SICK SET, MAN

In the continual effort to shed myself of British tendencies, a priority must be made to stop being so polite. That is, to stop being full of shit. 

It's not even restricted to buddy bands, when they come round expectantly after playing, and there's the unspoken pressure to say something acknowledging their performance, hanging in the air. The backstage atmosphere clinging, pregnant with positive affirmations, just waiting. 

And before I can contain myself, I find my mouth giving birth to the words, Sick set, man.

No, it's not just with friend's bands, it's happening with apparently anyone we find ourselves crossing paths with. On the first nite of the Heriot tour in 2023, Bournemouth or somewhere south, I was standing at our merch table as they finished their set. Standing, swaying, whatever. We'd had some drinks. (In fact, we'd gotten so pre-set plastered that when we took to the one foot stage and the sound tech BLASTED us with smoke/dry ice and didn't turn it off until the stage visibility was so low you could hardly see the neck of your guitar, we couldn't start our set because we were laughing so hard. I could barely see Simon and he was 3 feet away from me in the fog).

Anyway, I'd kept up the drinking post-performance and was gripping onto our merch table for dear life as Heriot wrapped their set. To get backstage they had to trundle past the tables. Since I hadn't been paying attention (of course), I was caught off guard as they came towards us. As each person filed by I found myself saying 'Sick set, man', 'Sick set, man', 'Sick set, man', like a faulty automaton. 

As the last of the personnel trooped by, Chris said to me 'That was the photographer'.

Oh. 'Well, I thought he did a very good job.'

Fuck my life.

I mean, we've played with some dogshite bands and I still get caught off guard, dudes soliciting props causing my politeness to kick in. 'Sick set, man'. The small deaths I undergo each time don't ever steel me for the next inevitable incident.

And I should have learnt by the Grove Street summer tour in 2024.

We were pretty good that run, only 1 or 2 shows a little ropey here and there. And it was mostly their crowd we were playing to each nite. So I think they (rightfully) felt like top dogs. On the final date, London, the scales were evened out a bit as we had some hometown support show up to catch us. And we got lucky, we had a fucking killer set and the crowd were hungry as hell, responding like lunatics. We got off stage feeling good. So good, that I stayed outside the venue in the balmy summer nite air, basking in the compliments and the Sick set, man's, which I think were genuine but completely understand if not.

Feeling so good that when I finally went back in to get my gear from side of stage and encountered Andy, guitarist of Grove Street, sitting with his arms crossed and fuming, I misread all the signs and barrelled straight into a perfect storm.

'Sick set, man!' I grinned at him.

'No, it fucking WASN'T' he seethed, and turned away.

'Hmm, guess he's got high standards,' I reflected as I picked up my bass case and amp head and hopped off the stage. Exiting the room, I bumped into Sandy. 'Sick set, man' I regurgitated (I hadn't even had any talking powder, there was just no excuse for this). 

Sandy looked at me, scrutinising. 'Was it really?'

'Uh, yeeah..? Why? Did you guys not enjoy it..?'

Sandy wore an expression like the host of a party where someone just choked to death on a Quorn cocktail sausage and simultaneously shit their pants on an expensive piece of furniture. 'Do you really think it was good?'

'Why not? It seemed fine to me...'

'Even with everything that went wrong?'

At this point I began to panic inside. I had been rumbled.

Grinning like an idiot,  'Well, you know, shit happens and you just gotta roll with it. You guys seemed to make out alright.' I am pleading with my mouth to conjure a combination of words that both maintains the illusion that I know whatever it is we're talking about, and assuages Sandy's concerns.

But he is serious as a grave. 'Because, you know, Andy's amp failed pretty early into the set, and the sound was shit, and...'

He lists so many grievances and mishaps that even if I had been present, I wouldn't have been aware of them all.

'Oh, that shit? Oh, don't even worry about that stuff, man! You guys were fine!'

I nod and grin like I should be medicated, pick up my bass and amp, and march out of there not looking back. Christ, I think. I gotta put a stop to this shit.