Bandwidth

Upon entering Common Grounds Cafe, my glasses instantly steam up. This could be because of the change in temperature from the chilly Belfast night to the warm and inviting cafe atmosphere, but it’s more likely to be from the sheer number of people populating the cafe. You see, rather than just being an ordinary Friday night, Heliopause have decided to unleash their brutally fragile muse upon the cafe this evening, and it seems I was not the only person wanting to be part of this.

The cafe is literally full to the brim, with every space occupied by a human being, their attention entirely focussed on the three gentlemen in the back of the cafe, creating a hushed intimacy that is increasingly rare in these oh so bombastic times. Rather than stand in the way, I opt to leave, going to Lavery’s for Cashier No.9 and Crystal Stilts.

The room is almost empty as I arrive, save for the members of the band and a few curious folk milling about. After the recent spate of well-attended gigs, it appears that things have gone back to normal again, with empty rooms and disinterested audiences.

Then Cashier No.9 strike up their first song, and the room instantly fills up. From having a wide open view of the proceedings, I have gone to being hidden behind a wall of bodies. Strategically repositioning ourselves, I become consumed by the noise Cashier are making. Having previously been underwhelmed by them, I’ve recently become a complete convert, absolutely in awe of them. I’d written them off as baggy-copyists a long time ago, but it seems that some kind of transformation has taken place, and I am left with no option other than to accept that I was very, very wrong about this band. Indeed, they are effectively playing a type of music I have no fondness for at all, but I find myself loving every note.

After they finish, I sit, elated and full of possibilities. Then fate deals me a cruel hand when I discover that a band I am very, very fond of have just recruited a new member – someone who happens to be my least favourite person in all of Belfast. As I try to ponder the odds of a city populated by over 320,000 souls vomiting forth the one individual I don’t want to see, Crystal Stilts start up. Theirs is a derivative racket, reminiscent of various bands, but not fit to touch the hem of their collective garments. I lose interest immediately – along with most of the crowd, it must be said – and try not to let anger completely consume me.

Eventually, they stop, and I manage to regain some sense of composure. Marshaling my rage, I find myself being swept along towards the Spring and Airbrake for A Plastic Rose’s ep launch. Until recently, the Spring and Airbrake had been one of my least favourite places on earth, having been the site of several of my most spectacular emotional failures, and the backdrop to the most dissapointing gig I have ever attended: Dinosaur Jr. The American indie legends had held me in thrall for over a decade, their tuneful brilliance, and belligerent noise being part of my very lifeblood. To be confronted by three aging, fat men, with no personality whatsoever was a disapointment. To have my eardrums raped by the sheer volume they decided to play at was insulting (although, I should have know that would happen, to be honest…). To find them widdling through their set as if they really didn’t give a damn at all was the final straw, causing me to leave the gig halfway through – the only time I have EVER done this! – and trudging home to sit nursing my obliterated eardrums.

This night finds the Spring about half full, with people disinterestedly checking out the synth-y new wave sounds of Disconnect 4. The Galway band suffer from nothing more than wanting to be liked too much, their attention grabbing hair and tight trousers leading many to dismiss them as ‘try hards’. Which is a shame as they are actually rather good at what they do, fusing Cure-esque guitar lines to melodic bass and disco drums. Either way, they go down like a pair of Jehova’s Witnesses pounding at your door all night.

It is at this point that the curse of the Spring and Airbrake begins to wrap it’s tendrils around me, with an inevitability so…inevitable, that I really shouldn’t be surprised at it’s arrival. I spot an absurdly attractive girl at the bar, and somewhere within my booze addled brain, I decide that it’s time to throw all the emotional wreckage out the window and start anew, phoenix-like from the flames. Of course, having the social skills and grace of Boris Yeltsin at a free bar, my chances at accomplishing are limited from the start. I elect to maintain a mean and moody distance, whilst simultaneously looking like that guy your parents always warned you about – not the dashing rebel, the bogeyman.

I’d almost forgotten about A  Plastic Rose when they bound onto the stage with an infectious enthusiasm. This is a band meant to perform, and seeing them in full flight is an experience one is not likely to forget. They have that elusive ability to actually CONNECT with an audience, feeding off the mystic energy that flows between performer and spectator. And when they know they’ve got that connection, they just get better and better.

I watch the attractive girl go to the front of the stage, and I elect to follow, positioning myself right at the front. I notice the loudness as I walk towards the stage, but – like a fool – think nothing more of it. The second Gerry and Ian begin to sing, it feels as if the entire world just shifted off it’s axis. The volume is INCREDIBLE. In fact, it’s so loud that it feels as if I am listening to everything through ripped fabric, the lines becoming blurred and indistinct. But somehow, unlike Dinosaur Jr, it passes, and some kind of chemicals kick into my brain. I regain my composure, and am party to the kind of performance you rarely get these days. When they’re not engaging directly with the crowd, they’re blowing minds.

And all the while, attractive girl is dancing right beside me, with about one atom between us. There’s plenty of room around us, but this is the way it seems to be going. I am powerless to stop it.

Unfortunately, I’m powerless to do anything about it as well. I just stand there, frozen with terror at the prospect of having to act in the face of emotional carnage. At one point, I receive a dedication from the band, and this leads me to do the unthinkable: I actually turn round to the crowd, point at myself and shout, “That’s me!” Twenty seven years of experience go straight down the toilet, and I stand there, open mouthed at the power of A Plastic Rose, and my own all-consuming idiocy.

Eventually it’s all over, and I’m standing at the bar, still wondering whether there’s any point in making a move, when a realisation washes over me, opening my eyes to the futility of my situation. I walk out of the venue, and light up a cigarette. It is at this point that the attractive girl also comes out for a cigarette. I focus my mind on A Plastic Rose, hoping that by doing so, I can tap into some of that charisma and charm, and begin the trudge home, shoulders hunched and mood black.

It was a foolish thought, really. You’ve either got it or you ain’t , and A Plastic Rose have it. If only they had enough spare for me.

POST-SCRIPT
The very next night, I saw both the attractive girl and Gerry Norman. She was dancing to appalling music, and speaking to the kind of guys whose faces eventually end up in mugshots. Gerry was creating a whirlwind around himself and sweeping a lot of people up in the process. Some things never change.