It's 9.00pm on a Monday and I'm standing by a shitty bar, holding a shitty pint of the numbers, in a shit hole of a venue near Angel, about to watch a band that I'm certain are going to be shit. I will normally go to any lengths possible to avoid going to gigs, ranging from excuses - "I really wanna be there tonight, but I've got to be at a baselight, flame, offline, online session" - to out and out deceit the following day - "Of course I was there dude. I was standing near the front. You just didn't see me."
But occasionally I'll receive a boardroom directive personally instructing me to attend a specific concert. Slap. Three-line-whip-o-clock. You can't wriggle out of these shows. No way. You just have to man the fuck up and deal with the reality that you're going to have to spend an evening listening to live music.
In these situations your sole objective is to make sure that your MD sees that you're there. Nothing else matters.
Monday night. I arrive on my own. The venue is pretty empty. It stinks of piss and spoiled beer. I can't see anyone from the label so I head for the narrow bar situated in the back on a slightly elevated platform. Eventually a surly, dwarfish barman takes my order. I notice his dirty fingernails tapping the rim of the glass as he draws my tawny pint of the numerals. I lean back on the bar and take a few sips. The beer's flat. I mumble the word 'cunt' just for something to do. I can't even summon the energy to look at my crackers. The bar area starts to fill up and I get pushed to the side. At that moment I realize that I've got acute indigestion. Another downside to going to gigs after work is that you never get to eat properly. The beef burrito that seemed like such a good idea half an hour ago, now feels like a cruel alimentary ordeal. My need to fart is only outweighed by my fear of following through and shitting myself.
Suddenly the band start playing. Wait. Hang the fuck on. What do you mean they're on already? Shit. They're fucking on. Actually on. I must have been so lost in my reverie of intestinal discomfort that I failed to notice them take the stage. I look around for my colleagues, but the venue is now packed. I can't see anyone that I know. To make matters worse I'm pressed against the wall to the side of the bar. I can't move. A platinum cougar in leather trousers rocks out beside me, her face lumpy and Botox immobile.
Two songs pass by. And then a third. Oh god. I frantically scan the room, but from my vantage point I'm still unable to see anyone from the label. This is a debacle. I think about the Irish philosopher George Berkley, who talked of objects ceasing to exist once there was nobody around to perceive them. The philosophical riddle reverberates in my mind: "If a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound?"
I'm sweating. I push through the crowd. My head thumps. The question is now: "If an employee goes to a gig and his MD doesn't see him, was he really there?"
I seriously begin to doubt my own existence. I look at my hand and it seems to be translucent. I'm fucking disappearing like Marty Mcfly in 'Back To The Future'.
And then I find him, standing by the sound desk like an MD angel. I don't think I've ever been happier to see someone I work with. We nod hello and then spend the rest of the gig reading our crackers.
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