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Sea creatures stared at us and we stared back at them
Some time ago I went round the Supreme Court. And I intended, I really did, to write about the other stuff I did that weekend, but life got in the way.
However, since LJ gets used as my remembering-things brain a lot of the time, for posterity...
The Brixton Windmill promised that if you arrived for the Jeffrey Lewis gig before 11, you could have a bacon sandwich. That's 11am, if you were confused.
So we did, and they gave us two little green raffle tickets which we were assured the nice man behind the bar would turn into bacon butties. I'm sure the nice man behind the bar was nice, but what he wasn't was efficient. More to the point, whoever was out the back cooking the bacon sandwiches wasn't very efficient either. So the barman milled about and constantly asked people what they wanted, and people patiently said "still waiting for a bacon sarnie", and the nice man moved on and asked the next people, who said the same thing... Then a second bar man came along and did the same thing, only with more dithering.
Fortunately, Jeffrey Lewis seems to have an above-averagely friendly following, so everyone chatted happily among themselves.
At intervals, a bacon sandwich would appear (as if by magic) and be handed to someone more or less at random. We actually got given a plate of two sarnies very early on, but out of guilt passed it to the bloke next to us who'd been waiting far longer. He duly passed it to the people on his right, and the plate went right round the bar until the people who'd been waiting longest accepted it, and passed their tickets back round to us.
Anyway. We got a butty each in the end, and went to watch Abi Palmer do her story-show What's Up Pussycat? Early on, she asked for volunteers and (getting none) picked people. Including me. Which I didn't mind, because she was clearly a friendly sort who wasn't going to spend her time ripping the piss out of volunteers.
It did get a bit weird, though.
Her show was about half an hour, and it was funny and inventive and entertaining. I'm not sure I'll be dashing out to all her shows all of a sudden, but she was an excellent start to an early-morning gig.
Jeffrey Lewis ambled gently on stage, and pootled about tuning up a guitar, and read a poem, and waffled a bit, and launched into a rambling story-song. And I thought: hurrah!
I haven't seen Mr Lewis in ages, and I'd sort of lost the impetus. The last few times I've seen him, he's been with his brother Jack and a band, doing wild and raucous rocky numbers. Which is fine; I like that. But what he really excels at is the vague, whimsical, wistful songs with beautiful guitar accompaniment (from his distinctly ugly and beat-up guitar) and acutely painful rhymes. I clearly haven't seen him in too long, because I managed to know only one song in the entire set.
He also had a few "low-budget videos" to show: sketch-books filled with full-page illustrations which he turns to illustrate a song or a poem. We saw "videos" for the French Revolution (actual history!) and a complicated tale involving the rental of a porn film and the subsequent orgy involving (among others) a mermaid and a parrot.
He did also solve the mystery of the ineptitude with the bacon:
J-Lew: I guess they've done breakfast gigs at the Windmill before.
<Disembodied Voice From The Bar>: This is the second.
J-Lew: OK, they've done one before.
<DVFTB>: The other one was you as well, about five years ago.
And then it was one o'clock, and he was off to catch a train to Manchester, and we emerged blinking into the light to go and look at the actual windmill
However, since LJ gets used as my remembering-things brain a lot of the time, for posterity...
The Brixton Windmill promised that if you arrived for the Jeffrey Lewis gig before 11, you could have a bacon sandwich. That's 11am, if you were confused.
So we did, and they gave us two little green raffle tickets which we were assured the nice man behind the bar would turn into bacon butties. I'm sure the nice man behind the bar was nice, but what he wasn't was efficient. More to the point, whoever was out the back cooking the bacon sandwiches wasn't very efficient either. So the barman milled about and constantly asked people what they wanted, and people patiently said "still waiting for a bacon sarnie", and the nice man moved on and asked the next people, who said the same thing... Then a second bar man came along and did the same thing, only with more dithering.
Fortunately, Jeffrey Lewis seems to have an above-averagely friendly following, so everyone chatted happily among themselves.
At intervals, a bacon sandwich would appear (as if by magic) and be handed to someone more or less at random. We actually got given a plate of two sarnies very early on, but out of guilt passed it to the bloke next to us who'd been waiting far longer. He duly passed it to the people on his right, and the plate went right round the bar until the people who'd been waiting longest accepted it, and passed their tickets back round to us.
Anyway. We got a butty each in the end, and went to watch Abi Palmer do her story-show What's Up Pussycat? Early on, she asked for volunteers and (getting none) picked people. Including me. Which I didn't mind, because she was clearly a friendly sort who wasn't going to spend her time ripping the piss out of volunteers.
It did get a bit weird, though.
Her show was about half an hour, and it was funny and inventive and entertaining. I'm not sure I'll be dashing out to all her shows all of a sudden, but she was an excellent start to an early-morning gig.
Jeffrey Lewis ambled gently on stage, and pootled about tuning up a guitar, and read a poem, and waffled a bit, and launched into a rambling story-song. And I thought: hurrah!
I haven't seen Mr Lewis in ages, and I'd sort of lost the impetus. The last few times I've seen him, he's been with his brother Jack and a band, doing wild and raucous rocky numbers. Which is fine; I like that. But what he really excels at is the vague, whimsical, wistful songs with beautiful guitar accompaniment (from his distinctly ugly and beat-up guitar) and acutely painful rhymes. I clearly haven't seen him in too long, because I managed to know only one song in the entire set.
He also had a few "low-budget videos" to show: sketch-books filled with full-page illustrations which he turns to illustrate a song or a poem. We saw "videos" for the French Revolution (actual history!) and a complicated tale involving the rental of a porn film and the subsequent orgy involving (among others) a mermaid and a parrot.
He did also solve the mystery of the ineptitude with the bacon:
J-Lew: I guess they've done breakfast gigs at the Windmill before.
<Disembodied Voice From The Bar>: This is the second.
J-Lew: OK, they've done one before.
<DVFTB>: The other one was you as well, about five years ago.
And then it was one o'clock, and he was off to catch a train to Manchester, and we emerged blinking into the light to go and look at the actual windmill