PATIENCE

CHAPTER TWO: PATIENCE/DESPICABLE ZEE/VIENNETA AT MOTH CLUB, HACKNEY – 18/6/2019

THE MOTH CLUB is like a David Lynch film set in a working men’s club, the kind where comedians told sexist jokes in the seventies. Now, in two thousand and nineteen, the sexist comedians have been replaced by hipsters whose clothes don’t fit properly. 

  “What can I get you?” says the barman. One of the lenses of his glasses is broken. It must be obscuring his vision, but he doesn’t seem to mind. There’s glitter on the ceiling.

VIENNETA are a three-piece named after a popular ice cream product, which means that when you search for them on the internet, all that comes up is the ice cream product. If their success is to be measured against the popularity of the ice cream product, it seems, sadly, that their career is doomed to failure. The band consists of two men and a woman. The woman is the singer. The men’s trousers don’t fit properly and stop a few inches above their feet. They sound a bit like Broadcast, which is nice. The bass player plays with his eyes closed. “Thanks for listening,” says the singer, “on a Tuesday.” Polite. I quite like them actually. By the time the last song is drawing to a close I’m really getting into it. 

What DESPICABLE ZEE does is play the drums really loudly over pre-programmed sound collages. She also raps in a kind of expressionless monotone, and sings a little bit in a kind of quite flat way. Her music is noisy and antisocial. It feels like a riposte of some sort. I can’t imagine she’s too popular with her neighbours.

  She also has another piece of equipment: a small box that is plugged into a small amplifier. “It’s a broken theremin,” she explains. It doesn’t work. Initially she thinks it’s the cable that’s faulty and demands another one from an assistant standing at the side of the stage, who promptly hands her a cable. But it’s the wrong cable. “That’s the wrong cable,” she says, tossing it back. The assistant tries again. This time it is the right cable, but the broken theremin still won’t work. “Oh well,” she says, and plays the song anyway. 

  It’s a noisy one. 

  “I’ve just got a couple more,” she says apologetically when it’s finished.

PATIENCE take a long time to set up, but it’s OK. Everyone seems quite happy to wait. Quite patient. No one is showing any signs of impatience at all. Apart from, maybe, me, perhaps. 

  It’s worth the wait in the end. They have some catchy songs, and Roxanne Clifford has a fine singing voice. It’s upbeat music. I look around and everyone’s smiling and dancing and having a nice time. Even I am not entirely stationary. 

  It’s Roxanne’s birthday and halfway through the gig the crowd sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to her. It’s a very friendly affair. There’s a definite warmth in the air.

  I spend much of the gig weighing up whether to buy their record. It’s never really in doubt. Of course, I’ll buy their record. But by the end of the gig it’s a solid yes, like I really have to definitely, like, buy this record right now, and I quite forcefully barge my way through the crowd towards the merchandise stall.

On my way there I bump into an old friend. I haven’t seen her for what must be, ooh, six years, but it could be an awful lot more. “Did you enjoy the show?” she asks.

  “I loved it,” I say. 

  “I’m friends with Roxanne,” she says.

  The old friend was primarily wife’s friend, and I feel that I ought to explain why wife isn’t here, and why I’m here on my own, probably looking shifty like I’m harbouring some sort of guilty secret, which I’m not, but just always feel like I am. It’s the Catholic upbringing. It’s called Catholic guilt, and it’s a real thing. It’s got a Wikipedia page and everything. “We haven’t got anyone to look after the kids,” I explain. 

  “Well, give me a ring next time,” says the friend. “I could babysit if you want. I’m good with kids.”

  “Oh, thanks,” I say. 

  I’ve never been very good with conversations so I make my excuses, and continue on my way. 

  I buy a record for fifteen pounds, and head home feeling very pleased with myself indeed.