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now you've seen more than you wanted to know, you use staples to keep your eyes closed

I am not washed-up
I should believe I am, but I do not
I still read all their ungraded hatemail
Fourteen long years of school
And all I learned was to fail

Well I am not proud
To rot with that crowd
'Cause I am stronger

I was born in a force-ten gale
It takes more than hot air to blow the wind out of my sails
And my eyesight's poor
But I am the future:
Hear me roar, yeah!

Get ready to talk hard
Know this:
Your head is not empty
So talk hard
Sha-la-la-la
You can do anything you feel

"Toilet-trained and dumb"
When we first talk, we learn by rote,
We are scum
We come from nothing?
That's what we deserve"
Classrooms crowded with robots
We are Goebbels' children

But we're not down yet
Don't let them forget
That we are stronger

You are born
'Til the day you die, you are alive
So while you've got the time
At least try to justify yourself
The buck stops with you and no-one else, yeah

Get ready to talk hard
Know this:
Your head is not empty
So talk hard
Sha-la-la-la
You can do anything you feel

Get ready to talk hard
Know this:
Your head is not empty
So talk hard
Sha-la-la-la
You can do anything you feel
Anything you feel, yeah
Anything you feel

Talk hard, talk hard, talk talk, talk, talk hard.

So, David and I travelled up to Camden on the Wednesday evening to finally get to watch Miss Black America. I'd been building this thing up for, like, forever. Well, at least I'd been listening to the one-and-a-half dozen or so songs I owned on repeat for the last week, frantically learning the lyrics and noding in desperation. It seemed Seymour was speaking all the words my heart had been aching to find all these years.

The gig itself was fantastic. It was at the Camden Underworld which is a beautiful venue, very hellish (in a good way) and with a lovely intimate stage and well positioned bar. David and I arrived early, pissed about in WHSmith's magazine racks then tubed over and queued outside in the cold trying not to look like gimps as we gulped down warm beers.

After spending ages depositing our belongings along with Manics Girl and two other cute chicks, we made our way into the band arena and carefully picked our way through Kinesis fans to get as close to the barrier as possible. After some time, godly Steve Quigly (for that is his name) appeared and we rapturously chanted football-style "Seymour! Seymour!" The new line-up consisted of some men with stupidly long Black Rebel Motorcycle Club-esque fringes and, of course, god himself. They burst into the tunes, and it was all most enjoyable. Being the first support band, they were only allowed a few songs, but I screamed all the lyrics along to the favourites and jumped violently to the new songs they played. Seymour was being a lordish showman, reaching forward to touch our hands (yes, only ours), guitar soloing on his back with legs wildly flailing in the air and diving into the crowd at the end of the set. While it was not quite the soul-affirming moment I had hoped for, Miss Black America are still able to make very good music. Yes indeedy.

David and I retired to the toilets to rejuvenate and resupply our aching bodies with precious dihydrogen oxide. After that, we hung around the merchandise desks reading the band literature, and then went back to watch Reuben who were quite good but also gee. I kept thinking I saw Old Hannah in the crowd, but completely failed to notice Pauline; another one of Russell's friends who (like Harriet) has inexplicably decided to hate me, and who had said she would be there.

We wormed our way toward the stage again for Kinesis, who were surprisingly superb. David failed to bone some stupidly trendy girls who were probably only there to flaunt themselves, and we bopped around Manics Girl who was clearly "only there for the music". She had turned up alone, seemed very timid whilst watching the musicians the whole time and quietly sang along to every song that was played over the PA between acts. She wasn't exactly beautiful, but quite cute and took a delicate step back every time a mosher came close to endangering her with body contact. She'd probably have gotten it.

Anyway I enjoyed the Kinesis set a lot and even ventured into a little circle that was going on with a bunch of yobbish teenage boys. In retrospect, I think the crowd was surprisingly bad that night, even though it very young which is always good to see. Clearly the best man there was this old beer bellied Peel-type dude who stood at the back with his lager slowing nodding his balding head to the beat. At the end, Seymour ventured into the crowd and David and I led a stampede over to him as he crowdsurfed. I kissed him on his stubbly neck, meaning I am now one of a very elite group of people who can say they've kissed both Alec Empire and Seymour Glass.

At the end, we waited with some groupies for ages trying to catch a glimpse of Seymour but to no avail. Eventually we resigned ourselves to defeat and headed back to Victoria and then home while I wrestled with the thought of a nice hot slice of pizza. My willpower enabled me to save my money.

One thought though after such a great gig: They always seem like the perfect time and place to bone people who are all dressed up, twd, like the same music as you and stuff, but why do girls at concerts always seem so damn reluctant?

    mood: worn out
    choon: Tinnitus