Pub Pressure: Punching a Plonker

A Man Man Concert Review


Rumours of the possibility of a bar brawl involving me are greatly exaggerated*. Sure, I was swishing saliva for the next encounter. And, yes, my fists were pressed for combat. But that’s about as far as it gets.

A month ago, when Sealed With a Kiss Productions started posting up bills for the Man Man concert, Graeme had just informed me that he was planning on once again dropping the Bloc Party ball of paying me back for promising to take me to their sold out show**. I thought, ‘these guys would make for good live entertainment,’ and pressed for a “trade” of sorts. Graeme, down with that, finally got around to picking up tickets on Saturday.

Between my initial expression of wanting to go to Man Man, and actually getting to Man Man, I dropped my BCID card outside of the Shopper’s Drug Mart on Granville. I don’t go to bars or many concerts or clubs, but for some reason, everyone else has dragged me out for birthdays or concerts since I lost my ID. I’m old, but not quite haggard looking enough to pass for over 18, apparently, and only government issued photo ID is the only way to prove my age. My first hurdle at Richard’s was to get in using only three pieces of government issued ID (no photos), and a student ID with a photo—the names are all exact. Dramatic pauses involving what my night will look like are likely to drive me crazy—worse still is that it’ll be close to two months before it is ratified. Short story short, I eventually got in.

After some shuffling of locations, and a mediocre and boring opening set, Grae, Scott and myself settled up in front of the stage (on my left hand side). One of the first signs of stupidity was the girl (literally), to my left applying the reddest of rouges on her mouth. In front of the stage. With her compact mirror. In between sets. I actually proclaimed to my concert companions ‘what the fuck?!” Scott said that girls smelled nice, and that ended the dispute over whether or not her behavior was rational or called for. This girl is going to need a name, so it is probably best if I give her one now. Tiffani (with an “i”) will cause me grief tonight. She’ll be drinking red wine from the bar, which you know is going to be plonk. Only the finest plonk is served at bars. It is only when I see her vat of black piss that I realized her need to cosmetically enhance herself ‘omg! right now!’: She has to put lipstick marks on her wine glass to distinguish it from everyone else’s red wine glasses at Richard’s. The vinegar scent is still fresh in my nostrils as that would be the scent of Man Man’s concert for me this night.

Aside from smelling bad, and kind of looking bad, she was also representative of “what’s wrong with the world today”. An exaggeration, perhaps, but I’ll let you be the judge.

Enter: Man Man.

Within the first song***, she had touched my head from behind three times to take pictures on her $150 digital camera from the Superstore. Twice were full on collisions, the third was merely the brushing on the hair that creates that tingle in your head that is not comfortable. She apologizes for one clocking and the brushing. The brushing will continue throughout the next song, until I finally decide “I can’t spend a whole concert twitching because someone has to have 300 pictures of the same set, angle, singers, etc.” and I pivot on my left heel and face her directly and ask her nicely to stop touching my head. She pretends to not see me, and I turn around knowing I had made my point very clear.

She will now use her time at Man Man to talk loudly about how mean I am. How much of a bitch I am for not wanting my head to be used as a tripod. I am a horrible, horrible person. It was so awesome when her yelling actually overcame the quieter parts of some songs. I wish I was more like her.

Four songs and countless glasses of grape vomit later, Tiffani’s still insisting that my head is fun to touch and my annoyance with her is unfounded. I keep turning my head slightly to express “stop touching my head”, until finally she reaches over me entirely to take what was inevitably her bestest shot ever! And so, tired of her antics, I decide, ‘fuck, I can block her lens and ruin any chance she has at getting any further shots; ruin my night, I’ll ruin yours.’ Sure enough, not half a song later she’s back on my head, and my hands go up to block the lens. Irritated and drunk, she screams, and shift her camera to my right. I block it again. She has a hissy fit, and I turn around to address her. Her eyelids are shifting closed now, as the effects of alcoholic’s vitamin C are weighing in heavily on her. Her babbles involved “I hope I make you feel good just by being here” and other promises her dirty old uncle would whisper to her. Her good friend, had the mind to take the camera away from her and aim it at me. At first, I was like “why are you taking a picture of me?” and then I realized after the fact that I was mad enough to have my fists clenched and likely raised. I began screaming about how I wasn’t infringing on her ability to enjoy her night, why should she feel she has the right to do it to me and other such logic based arguments that are so hard to resist when you’re drunk. Graeme turned me away before the flash went off, and her friend moved Tiffani closer to centre stage. By this point I was seething and began to build up spit for any repeat encounter she may have wanted.

The music was awesome and I got two very awesome buttons for my shoulder bag.

*if only to the disappointment of myself.
** that he still went to. I hold grudges about promises, people.
*** holy crap, they play fast.