And we don’t want you there, either

Posted on May 6, 2007


As Amnesiac indicated, we went to the S.O.S. festival on Friday. I only caught the final three acts or so and it was amazing that I managed to retain the smallest observation about them, so diligently and profusely did I chat instead of listen. I paid no attention to the first act I saw, Nagham Masry, despite translating some of the lyrics for Scorcher and her beautifully formed companion. Instead, I regaled him with the story of the time I was banned from the Marine House in the American Embassy for calling the U.S. an imperialist power. He assured me they wouldn’t remember and I could go back there now. However, apparently they don’t have any more pool parties, because it seems they are leery of mixing alcohol with water. This was an absolutely astonishing line of thinking to me – why, I cannot describe the lengths to which I will go to imbibe while being in a pool. At the Mohammed Ali Club, where my friends and I often go in the summer, the waiters actually toss our beers into the pool and we fish them out. But I guess the American Embassy wants to avoid social host liability (insert boring legal shit here).
Ahem. Nagham Masry are all right.
Next up, after a fearsomely long interval, were Vybe, who I had actually come to see. I first encountered them at a party called Funky Munky I went to a couple of months ago. It was one of the best parties I’d ever been to, and this was because the music rocked hard. They were more James Brown than James Brown. However, their own music was definitely rather mediocre, although the playing was tight. E, here for the weekend, informed me however that their saxophonist played a “cheesy” solo. She knows about these things, so I thought I’d let you know.
After another interval of epic length the headliner, Ilham el Madfai, came on. His songs were catchy, well-played and resonant, but despite this I came to the conclusion that I do not, in fact, like original live music much. I only like covers of songs I already like. I also don’t like to be trapped in places and forced to listen to performers actually talk about themselves. I know being on stage makes you feel exhilarated, buddy, but you’re not funny, and you’re not cute, so unless you’re going to sing don’t think we’re going to be charmed by your vivacity and dick-stroking (Ilham didn’t do this, it was the other chest-thumpers).
Immediately after said discovery I consented to go to a performance by a band called Blues on the Rocks, simply because the member of the band who gave Amn and I the flier was incredibly cute and appealing, albeit probably a foetus. Actually, I love blues music and would have gone anyway…but the cute doesn’t hurt either.
But I’ll never go to an S.O.S again. Being confined for hours with 600 or so teenage boys who fancy their chances and indulge in moronic playfulness is not a profitable use of my time. And they don’t sell alcohol there.