How Bret spends an evening

Last night I worked behind the bar at The Tears gig at the union. As Bernard Butler and Bret Anderson, ex-members of Suede, make up the interesting part of the line up (the rest, I assume, are session dudes on a weekly wage) I had been looking forward to it. Now, I’m no Suede fan. But they were always one of those things that I was aware of during my pubescent period (other things aware of include girls, drink and the feeling of total existential despair at the futility and awkwardness of life). My brother had one of their albums. I liked it. I also liked Oasis and Ocean Colour Scene at this point though. But if I were to stumble across a band that had Liam and Noel in it, and they were playing at my place of work – chances are I’d be listening.

I don’t know why, but in the deepening holes in my brain, something told me that I’d probably read somewhere that early reports of the tour hadn’t been promising.

The support band totally washed over me, as ever.

What I noticed about the half capacity crowd was that everyone seemed depressed. ‘Ahh, but it’s depressing indie shit’, you may say. Yeah, fair enough. But there was something dreadfully downbeat about the whole crowd. No one could smile. No conversation at the bar seemed full of enthusiasm. It was a Sunday night and no one seemed in any hurry to get drunk as a last alley attempt to enjoy the weekend.

I would try to start conversations with them asking them what they’d heard of their new stuff and (fairly pointlessly) if they’d been old Suede fans. Well, they were old alright. Have Suede been going that long? These guys were at an age that never fails to disappoint me. Early thirties. Did beauty ever have to be such a fleeting thing? All these guys were bald, fat and depressingly turned out. On their withered arms were the dumpy women who make you ache for youth…

One of these specimens was rather enthusiastic about seeing me. He seemed quite relieved by the burbling mass of recycled paper that sunbathes on my scalp. He smiled and when I gave him his change, he was quite vehement about putting some bits in my hand. It was like I was the son that made him wish he wasn’t with a woman just too old to pull off having one. Maybe he once had hair like mine and appreciated the fact that by my very appearance, he was somehow continuing, in his own small way, a piece of his genetic makeup. And to reward me? One pound and thirty five pence. Life is precious.

And then, to a muted applause, Sued…The Tears took to the stage. Within minutes it became clear that this cynical exercise of a comeback tour was just that. Ten songs written, a stout refusal to acknowledge their past and a standard design T shirt in all sizes (but mostly in the size ‘fat man’).

Their songs were dreary and badly mixed. I couldn’t really hear the bollocks that Bernard was doing on his guitar, but by Christ, I could hear Bret’s cahonking screech. His awful rock posing seemed disturbing after a while as it became clear that the audience were hating every minute. People had paid £18 quid for this performance, out of spite. From the end of song one, it became quite clear that only about forty percent of the audience were even clapping!

As time went on, the show morphed into a battle. Bret dedicated a song to the people in the room with their arms crossed and made a short speech about how The Tears were all about the music and shit, yeah. Yeah!

No. No fucking way. These are Geordies. They fucking hate you and they’ve only come because you made the ticket so expensive. They wanted an extra reason to hate you. They could spend The Departure bitching about how expensive it was considering it was only an hour’s set and then when Suede or whatever come on they can stand still, hold their torsos with their fat arms and GLARE.

And not clap.

I assume people shouted ‘Beautiful Ones’ and ‘Animal Nitrate’. I didn’t hear it, I was at the back of the room getting flirted at by a woman who frankly should have known better. She put her lipstick on as I served her and when I gave her my change, she was extra grateful and kissed the space just in front of where her lips were. Thankfully, I hadn’t joined her in the venture and my lips were safely about a metre and a half away, smirking.

Half way through the gig, I started asking the odd customer who had the energy left to bother coming to the bar if they liked it. One guy very quickly said that he did. Yes. He liked it. Yes, it’s good. Uhuh. Yep. I like it.

The fear in his eyes. He’d just witnessed the fall of his idols. He’d just seen them sell out on a scale no longer thought possible unless you are Jimmy Carr. I shrugged when he looked back at me wanting some kind of agreement.

He kept reassuring himself that he was enjoying it. He was protesting on a Shakespearian scale. Poor guy.

And from here on, the evening continued on this low plateau of disillusionment and broken dreams. But hey, I was on double time.