Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeroes @ The Old Vic Tunnels

photo taken by a guy called David Emery who I found on flickr http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidemery/

When I first decided to move to London I was fifteen. The decision, responsible for my near financial ruin, was made based entirely on  a ridiculous  vision I had of myself living a life consisting completely of going to fantastic gigs in dank basements and running around a kind of Dickensian dream world populated by freaks and people with interesting fringes (no-one in my hometown had an interesting fringe - this was the bane of my life when I was fifteen).

I then actually moved to London and now spend a great deal of my time becoming incensed by almost everything about it. I am the sort of person who will trample the tourists on Westminster Bridge as they're trying to take photos of a mere seat of democracy. I never go to gigs because London has made me  hate people, and gigs are full of people. Occasionally, usually when I am trying to fashion a fringe out of my very mediocre hair, my fifteen year old self will whisper very condescending things in my ears whilst noticing sadly that the piercings in their lobes have healed up.

On Sunday, my fifteen year old self briefly shut up and was satisfied. A very cool friend of mine got us guestlist places for the last night of the Magnetic Zeroes' tenure at the Old Vic tunnels. Having seen a solo Alexander Ebert gig a few weeks previously, I already knew the evening was going to be pretty damn good. It turned out to be probably one of the best gigs I've been to.

The venue. The venue. My God, the venue. Populated by drunken cowboys, stripping burlesque performers, screaming, rag-clad women, Satanic puppeteers, oh-so-dreamy painters, techno-fairies, spacemen and lots of interesting fringes. All running around in old railway tunnels between a giant sun and a giant moon, tucked away underneath Waterloo station, entered from a street reeking gloriously of spray paint and hoody rebellion. Badly lit and cobbled.

The crowd is one of the nicest I've been in. No-one stands on my feet or pushes in front of me. No-one is even too tall. We're about half way through the crowd: the furthest back that I've ever seen people dancing. Everyone is bopping. I'm a very easily led gig-goer and I pretend to know all the words and when to clap along, even though I don't. Alex Ebert, alter-ego Edward Sharpe, strips down to a battered wife-beater to appreciatative wolf-whistles and dances around choppily. Occasionally he leaps up to swing on one of the large disco balls hanging above him and dapples the ceiling with spinning silver lights. They veer from one piece of upbeat psychadelia to the next, 'Home' being my favourite, with one of the female members of the band lending softly powerful vocals to a duet. They're enjoying every minute, and seem genuinely tearful when they tell the crowd that this is their last night. They decide to hand the microphone around the crowd to speak to the people who've made this so special.

The first: 'Once I was in a really bad bike accident and nearly died. And for about a year afterwards, I just loved everything about life. And you guys make me feel just like that.' Ebert grins a proudly hippy grin and does a jig. 'That's so cool, man, that's so cool!'
The next rather ruins things. A guy with beer in his voice: 'Cheers to Brian for the free tickets!' The band raise eyebrows coolly. 'You know, give me your address, right,' says Ebert, 'because I'm going to come stay at your house, free.' A crash of the drums starts the song up again.

They end things by inviting everyone for milk and cookies outside. I don't believe this is true. But as we leave, we're greeted by a mountain of Marylands and gallons of milk. Grabbing a cup and cookie each, we head out into the graffiti-lined tunnel, and see Ebert and friends, acoustic guitars in hand, heading out into the crowds. And then this happens. You can see me in the video.