DANIEL O’SULLIVAN

DANIEL O’SULLIVAN/THE NO SHOW AT CAFÉ OTO, DALSTON – 3/8/21

For a moment we exchange glances, and I swear there’s a look of recognition on Falling Asleep At William Tyler’s face, one of the original Rough Trade tote bag guys. I recognise him immediately. Could it be that recognises me too? There’s no reason why not. I recognise him, after all. Why shouldn’t he recognise me? Our paths have crossed on multiple occasions. It’s actually nice to see him. Reassuring, in some way. I wonder how he’s been. He looks a little older, a little drawn; gaunt, almost. 

  It’s also nice to be back at CAFÉ OTO. And I’ve got a seat, which is a plus, even if my view is largely obscured by the piano.

'largely obscured by the piano'

I buy some Ba-vo and briefly consider stealing a record. But pretty quickly I decide to buy it instead. It’s one I’ve been wanting for a while, Paradise of Delusion by Shizuka. I heard a thirty-second snippet of it a while back, and became obsessed with having it, by which time it had sold out everywhere online. It’s a really beautifully produced thing. The shame of stealing it would have weighed heavily on my soul.

I have brought two copies of Nights Out with me. I leave them on Café Oto’s bookshelves. It feels fitting. The book returning to one of the places it was written. I leave one of the copies facing outward, clearly visible at head height, and every time someone comes over to browse the bookshelves, I watch them furtively to see if they pick it up and look at it. To my surprise, no one does.

'no one does'

I briefly consider stealing a book, and realise that I am actually a kleptomaniac at heart. I don’t really steal stuff any more, but I used to quite a lot. My career began when I started stealing football stickers from the local newsagent. I was a kid at the time, and had an insatiable appetite for football stickers. It continued when I was older, though not yet fully grown, with CDs, and sometimes records if I could get away with it. I used to wander around HMV for hours, slowly and surreptitiously peeling the security labels off expensive CDs. I tried to concentrate my efforts on the larger chains, and managed to convince myself that it was a victimless crime, while the benefits to me were clear and substantial.

Someone takes the stage, and it goes quiet. Really quiet. No one is saying a word, or making any noise of any kind. All you can hear is creaking: creaking chairs, creaking beams, creaking bones. The kind of noises you can’t control, and which never really go away. 

  THE NO SHOW consist of three very earnest and serious young men. They are classic Oto.

'very serious'

The whole thing is so cerebral that no one applauds between the songs. It seems like it would almost be rude or coarse to do so. They swap instruments frequently and shuffle about the stage carefully, like they’re trying not to wake someone up. One of them looks and sounds like a priest intoning a mass, and sings about angels, and spirits, and blessings. That kind of thing. Daniel O’Sullivan joins them on violin for the last song during which the priest-like singer intones the words “fever pitch” over and over again. The effect is quite unsettling. 

  As the band are leaving the stage I catch Falling Asleep At William Tyler looking at me, and I wonder how he would react if I told him that he is character in a book I wrote and left on a shelf over there. I’m not going to, I just wonder what if.

“This feels a bit alien,” says DANIEL O’SULLIVAN, taking a seat at the piano. He is referring to the fact that no one has been to or played any gigs for almost eighteen months. But the funny thing is it doesn’t feel alien at all. It just feels normal, as it should be. And, funnily enough, it doesn’t even feel like it’s been so very long. It might have just been last week that I was last here. It wasn’t, but it might have been. 

'a bit alien'

I have no idea what to expect. I don’t know any of the band’s songs, but I enjoy it very much. It’s a kind of piano-led American indie kind of sound, but like Plush or Elliot Smith, rather than Ben Folds Five. The band is called the Dream Lion Ensemble, which I think is fantastic, and include a bassoon. There are no big solos. Everyone works for the team.

  “Any requests?” says O’Sullivan after a few songs. Someone requests something. They play it. At one point it sounds like there are two different songs being played.

  “This is the last song,” says Daniel O’Sulliven before the last song. “It’s a long one. So either settle down, or buzz off.” 

  

I hang around a bit after the show. I’d like to buy a record, but there’s no one manning the merch table. I think about asking O’Sullivan himself to sell me something, but he is deep in conversation with another man, so I decide not to disturb him. I steal off, instead, into the night, and cycle home.

'the night'