I seem to be attending a music gig. No, not right now, I'm not going to sit here typing a blog post while someone plays bass guitar in my ear and a rather lovely young man gyrates with no shirt on, am I? I'd be too busy sitting on my hands and drooling, for a start. No, this music gig is a future event, which I expect you all to note in your diaries, and then ask me about at intervals.
It all began with my youngest daughter. She's sixteen, by the way, not a precocious infant or anything. She has an...affection, shall we say, for the American band, Vampire Weekend. In case you haven't heard of them (and I can almost guarantee you will know some of their songs, the ridiculously catchy 'Cousins' for a start), here they are.
Anyway. When my daughter (who's called Riyadh but is hereafter known as Paj, because that is what she's known as at college, where she studies Musical Theatre, or, as her brother rather unkindly dubs it 'Singing and Bouncing') learned that the third album from these knitwear-loving lads was being released at the beginning of May, she was beyond excited, and many...many...many tracks from their already extant two albums were played in the house. Yes. Many. She follows them on Twitter. I think I may have seen every single Tweet about the new album (it's called Modern Vampires of the City, just for your information). And then, she found out that they were playing One Single Gig in London...
Reader, I bought tickets. I can only assume that my resistance was worn down by exposure to dodgy jumpers and 'Holiday' played on a loop. In May there I shall be, in London, trying not to look like some kind of stalker, while Paj jumps up and down in tiny clothes and sings along to all the songs. I do hope I'm not expected to blend in, because I don't have that many pullovers in my wardrobe, although I can do the 'shirt over T shirt' look like nobody's business.
Plus, you know, I do write about vampires, so it's work, sort of. Although, should they turn out not to be real vampires, I am going to be very cross and I may write a sternly worded letter of complaint, so there had better be throats torn out at least once during the course of the evening, ruined sweaters or not.
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