When I was around 12 years old, I used to cycle to and from school every day. Sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. Occasionally I’d get a puncture and have to walk, other times I’d take a long detour to hang out with my friends.

On one occasion however, I rushed home. I shot through the school gates, wind in my overgrown hair, the misery of the preceding day at my tail. I saw my friend behind me, struggling to keep up. Looking back and laughing, I hurled some kind of insult, amounting to “try to keep up, you slow wanker!”

I immediately hit a curb and flew over the handlebars. I rolled for a bit, banged my head, and came to a stop in front of everyone who existed in my world at that time. I got up, and doing my best to stifle the encroaching tears, I walked home. I had scraped my arm and my brow was bleeding. I looked like the hero of every action movie right at the climax. Has anyone else noticed that? In every single action movie the protagonist always ends up with a streak of blood across their brow, yet there’s never a shot showing how they received this wound. It’s almost as if it's culturally accepted that cool guys just attract head injuries.

“Man I must look fucking cool right now.” I thought.

 

“Man I must look fucking cool right now.” I thought as the final section of our final song kicked into gear. We were playing a show at The Loft in our hometown of Grimsby, and the second show in our career as Oceanvein.

The Reason is a damn great song, with one hell of an outro. I can always feel the energy of the room shift during that section, as if the walls were expanding. Our set was sandwiched between local band Roulette, and a Welsh troupe called Sleazy Money. 

 

We got to the venue at around 5 and inspected the equipment. All looked well, except the drum kit. It was set up for a left handed player, so I quickly made the necessary adjustments. Everyone would be so grateful that I’d taken the time, endorphins rushed through my arms at the thought of such a good deed. The event organiser shook my hand at the sheer selflessness of it all. She then looked at Troy.

“I remember you! You were harassing people here trying to get gigs a few weeks back!”

Troy looked bemused, “it was him,” he said pointing at me.

“No it was definitely you, I don’t remember him.” 

I was a bit upset by this, I had been coming to The Matrix (the bar in which The Loft was situated) since I was about 16. Surely I hadn’t been so well behaved that nobody remembered me?

Then, the organiser’s daughter arrived with pizza, which she graciously shared with us. We all sat in the green room and bantered for a bit.

“I can’t tell the colour of your outfit, is it brown or green?” the organiser said (I forgot her name OK?)

“Eh, it’s black.” I said, wearing all black.

“I meant him.” She said, pointing at Lucas, who was wearing a brownish green outfit.

 

Sleazy Money arrived soon after, and we greeted each other one by one, queuing to shake hands like the beginning of a football match.

“It’s like the beginning of a football match!” said Dave, to raucous applause.

The drummer of Sleazy Money went over to the stage to inspect the kit. He took a look at it, and then walked up to me.

“Do you mind if I switch this over? I’m left handed.”

 

Roulette played, we played, Sleazy Money played. It was a pretty sweet gig if you were there. If you weren’t, you’ll be glad to know The Loft liked us so much that they’re having us back at some point this summer. The actual set went off without a hitch. We sounded great, and played with an energy that was unexpected, considering all of us had been sick and dying in the preceding weeks.

After the show, Dave and Troy began to drink heavily with the Sleazy Money lads. I had to take my equipment back home, so I lassoed Troy and drove back. Then we called a taxi. The driver seemed interested in small talk, so we told him we’d just played a gig. The moment he heard that, he put the tunes on. It’s about a 25 minute drive from Troy’s house back to The Loft, This taxi driver made it in about 6 minutes. Left us plenty of time to party, then.

Sleazy Money bowed out at around midnight. Manager Mark dragged a near-catatonic Dave, who had been challenging passers-by to games of pool, back home an hour later.

This left me and Troy, and some folks we’d picked up along the way. Troy disappeared into a taxi at around 2am, and I stayed out.

I decided to go home when Mark sent a picture of his breakfast to the group-chat.

A night to remember? Unfortunately, yes.