A Post-Gig Discussion

In my efforts to mirror Homer I sit on a sofa with the residue of last night's makeup and fake tan; my poor attempt at a bouffant crushed by the pillow. From this last sentence one (meaning you) can infer that I did not muster the energy to take off my makeup at the conclusion of last night. That is unusual for me if you were to ask Ryan. According to him, each night I engage in a twenty minute routine to take off "all of that shit" as he would say. I currently smell like a mixture of Garnier Ambre Solaire Original, although my oompa loompa appearance would suggest that I should have gone for light, and sweat. Ryan's room is now a hazard zone, and I am under strict orders to light incense in five minute intervals. I have on my autographed Atmosphere shirt, and yes you did read that right, but more on that later. I'm sipping a glass of orange/mango/passion fruit juice (minus the Rum) to try and combat the hangover I managed to get after only three drinks.

Please hold our next available representative will be with you shortly
(Tacky music playing in background)

I had to wash my hair and face. I will sort out my so called "bronzed" body later. My OCD could not manage the sight of my hair and face any longer. On a sidenote, I believe in the future I should live in a house with no mirrors. It might help me to resolve my vanity.

Attention: If this blog is confusing, it is because you did not remember that I went to the Atmosphere/Brother Ali show last night. Now that we have clarified how my current state could have come about, we can continue.

After much anticipation, and a drink to calm my jitters, Ryan and I set out for the venue. Once inside the dimly light pseudo-basement I stood in awe of how close I would be to the stage. I haven't seen Atmosphere in a small venue since The Fox six years ago, and this was a step even closer to the intimacy for which all fans hunger. We bought two beers and took a seat. I analyzed all of the so called "English hip hoppers" and looked for discrepancies. The crowd was two parts hippie, and one part amateur.

All was as it should be until.....

As I sat next to Ryan sipping my £3.45 Fosters, I spotted a dark haired figure perched near the exit. He wore close cut hair and a non-descript sweater. I was sure that this figure was only another fan, but when I glanced back the figure had moved to the merch table grasping a sharpie in his right hand. I knew it was him. After much debate and encouragement from Ryan I decided to buy a shirt and get his John Hancock. I had my doubt that this character was in fact Slug, but when I stood in front of the table all doubt fell away. Here sat Slug, one half of Atmosphere, selling his own merch. I could feel the heat rise up from my stomach to my neck coloring my cheeks. I stumbled over my words when trying to choose a t-shirt. He looked annoyed and tired. I stupidly chose black, and then realized that a black t-shirt and black sharpie do not make a visible combination. I could barely hear him over the opening act whose name I cannot recall. That should be an indicator of the impression they made. He signed my shirt Slug, with an exclamation for....effect? A feeling grabbed me as I walked from the table t-shirt in hand. It was hard to detect through the intense heat radiating from my face and neck. I suddenly thought that he didn't like me, that I had failed to meet his standards for a fan. I thought it might be the braid I had in my hair. I was trying for the noveau hippie look, the I smell like perfume not peyote look.

For once my relationship with the afterthought proved beneficial rather that its usual malevolence. On the walk home while venting to my patient boyfriend I drew five conclusions on my encounter with Slug.

They are as follows:

• It is never wise to meet your idol, for your imagination will always hold a better introduction than could ever become your reality.

• He is human, and subject to the same emotions as us average folk.

• What did I expect? There are ten faces identical to mine in each city he plays. Touring must come to resemble a film on replay where all the characters and all the scenes are stuck on repeat.

• Why did I want his autograph? Last I checked Slug looked like a boy I know a few states over.

• I refuse to ask for another autograph until my own is in demand.

A special thank you to Ryan for aiding me in the formulation of my five conclusions.

I'm wearing my autographed t-shirt despite warnings that the more often I do the more the signature will fade. I swear to hang it up for the rest of my days, that is after today. It will now forever smell of Garnier Ambre Solaire Original and dishwater.

In summary:

High points:
- seeing Brother Ali and Slug on stage together
- sharing hip hop with Ryan
- the amazing show the boys put on
- being in close proximity to my ex-idol (I don't have idols anymore)
- the opportunity to evaluate firsthand English hip hop heads
- hearing "woman with the tattooed hands"

Low points
- the drunk girl standing/falling next to me
- the drug dealer blocking my view to try and sell drugs to Brother Ali on stage (As if!)
- the sweat drenched boy who stood directly in front of me
- the sweat induced curls in my hair by the end of the night


For those ignorant individuals still remaining-

There is an unwritten and unspoken rule that dominates gigs. That is, do not step in front of another person and block the view they obviously worked hard to secure. If you should, then you shall receive both severe words, including insults of your dress and face, and a swift kick to the behind.

I have become alarmingly patriotic during my time in Brighton. I found myself ranting post-gig about how the English do not understand American hip hop, nor should they be allowed to experience "my" music. Before you speak against this please remember the American hip hop I am referring to is not the commercial rubbish you hear on MTV.

I would now like to apologize to the English for my hateful ranting. I'll have my boyfriend, America will have your troops, and you can have my music.

"When people hear good music, it makes them homesick for something they never had, and never will have"
Edward Watson Howe