A report of a gig

We went down into the basement. The band was playing downstairs. The support band was on first. They were some local band. We went into the bare room and hung shyly back. He said into the microphone, "You... can come closer". The slight awkwardness.
I thought it was unbelievably loud. The guy in the band on stage was long and hippyish. They did a cover of "She Don't Use Jelly". I went to the toilet, a tiny closet of a room under the stairs.

I wasn't wearing my glasses. The American band was on stage now. The room was full of bodies. People sitting down near the stage. The clear smell of cannabis from their ranks. The darkness.

The band came on and did their set. It sounded like their records. The singer: An American in leather.

The lights came up and there was some kerfuffle. I didn't have my glasses. It transpired that someone had stolen an effects pedal from the stage. Someone had taken advantage of the darkness.

There was much hubbub and waiting. The venue manager got up on the stage, very irate. A blur of a balding, sweaty man. No-one was allowed out until the wah-wah pedal was returned. Someone in the audience shouted at him. He shouted back, "No you shut up ya radge!". The band waited, nonplussed and brooding.

The pedal was sheepishly returned. We filtered out into the night. I had gone almost deaf, my hearing was drastically muffled, as always happened for a day or two after these punk gigs. They were always too loud.