouldn’t be friends for much longer as our lives were going in different directions – and then that song started playing on the jukebox.

I went to see them earlier in the year as well. That gig was special to me – not only because I’d always wanted to see them, but because I asked a person to go who I never thought would say yes – and they did!

I always find the punters at gigs are never really the kind you’re expecting to see there. You’d expect a Suede audience to be a floppy-haired louche lot, dressed in black – but there were a fair few really old people, and even some children too (a bit like Saturday night round at Gary Glitter’s house). There was also the usual flock of long-haired hippie degenerates, and fat goth chicks. Not a lot of skinheads though. The crowd all danced like spastics being given electric shock therapy – which made me feel right at home.

Needless to say, I didn’t pull any birds while I was there. On the tube on the way home I sat next to some drunk Italian teenagers who got on between Waterloo and Elephant and Castle. They were singing Kings of Leon songs in their drunken Italian accents, and I instantly fell in the love with them.

And finally – before I went in to the gig, a big hefty Jamaican palmed off a five pound note to me in my change – it was torn in half – but I didn’t even notice. Bastard! In turn, at the gig I palmed it off to a tiny militant lesbian serving at the bar. And that’s the circle of life.

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