I'd been looking forward to last night's DJ Shadow & Cut Chemist gig for ages. I had such a nasty hangover yesterday that I was struggling with the idea of going out at all, but hell - how often do your heroes come to town? My brother and the New Daddy arrived over at 6pm armed with beer, pizza and not a little giddiness and we set about our preparations; drinking beer, eating pizza and getting giddy.
The Ambassador was packed to the rafters when the two boys took to the stage and the whole place stank of high excitement, testosterone and greasy hair. The atmosphere was electric as they kicked off... but not, alas, for long. To put it mildly, the set was balls. It may have been a masterclass in vinyl but the audience got pissed off with it pretty quickly; choppy and sloppy changes in style and pace, short samples that led to nothing, build-ups that went nowhere. It never got going, people got bored and spent their time in the gruesome pile-ups at the bar or out smoking in the car park. There was a queue for the cloakroom before they'd quite finished their set, one head-the-ball leading the rest in a cheer for a refund. What I'd reckoned on being the gig of the year was a damp squib, a fart in a spacesuit, a big fat disappointment.
Pity the poor cunts who forked out €70 outside for tickets.
The Ambassador was packed to the rafters when the two boys took to the stage and the whole place stank of high excitement, testosterone and greasy hair. The atmosphere was electric as they kicked off... but not, alas, for long. To put it mildly, the set was balls. It may have been a masterclass in vinyl but the audience got pissed off with it pretty quickly; choppy and sloppy changes in style and pace, short samples that led to nothing, build-ups that went nowhere. It never got going, people got bored and spent their time in the gruesome pile-ups at the bar or out smoking in the car park. There was a queue for the cloakroom before they'd quite finished their set, one head-the-ball leading the rest in a cheer for a refund. What I'd reckoned on being the gig of the year was a damp squib, a fart in a spacesuit, a big fat disappointment.
Pity the poor cunts who forked out €70 outside for tickets.
