so the fulang played in brixton on friday.. at the queens head, stockwell road..
as we began... feeling out the first song... the landlord galloped over from the bar.. waving his arms around.. and started shouting at the soundman.. in some drunken gibbering accent... about "too much noise" or something.. the fulang was cranking through the gears, easing into it, so we ignored the ugly scene... until the drunken man decided to involve stuart, bellowing in his ear..
"HOPE YOU DIDNT THINK YOU CAME HERE TO PLAY THAT LOUD.."
"THIS ISNT 'FRIDAY NIGHT IN BRIXTON' MUSIC!"
"it is for the next 25 minutes.."
"IF YOU THINK YOU'RE GONNA PLAY LIKE THAT THEN I'M COMING BACK WITH A BUCKET OF ICE.."
then scuttled off behind the bar.. hand holding his boating hat atop his head... a little jack russell following his white sports socks.. with a concerned look on its face..
we ploughed on like missionaries.. through the guttural blues of "blood money".. the jack russell occasionally sniffing at my foot-pedals.. then settled into the less grating on the ear/soul sound of "salado" and all seemed well... there was no ice visited upon us and no scuttling or bellowing..
the room filled up.. and so did the sound..
I announced "Los 33" as our final song and one unsuspecting voice replied
"what? the last one? already?"
...before we unleashed 15 minutes of disgusting low-down perverted noise.. the drawling feedback and the horror of guitar-assault, apparent.. my moans falling from the p.a. and floating off somewhere towards the skatepark down the road.. with that homeless guy on the bench watching the kids arch and weave in balletic shapes over the concrete and graffiti..
afterwards i thanked vincenzo the soundman who said he'd "very much the last song liked".. and the fulang and their companions repaired to the pavement outside.. sharing cans of lager and stories of gay nautical heroes...
next up - the constitution in camden town on september 17th..