I went to a gig at The Jericho (with optional Tavern) last night: one of the bands I’d seen before (and contains a friend and co-worker); one of them I missed as I had to catch my bus home; the other one was a sort of emo Subcircus. Now, I’m a fan of early Subcircus, one of the tragic victims of Britpop Affluent Second Album syndrome, but I don’t see a reason to turn them emo, any more than I see a reason to turn Brian Molko gay.
What was odd about the gig—apart from a hefty lass announcing the bands as if it were the Ed Sullivan Show, making me desperate for Jim Morrison, which doesn’t happen that often since I turned 25—was the sheer amount of seating. Now, I’m not averse to taking the weight off my knees. Heaven knows I have to these days: years of rock-and-roll slides at such club nights as Panic and Acetone have done for my cartilage (and I’ll catch my death wearing that top). But the majority of people there were seated. How can you rock out, or whatever the kids are calling it these days, when your bum is thoroughly becushioned, and so are the bums of everyone else around you?
There’s been a sinister progression in the politics of sitting down this past few years. First James sung about it in the context of an act of civil disobedience; then Generation X performed it as an act of situationist hilarity, cluttering up indie dance floors around the country; now Generation 2.x are to be found taking it as a literal command. After radicalism, postmodernism; after postmodernism, you obey.