Dear God,
It’s me, Stef. Please hear my prayer.
I fail to see what kind of perverse pleasure you get out of sabotaging my musical equipment on an almost ritualistic basis, invariably in the context of a live performance. It is getting tiresome. Can I please make it clear that no one is impressed. You are not funny; you are not big; and you are not clever.
Last night just about drove me to the end of my patience with you. Although my Marshall has been with an engineer for six months (yes – SIX months), it still has not been fixed. As always, in your deified perversity, you managed to lull me in to a false sense of security, ensuring that no hint of the problems to come were evident during the soundcheck. It was only when we were live before an audience that you allowed the electronics to go for a Burton. Thanks. Thanks a lot.
I couldn’t help but notice, too, oh Lord, that you picked a symbolic moment to pour your unction of destruction over my performance. I can easily imagine the look of boyish glee on your face, as you watched me launch in to a much anticipated Status Quo number. You know how I feel about Status Quo. And you know that rocking out to classic Quo is, to me, the equivalent of a heroin addict scoring an uncommonly pure hit. Thus it is, you know how badly it will hurt me to ambush my equipment as I sail hopefully through the gates of Quovana. And yet this is exactly what you chose to do last night. You’re a bastard. A complete and utter bastard. I was hungry. You dangled a succulent steak before me. And then you defecated on it. You piss me off.
Of course, you had had pre-empted my foresight in overcoming the obstacle you put before me. The answer to the technical failure of my Marshall, would naturally be to use another amp. As you are only too aware, I took a spare amp to the gig, knowing full well that the Marshall was less than reliable. In theory, if the Marshall was to malfunction, I could plug straight in to the spare amp and continue seamlessly with the gig. An easy solution. But you had forseen my diligence, oh Lord. You venomous, malicious son of a bitch. So it was, on the way up to the gig, you ensured that the van developed a strategic leak. The back of the van was full of gear and yet, miraculously, only one item of equipment endured a soaking. As a direct result, my spare amp became unusable. You intentionally put it out of service, so that I was fully dependant upon my Marshall. You thereby took full control of my destiny for the evening.
You may think you are clever. You may think you are powerful and awesome, with your ability to control the elements. But let’s just put this in some perspective, shall we? In ancient times, you instigated The Great Flood. It demonstrated control of the elements on a vast scale, to impose a firm moral point that was a reflection of your harsh but principled expectations. Regardless of one’s moral point of view, what you did back then was impressive. It had impact. But compare that with the measly act of making a van leak and sprinkling it with rain in order to wet a small Laney amp beyond use – frankly, it is a come down from a once masterful career. You’ve become a bitter, twisted and rather pathetic deity. What you are doing in relation to me is the pettiest form of victimisation. Just and terrible god my arse. You’re a twisted bastard.
And don’t think I’ve forgotten the guitar, either. What a delight it was to discover that there is now – completely out of the blue and just in time for the performance – something badly wrong with my Ibanez. I don’t know what that noise is, or where it has come from. It is horrible and has put the guitar beyond use. How you did it, oh omnipotent one, I don’t know. But once again, it was a cheap trick and frankly, not worthy of a god of your stature.
Look. You’ve had your fun. I don’t know what I ever did to make you hate me so badly. I can only think it comes down to that time I put that rock through the church window that time. I was young and misguided. For crying out loud – I must have been nine or ten years old. Give me a break. I’m sorry for what I did; I must have paid for it by now, with interest. It comes down to this, God. I am an average sized man. I am 5′9″. I’m not a big bloke. You, on the other hand, are omnipresent. I suppose what I am trying to say is pick on someone your own size.
Amen.
Tags: amp, deity, gig, god, laney, marshall, performance, victimisation