HANNAH COHEN

CHAPTER SIX: HANNAH COHEN/CUBZOA AT SET, DALSTON - 2/9/19

SET is an intimate venue. It’s small, and you can smell the damp, like one of those grotty flats you used to live in. In addition to the smell of damp, there’s a bust up piano in the corner and a worn leather sofa at the back of the room. It's the kind of place where everything is either bust up or worn out. It’s very dark, and I can hardly see what I’m doing.

“Hi, I’m Cubzoa,” says CUBZOA. “My real name’s Jack. Silly name.” He has a guitar and lots of pedals. He creates little loops, which he then plays and sings on top of. I like the way he perches awkwardly on a bar stool, so that he has to stretch rather awkwardly to reach his pedals; and there’s something endearing about the little buzz that you can hear when he stops playing and in the quiet bits of songs. And I like the way he drenches everything in reverb. More people should drench things in reverb. I’m all for it. 
  “Deerhoof are playing round the corner,” he says. “Did you know that?” 
  “Yes, I did,” I want to say. But don’t. No one says anything. 
  “But I’d rather be here,” says Cubzoa, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself. 

HANNAH COHEN’s music is like lying in the dappled shade of a tree, or the sweet breeze of a balmy evening. It’s as summery as a picnic. It’s floats in the air, and I start swaying and occasionally nodding my head. Notwithstanding the fact that this is all I am doing, I soon start sweating profusely, which is something that happens to me a lot this time of year. I have a big sweat problem, you see. I'm good at sweating. It comes naturally to me. 

  It is hot though, at least. It’s not just me. Everyone is feeling it. “Toasty,” says Hannah Cohen. “Please don’t faint,” she says. “It’s hot.” 
  “You make it hotter,” someone shouts out. 
  That’s quite sexist, I think, but don't say anything. The band laughs uncomfortably. Maybe someone should have said something. 
  Hannah Cohen takes a sip from a glass of wine. “I appreciate that,” she says, though I imagine it’s unlikely that she does. Later she worries about asking people not to faint. “That was really selfish of me,” she says. “Forgive me for being rude, if I was.” 
  “You weren’t,” I wanted to say. But didn’t. 
  The band (“Sam Evian’s band”) are really good, busily creating a sound that seems effortless but isn’t, which is actually quite industrious, and on top of which Cohen’s voice sits like someone on one of those bikes with one really big wheel and one really small wheel.

There’s no encore and no one is around to sell records after the show. The records are just sitting there on a table in a dark corner of the room. I look around for an honesty box but there isn’t one. I approach Sam Evian when he emerges from the curtained-off backstage area to pack up. 
  “That was a great show,” I say. “Can I buy a record off you?” 
  “Yeah,” he says, “I can sell merch. Shall I move it into the bar?” 
  “Can I just get one of the LPs, please?” 
  “Sure,” says Sam Evian. 
  “Twenty quid?” I say. 
  “Twenty quid,” says Sam Evian, and the word “quid” sounds a bit weird on his American tongue, and I realise how English I must sound. I am English, after all.
  “Thanks,” I say, and off I go. Into the English night, with my Englishness.