Stuart Murdoch Saves Damsel in Distress! Hey kids, he was there in an instant, a flash! Camera Obscura were mid-set at Edinburgh's *The Venue* this evening, sweet tunes all of them: good enough to sing to yer grannie as, indeed, Ms. Tracyanne (?) announced she was... anyway, it was all harmony and magnificent bass playing until one particularly boorish lass, who'd been heckling all the other bands with unchoice and bellicose drivel reached a point in her battle plan (her head went 'kerlunk', possibly) and decided now was the occasion to experiment with projectiles. I was standing pretty much next to the stage but only noticed the aftermath of what we must assume was a direct hit as the music stopped, chanteuse stormed off stage (a dignified retreat, actually) and the now sodden lyrics to a new number lay scattered by her mike stand and... ENTER Mr.Murdoch, from the rear of the auditorium, all efficient gusto as he demanded the immediate expulsion of the boor from the premises. 'We were just going anyway' she blared petulantly (sorry,only one 'l' this time Ms.Llew: you'd have been dismayed by this lassie's lack of wit or comportment) as she was let to leave amongst much jeering and muttering of 'poor show' or words to that effect. Thankfully, and to general applause, the Camera Obscura returned onstage to delight us with a rendition of 'I want to go home'. Apt under the circumstances, for them, but we didn't, because their music was fine. Fine! Yes it was. The next sighting of the Belle and Sebastian man (content, see, although I'm beginning to struggle, albeit in a twee key) is outside the venue; The Venue as he is returning from a white van parked around the corner there to fulfil it's role as receptacle; vessel; indeed, *chora* for musical gear. I catch his eyes and he looks completely human, but I'm no stalker, really, so I avert my eyes towards a handy car bonnet: a neat vehicle in dark blue, as far as memory and sodium streetlighting permits me to describe it, which happens to be owned by a member of... Camera Obscura. Anyway, I'm admiring this automobile in the abstract as Stuart stops behind me to while away some moments in semi-English with a couple of Japanese tourists who recognise him. Pop star, sound man, bouncer, general cultural ambassador... Meanwhile, for this bonnet also has multiple talents, Michael and I have taken to displaying Camera Obscura merchandise on it: two petite and desperately un-ironed T-shirts, a box of CD singles and a few copies of their latest album for a tenner a throw (but don't throw them!). Michael is capitalising on his experience as a record shop employee to offload what becomes a grand total of three items. I, on the other hand, put my experience as an offloader of capital to use in purchasing one of said three items: it's a shiny new copy of 'Your Sound'. It doesn't have *your* sound on it Carey (occasional sinisterine and now 'synthesiser woman' of Camera Obscura): we'll have to wait for the next single for that. Sinister birthdays. Sunday's the day, is it? I remember my first red knicker day a couple of years ago .I'd just arrived back from a short trip to Greece. After a picnic in Greenwich park, I'd eventually made it back to my hotel room: an absurdly opulent affair; all swagged velvet, brocade and watered silk, rented cheap off the internet. It was late at night. Very late, and I was all tired and emotional and playing with fire of various sorts, the most obvious manifestation of which was the flaming end of a rolled up copy of that day's *Times*, as I attempted to conjure up a further greeny-blue flame from a by now dribbling teaspoonful of absinthe-soaked sugar. To be honest, it was all getting rather out of control in the pyrotechnics, but I was moping over the fact that no-one had actually got to *see* my red underwear (Sloggi, in case you were wondering). The briefs were vintage then, and have since been consigned to the dustbin. I can only attend navy knicker days now. Tonight I haven't been indulging in anything so potent as absinthe. In fact, contrary to what folks might think, my posts of late have been written in a state addled by no more than a bewilderment as to why I'm writing words at all rather than, say, watching television or shopping for... red knickers. Cigarillos are my poison of late. I bought two little card boxes of them from a tobacconist's on the Lawn Market before the gig this evening: Zino 'Sumatras' and -pricey these- 'Hoyo de Monterreys'. The shopkeeper kindly provided me with a mini and mobile humidor in the form of a self-sealing plastic bag, especially seeings as the latter brand tend to dry up rather quickly. As usual, it's the posh stuff (real Cuban tobacco) that has the shortest shelf-life. 'Burning twice as bright but half as long' to paraphrase Rutger Hauer in Blade Runner, although if you pursue that analogy with any enthusiasm you'll find it perplexing in that I was alluding to the longevity of the cigarillo in the unlit state. Anyway (you'll forgive my using the word 'anyway' rather a lot, along with colons, semi-colons (mostly inappropriately and, indeed, interchangeably) parentheses, qualifications, meanderings... ellipses and -the real killers, these- other words and figures of which I am, but you will not be, unaware). Anyways (bleh!) when not imbibing alcohol these sumatras and monterreys kick quite a punch. Ahem. One becomes distinctly high. During this evening's music I felt light as air and, even though my feet were aching with all the standing up, the rest of me was flying. A pleasant, quite delicately narcotic, sensation. That is until afterwards, when with no music or company to buoy me up I crashed back down into a small crater of the soul. It took me a whole train journey to get back on track (groan). Maybe I was tired, too: still subconsciously engineering the state of being 'tired and emotional'. Still, it didn't last long: it must have been a quality bit of misery. So, I'll take my cue from Stevie Trousers' brilliant post to end this one with some brief thoughts. Actually, I've already done that bit (groan, apologies etc.). So, I'll take my cue from Stevie Trousers' brilliant post to end this one with some thoughts about what sinister has meant to me over these past few years. It's become a big part of my life. I've bought all the Belle and Sebastian albums. I rarely listen to them (only kidding, almost). It keeps me up at night (it's 03:31: whoever suggested posting takes fifteen minutes is either very clever to write with such speed and cogency or is spouting nonsense. Perhaps they avoid words like 'cogency', which has me, at least, reaching for the dictionary to double-check, but I like to maintain an expanding vocabulary). Sinister posts are often what I wake up to, in the absence of a woman to keep me entertained with sexy chit chat before breakfast. I spend longer than is healthy on #sinister, but it's been a great source of companionship to me. I love you lot. And for those of you in the more far flung reaches of sinisterland; those of you who do not regularly get the chance, for whatever reason, to attend 'picnics' and who may be forgiven for thinking some of us are really cliquey and have all the fun making private allusions to one another: I've found that the real revelations; the most affecting stories; perhaps even the truest of friendships, are those that have been cultivated and remain by means of the content sent to this here mailing list. Honey has done a marvellous thing by setting up and maintaining a mailing list with a unique atmosphere and whilst the rest of us make sinister what it is on a daily basis, it was Honey's genius to mould it so. I realise I don't need to tell you this, but it's my own pre-amble to saying THANK YOU HONEY! There. I can bugger off to annoy the Americans on #sinister now. Gordon x +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo@missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+