Dear...

Dear guy in a red shirt... Hang on, there were lots of guys in red shirts. Ok. Dear guy in a red shirt witha stupid straw hat who thought it was hilarious to sneak a joint into the gig: it's not very sneaky to openly smoke the thing and pose for a photo (ostentatiously exhaling a plume of smoke) two metres from a bouncer. You're a moron.

Dear women's basketball players. I don't like it when you push in front of me, dragging a bunch of tipsy friends who slosh beer everywhere. Pogoing is not dancing. Neither is shoving your butt and then your shoulders alternately into my body in some kind of drinking bird motion. From now on I am attending gigs in full punk goth regalia, just so I can wear spiky wristbands. Bodyslam me now, I dare you.

The guys were good. The regular drummer (Will Hull-Brown) and his wife had a baby yesterday, so
we got his tech, who was pretty awesome. The chemistry that used to really fuel their gigs is gone though. They used to have guests or play around more onstage and that camaraderie just ain't there no more. They still sound good, but the nutso eight minute improvs and detours are gone. Felix does the talking and Harry does his job. (And if you care, Felix dresses to the right. The jeans were a little wrong.)

Setlist:
So many nights
Till the ocean
Fishies
How to explain
Karna
Days like these
Crowd
Dumb things (Paul Kelly song)
Pocket
No longer there
Darkness
Sly
Wandering
Two shoes

Encore:
Wine song
Chariot

I have this thing about nabbing setlists.
And then, because I particularly dislike queuing to get out of somewhere, we danced to the retro filler music and let the crowd melt away. Good times.