A Night At The Astoria

Taken from http://www.urban75.org

By concrete honey-combed Centre Point
Briskly paced towards Soho
Passing illuminated tooting taxis
Striding down the Charing Cross Road
To join a queue of  alternatives
Outside the stuccoed dome crowned bay
Under the fretted signage board
Spelling the name of the band who’ll play
Tonight, at the Astoria

Earnest in Camden High Street fashion
Invested Kensington Market attire
Sticky carpet hugged our tread
Glued our shoes to a concert flyer
And another, and another
Patchouli on the dance floor
In the mosh pit, down the front
Cramming narrow stairs crowding corridors
Tonight, at the Astoria

Black buckled winkle pickers
DMs, Converse, cowboy boots
Only the walls knew what we were
Dressed in t shirts ripped and loose
Painted leather on our backs
Tassled skirts and Celtic gods
My bloke’s hat, flour dusted like Carl’s
A new militia danced in clogs
Tonight, at the Astoria

No more the legend, the dirty old friend
No more thoughts of getting out alive
The heavy handed security ejection
Of devising a way to get back inside
Romance could not save you
The Mayor would not waiver or
Heed the petition that meant you were loved
But you made us legends, you were our saviour
Those nights, at the Astoria

 

 

A Night At The Astoria

The Astoria.  Image from http://www.urban75.org

By concrete honey-combed Centre Point
Briskly paced towards Soho
Passing illuminated tooting taxis
Striding down the Charing Cross Road
To join a queue of  alternatives
Outside the stuccoed dome crowned bay
Under the fretted signage board
Spelling the name of the band who’ll play
Tonight, at the Astoria

Earnest in Camden High Street fashion
Invested Kensington Market attire
Sticky carpet hugged our tread
Glued our shoes to a concert flyer
And another, and another
Patchouli on the dance floor
In the mosh pit, down the front
Cramming narrow stairs and crowded corridors
Tonight, at the Astoria

Black buckled winkle pickers
DMs, Converse, cowboy boots
Only those walls knew what we were
Dressed in t shirts ripped and loose
Painted leather on our backs
Tassled skirts and Celtic gods
My bloke’s hat, flour dusted like Carl’s
A new militia danced in clogs
Tonight, at the Astoria

No more the legend, the dirty old friend
No more thoughts of getting out alive
The heavy handed security ejection
Of devising a way to get back inside
Romance could not save you
The Mayor would not waiver or
Heed the petition that meant you were loved
But you made us legends, you were our saviour
Those nights, at the Astoria

Joel O’Keeffe & Airbourne Fans

Take two bottles into the shower?  Nah mate, just take the fans!

I took this photo at the Concorde, Brighton, UK, 2014 and can’t help thinking he looks like he’s just getting out of the shower!

Long Live The Fans!

Anna x

 

Always Down The Front

Photo credit: Katrin Bretscher (www.katrinbretscher.com)

There’s always one isn’t there,

Slopping beer all over his shoes?

He’s jostling for position

Hand secure upon the barrier

But his shoulders aren’t quite through

Cos there’s a fangirl, already half cut,

Hogging space for two

Arms are sleeves of coloured ink

Hair is blonde and striped in pink

Boobs are large and cupped in lace…

He might try conversation

“I love your tats; the skull, the eagle

the waves that wash across that fish…”

She flicks her hair across his face

Flashing eyes like glazy treacle

Swigs her pint, drenches his shoe

Budges up to let him through

Exhaling words of amber hops

In wispy tones at his lobe,

She tells of watching every show,

“I’m always down the front.

Spare a thought,” she suggests ,

Eyes transfixed on amps and rigs,

“for the guys who risk their lives.

I’ve been up there and I have seen

The underpaid who never rest.

Coiled in cables, burned, dog tired

Blinded, deafened and hot wired

Lost in circuits, lights, transformers,

Steering sound on fast food diets

Crushed by structures,

Fixing risers

Skilled in light and bespoke pyro.

I climbed up high and saw them all

The riggers, techies, leccies and crew

wrapped in miles of trusty gaffer

The steadfast, deadpan

poor security man.”

She sighs in wispy amber tones

Eyes all flashing glazy

Treacle pools reflecting

So impressed, he concurs

Then thinking back to boobs in lace

He might try conversation…

But amps reverb and drown the chance

Arm hairs rigid and entranced

There’s no time now to be so blunt

As dry ice shrouds his fangirl…

His feet are feeling light as air

It’s just as though she wasn’t there

His shoe is dry, but how? And why?

As darkness cloaks his fangirl…

Exhaling words of amber hops

In wispy tones at his lobe

“You’ll catch me watching every show

I’m always down the front.”

The Will To Gig on Soundcloud

Feedback

White Noise by artist Erik Olofsen

Distant song

Ice cream van

Cyberman

Dalek

Metal Mickey.

Splintered shards

Fractured sound

Subliminal slurring

suggestively.

Fizzing light switch

Voltage crackle

Wizened squeal

Dentist drill.

Whining mosquito

Kamikaze war plane

Impatient kettle

whistling shrill.

Audible rewind

Reverb, wah wah

Violins scrape

Hot needles singe

Can you hear a pin drop?

Yeah! Thousands of them!

Mind your ear ‘oles,

Your tender drum skins.

© Anna Ghislena 2015