Gig Limbo = Gimbo

It feels a little disconnected in the bowels of Clapham. I am in my car, stationary, expectant, waiting. I'm scanning through the frequencies to try and find a station that doesn't play bangra. No offense intended, it's just not my cup of tea. I settle for a station playing drab electro instead and stare at the traffic jam at the end of the street. The smell of kebab wafts through my dashboard.

This is gig limbo: the vacuous period of nothing before going onstage. And oh my does it grind, passing by with the speed of a drugged-up slug. So far we've turned up, on time of course, parked appropriately, shook many hands with many bands, and stood around. Now the wait begins, and no matter what venue, soundcheck always moves at glacial pace. Piece by glimmering piece the drumkit slowly seeps into the room, followed by flight cases and assorted instruments and their owners. This is also the weighing-up period, when people sneak glimpses of equipment and guage eachother, trying to decide if the other bands are twats or if they're socially acceptable, though no one will admit it. We're all ever so polite about it. Then, while the soundman shuffles around the desk and blasts the PA with his snatches of his eclectic playlist, the bands explore the venue and disperse into the surrounding alleyways and highstreets.

Needless to say, fuss suitably dispensed with and customary wandering completed, I have ended up in my car, listening to my audibly beige electronica. Soon I will be summoned for the use of my bass amp. The smell of kebab still taunts me from across the road.

But, despite the waiting and the guaging, the damp and acoustics akin to that of a cave, I can feel it stirring, that little bit of excitement I get before every gig, no matter how important it is or wherever I am. It all boils down to one thing: I can't wait to get on stage and play. And after all that's why we're all here isn't it, like addicts chasing the next musical high.