Slug SlogFanboy shame. Fanboy first, moving onto the shame after.
In recent years I’ve really liked this American ‘band’ Atmosphere (a rapper and producer, I think) and the rapper is called Slug. I’ve not always been into rap music and hip hop but in the days when I was looking for spoken word pieces to use I found lots of great rap stuff to use, badly (I realise now). I did this with a Slug one.
I’m a ‘close to 50’ year old English bloke, rap is about a million miles away from my life but I like it anyway, against the odds, because I’ve always liked music with interesting lyrics and much of rock music these days is a bit fly high sky, or cry sigh die. It’s rare to witness what these dudes do so imagine my surprise last month when I noticed that Slug was playing in England.
Now, in my time, I’ve hitchhiked, coached, trained, ferried, flown, walked, travelled in the boot of a car, scootered and driven to more gigs than I can remember. Often on my own. Often totally wasted. I looked the event up on Facebook (of course it had a page of its own) and found it to be at a Private Student Party at a college in Hitchin (on the way to London), and that the event was due to get started around midnight and finish at 4.30am. Why was Slug playing this event? I don’t know. Me and the grapevine aren’t in the same jungle. Going would have meant... finishing teaching at 8, reading my kid a story, getting in my car to go to his event 50 miles away, trying to blag my way in despite being at least 25 years older than everyone else there, hanging with the kids, watching Slug, then driving home and going straight to work for a 12 hour shift. I was still considering it a couple of days before, thinking it might be my last time for an adventure, thinking I could swing it with my Student Union card and my Lecturer credentials; thinking I might be able to score mephedrone on arrival, sup one pint of Guinness, manage to have a good time, drive back with ears ringing and a fierce stare, go to work, then keep dabbing the meph to keep me going till 10pm, hoping no-one will notice the inevitable psychosis and my Mos Def swagger. I see it as a sign of weakness that I didn’t go, of course, crushing self-disappointment. I feel I’ve lost my verve as well as my nerve.
One of my least good self-fantasies is that what I’m doing now isn’t as interesting as what I could be doing instead. So, I devalue a good night’s sleep and sensible day at work improving the lives of countless people for the fantasy of a mad road trip that would have left me half dead for days, grumpy and jet-lagged, with too-terrible-to-list professional repercussions if caught... etc. I can rationalise it until I’m blue in the face but still, I know, I’ll regret not going every time I hear one of his tunes, which will be often.