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A Nottingham High. Royal Concert Hall. 26th Nov.

November 27, 2017

Sometimes I think it’s easier not to go home.
It gets harder to leave every time I do.
My poor man is beset by building dust fall-out and the house chokes.
My cat wants to be next to my body.
She wakes me up throughout the night, scratching and cuffing at me to let her curl into my belly when ever I turn.
A day off there and I want longer.
At the same time, the end of this tour approaches and I shall miss it like air.
I function well with a timetable.
So inept am I at creating my own.
Here I move.
Here I eat.
Here I work
Here I sleep.
A blessing for a floating head mote such am I.

At midday Vinny knocks at my door.
I have had coffee brought to me.
I have sat long in my bath.
I have to leave.

We drive to Nottingham.
Straight to the gig.
I believe this is the biggest of all the ‘Other’ venues thus far, and it is a very fine place indeed.
Another which looks like a space station to my myopic eyes.
Were I a film maker I reckon could make use of this interior.
Bit ‘o shuffling.

I am feeling the weight of these weeks. My body is tiring. My spoken voice is lower than an old man’s nadgers.
3 more gigs and then 4 whole days off before our European run.
Lush.

We are sold out and my socials indicate that all here are primed for this show.
A show that showcases my album ‘Other’ as the titled
‘The Other Tour’ unambiguously suggests, and one which also includes more than half a sets worth of a 35 year catalogue, including 7 hits.

I have now even more reason
to reiterate that I am not about mere nostalgia.
Why I avoid attracting broad fans of ‘That’ decade, rather than of whichever Act we may be.
They come tanked up knowing vaguely one album.
Loins aching with the memory of their pre-viagra days,

I heard today in catering that one of my female travelling party was actually assaulted by a man after a show.
The type that does not trust the veracity of a tour title.

You Fucking dark arsehole.

I am riled.

I go to my room and prepare.

The boys come and we sing.
Hannah passes our door and pops her head in.
She is iridescent.
I ask her how it went, but I can easily see.
She has had a good show, and a good audience. Here is happy.

All bodes well.

The Royal Concert Hall is as fine to play as she looks.
Her dimensions are perfectly proportioned and the space fits the nature of our show exceedingly well.
I feel both held and airborne.
There is an intimacy here that contradicts the size.
We all have space but are connected.
I was tired, but it is forgotten.
Tonight is for me, the perfect show.

I had a second lyric freeze, having said that.

A lyric fail for many would mark up a gig flaw. I can’t let them go with out a restart, but personally I enjoy the comradely atmosphere that comes upon us as we collectively try to remember what happens next.
It’s certainly never deliberate, but I like the accidents that mark one show from another.
It was ‘Situation’ this time.
Fuck me, but even stopped and with space to think, I couldn’t think what on earth came next, what with him now being ‘in control’ and consequently, ‘my lover’.

I probably just haven’t sung that song enough times….

This audience is a very fine gift.
Everything that makes me comfortable in my skin.
Each open to every twist and turn and then revelling in our together shake-down.
If it was in my gift to remember dates, I would treasure this.

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