Working Title

When you work gigs, there gets to be a point near the end of the night, when you’re bone-weary and quiet, but also kind of angry.

It’s a fruitless, rootless anger – usually part of the rush to get out of the venue, or get on to the next show. You’re fed up. You’re tearing down everything you’ve built. You’ve become a destroyer rather than a creator. You are now less DaVinci and more Attila the Hun. It’s no wonder we all go a bit mad.

I don’t know whether that’s part of working with a bunch of passionate artists who every day have to obliterate their own art and start again. There is no permanency here. No posterity. We arrive, we go. As a wiser man once said: everybody’s trying not to go home – nobody wants to say goodbye. Perhaps I have been thinking about that too much lately.

But there will be no jump tonight – no read more below. It is the end of the gig and I’m tired. I will leave you with some others who might have been heard so many times they now get ignored, but who clearly understood that end-of-show anger and expressed it far better than I…

 

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