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This is the faceless, thousand yard stare of the post goth, post punk, post mortem Interpol gig goer. See how lifeless are his eyes, how the declamatory clang of Interpol's over used bangajanga guitar riff has worn away his slack jawed mouth. He has traveled further than every before to be here, this place, this N22, this Allie Pallie. He has endured pretentious, self involved noodling from a support band who frankly should have been stoned off the stage after one tune, rather than be allowed to play for over an hour. He has exchanged tokens for beer, tokens for cider, tokens for whiskey and coke, yet still the pain persists. The pain of post goth New York loucheness that gushes forth from the lips of Paul Banks as he barks:
Now I'm alone, you can't make amends/
Now I won't let you sit by/
But so call in the kids/
Now that's enough with this fucking incense
Just spare me the suspense
Yeah Paul, spare us all mate and fall on your fretboard.
Still, nice to get out and aways a pleasure to see the Elegant Analyst. Can I choose the next gig pretty please?
B
Must be that mega-watt smile.
B
Hahahahaahhahahahahahaha. Aaah.
B
My buttocks are aching and I have lingering patches of varnish in bad places, but here it is, the newly sanded and varnished brekkie room. This will be the last (pre-party) house posting , the bedroom ceiling has been done and the first layer of sparkle blue applied. Hopefully another coat will do it, then a bit of eggshell on the wood and Robert is your Father's brother. Then we have to clean. Bah. Parties, who needs em?
B
This tantalizing glimpse of the breakfast room is all I can offer in this, the final week of the great housecapade. You can see the thing for yourselves come the weekend, just don't tramp about in it with yer stilettos, swinging yer glasses of red wine about the place (specifically, about the sofa.) It seems rash after nearly 11 weeks of non-stop renovation, to be putting the whole thing in harm's way by exposing it to one's marauding com padres, but it's not every day a lady turns er, 21 +, so we have to celebrate in style. Be gentle please, it's her first time (her being the house, ahem).
B
Haahahahaahahaahahaahahaahahaahahahahahahaahahahahahahaha! Aaah.
B
This is the faceless, thousand yard stare of the post goth, post punk, post mortem Interpol gig goer. See how lifeless are his eyes, how the declamatory clang of Interpol's over used bangajanga guitar riff has worn away his slack jawed mouth. He has traveled further than every before to be here, this place, this N22, this Allie Pallie. He has endured pretentious, self involved noodling from a support band who frankly should have been stoned off the stage after one tune, rather than be allowed to play for over an hour. He has exchanged tokens for beer, tokens for cider, tokens for whiskey and coke, yet still the pain persists. The pain of post goth New York loucheness that gushes forth from the lips of Paul Banks as he barks:
