More Britten. Blah blah blah.
Charlotte, who was at the Barge last night, calls to ask whether I want to play three songs next month at something called The Eclectic Club. The answer to that question is inevitably “yes”. I definitely want to play at something called The Eclectic Club. It’s at the refurbished Troubadour over in Earl’s Court. She asks if I know where it is. Bless.
(What you probably don’t know, and what she definitely didn’t, is that I played at the Troub every two weeks throughout 1999 and bits of 2000 with Jeays, often carrying a double bass with me. So I could probably find the place with my eyes shut. I don’t mention this, though, because it would seem… not nice.)
I get the MeFiSwap to the Post Office. Long wait in the queue – the number of people at the counters appears to expand and contract in inverse proportion to the number of people in the queue. The Post Office is like a throwback to a dowdier time, and so probably ought to be preserved as an aide memoire. As long as I don’t have to go there too often.
Then I hop along to the gym, where I immediately develop a pain in my knee (no cause whatsoever – I’m walking along and my knee decides to start to hurt. It’s just feeling unloved and wanting attention, I suppose), which means that rather than the usual hour, I manage to run for a half of that. By this time it’s the rush hour, so there’s no room at the weights machines. I go into the hot room, a wretched failure. At least it saves me from MTV Shit!, which is down to playing the same five videos over and over.
In the evening I set to editing the Drill Hall Gig, which I’ve brought into Logic, EQ’d and put a bit of reverb onto. I chop out all the bits where I say “thank you” before the audience clap (which sounds desperate, and which I’ll have to stop doing), and all the gibberish that I thought might turn into something funny and which, in fact, did not (which I’ll have to stop doing). Hmm. Less, it appears, is more.