Feeling a bit anxious beforehand and getting some fresh air.
We get to the gig and turns out we have backstage passes, "Access All Area's." So we're kicking it in this little room that looks like some 1950's living room. Everyone is chatting but Wilko hasn't said a word. All of a sudden, he perks up, "Remember that one time, you went to sort that thing out? I went into this stationary shop and bought this felt-tip, it had a click top, so you click it, write, and then, obviously, click it again so it doesn't dry up, amazing." Then back into his own little world. I think this guy is on a lot of drugs, a lot of the time.
My brother and I end up doing the merch for the night, which is really fucking awesome. The band are out there kicking arse, there's something really haunting about the way Wilko moves and interacts with the crowd, or maybe it's his pale as fuck face and dead set eyes. Norman is quite frankly, the best bass player in the U.K and the drummer is also tearing shit up.
Some smelly old punk dude is pissed up trying to talk to me, slagging the band and showing me his rings, but he's lost one he says, like I give a fuck. He's basically some washed up piece of shit. I hope when I'm 50 I'm not as pathetic as this guy. He buys a C.D and wants it signed, why? I thought they sucked? So I'm having a world of fun ripping this guy for being some washed up smack head and pulling out these bullshit contradictions he seems so fond on, he's too fucked to even even realise he's the main focus of a huge joke, what a waster.
I got paid for doing the merch which was cool, I woulda done it for free.
