A few years ago I remember seeing somebody post a picture to facebook that they’d taken inside a venue. The picture was of a sign that read something along the lines of “Shut up. Watch the bands or have your conversation somewhere else.” It was crudely printed from Microsoft word and hastily stuck up in plain sight. Now, the internet being the internet, this opened up a dialogue between people who think they have a god-given right to have their bullshit inane conversations wherever they damn well please regardless of context, and people who actually just want to shut up and listen to some music in a live setting.
Hey, guess which side I’m on? Yeah, I’m not opening up a dialogue right now. Shut up, take note or just nod and agree.
So I’m at Gorilla and I’m watching Angel Olsen. I’m full of Frozen Yoghurt and good intentions. Her set, like her album, is one of dynamic range and delicate, fragile beauty, but I actually can’t really hear much of it because of the two walking abortions shouting a conversation into one another’s ear holes directly to my left. God, I hate them. God, I wanted them to shut up so much. I mean, not to characterize the defendants but these superdry-wearing-pint-drinking-banter-using-family-guy-watching shit smears were the kind of people to laugh at their own rape jokes. UGH. I REALLY hated them. It’s been a good number of days since the show and I still get angry when I picture them in my mind.
The thing is, I’m that perfect storm of British, socially broken and of the internet age so I just sort of stood there getting angrier in a very personal and internal way for a good twenty minutes before I said anything. In that time though a lady stood in front of us turned around, and begged them to shut up. They fucking didn’t though did they? Oh no, they just took it all in their stride. Arm around the woman, “whoooaaay! We’re all havin’ a laugh ere mayte!” Poor woman, she’d probably heard Angel Olsen on BBC 6 a few times at work and been really looking forward to this. Probably didn’t want to have to be manhandled by a cunt as a response to the request that she might be allowed to enjoy the show she paid for in peace.
It’s wrong of me to get so selfishly furious with these people about ruining MY night, because I got to go for free in return for writing the sentences you’re reading now – probably the final nail in the coffin of my already very flimsy foray into music critique – so just think of that poor woman instead. She came with her family. Grown up son and his girlfriend. Their relationship is on the rocks and there’s a lot resting on the enjoyment of this night. So now these talking bastards are potentially home wreckers too. Oh Jesus God Christ I hate them.
I eventually do tell them to shut up, after they ignore Barbra (I’ve given the woman a name, it humanizes her and adds emotional gravity to her story) for the third time. I hope my furious scowl came across with the malice that was pouring from my heart. I mean, I was met with a drunken, bleary-eyed nod and a “sorry mayte” and 2 minutes of silence before they started yammering on again with their bullshit. The worst part is that I don’t even know what they were saying! It was like if white noise took up throat singing and was bad at it. That’s basically what the pricks sounded like. GOD I FUCKING HATE THEM. I wish I’d taken their picture so that I could put it at the top of this article. I wish the combination of that picture and this article inspired a huge change.org campaign to get the two of them banned from every venue in the world with such earth-shattering support that it made that Rage Against The Machine for Christmas Number 1 campaign look like every single other _________ for Christmas Number 1 campaign that’s spawned since that god forsaken event. I wish that all nations from this point forth put aside their differences and unite against the common enemy:
People Who Talk Loudly At Gigs Or Other Cultural Gatherings And Ruin It For Everybody.
Oh, Angel Olsen was good, by the way.
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I experienced the exact same thing at Gorilla watching Cate Le Bon last month. The two looked like a middle aged German tribute act to Lou Reed and John Cale circa ’67. They only time they let-up was when Cate played her most rotation heavy single, as though they came only to hear the hit. I attempted to use telekenesis to dislodge something chunky from the rigging above them, but to no avail. Chat Nazis must die.
Well said Luke. We all feel your pain.
Regular gig-goers are only too familiar with this particular blight. And it’s only going to get worse I’m afraid. See ADD-induced Facebook withdrawal, and selfish Generation “Me” individuals called Ollie and Fenugreek whose parents raised them during the 90s as “The Most Important Human Being To Ever Walk The Earth And Thus Able To Do Whatever One Wishes”.
Two recent examples spring to mind: a packed Deaf Institute, where a gaggle of chattering cockwits stopped their conversation only to cheer maniacally between songs, as though it was the greatest gig they’d ever attended, despite not listening to a note; and an attempt to ask two lads to shut up was met with threats of physical violence, which, to be honest, I’d have only been too pleased to indulge them with, had I not been with friends of the fairer persuasion.
But unless more of us take collective responsibility and shame these buffoons from our venues, then I do fear it’s only going to get worse.