Indy Jones and the Temple of Suck

I love new music. I love London. I love free things. Therefore, when I won tickets to go see the Indy Music Awards last Friday in Camden, I was beyond psyched. Because wahey! Fun, British independent music! And awards! And live performances! And maybe this time, unlike the NME Music Awards show, they would actually give out music awards instead of just having one stadium-sized mosh pit! All I had to do was show up at 6:30, tell them I’m on the media guest list, and enjoy the show at 7:00. Simple, right? Exciting, right? A night to remember just waiting to happen, right? If you guessed No to all of those questions, you would be right.

I am anal-retentive. I have to be on time to everything, if not 15 minutes early. My apartment must be cleaned every Saturday morning (it’s allowed to get messy during the week due to a condition called Lisa Is Lazy). Pens must be lined up parallel to my Post-It notes on my desk. The outline of my head’s shadow must not have stray hairs sticking out at odd angles. (These are all things that will make my life quite lonely in the long run…I am completely aware of this fact.) And so, because my strange little mind works this way, any time things are not organized well, a part of me shrivels and dies inside. Normally I can tolerate small instances of disorganization; someone is late because their bus wasn’t on time, that report they just printed is out of sequence, Jamiroquai is spelled wrong on a playlist, there is toothpaste on the corner of your mouth, etc. But what I realized Friday night around 9:30 is that I have a breaking point. My mind can only deal with so much Fucking Disorganization before it says, “Lisa, you don’t have to put up with this. It is driving you crazy, you are not enjoying yourself, and these people should be beaten with whips made of cacti.”

Allow me to explain.

There were about 7 entrance doors to the Forum, the Indy Music Awards venue. One had a sign that said VIP, one said Media, and one said Guest VIP; the other 4 were apparently just there for decoration. As people started arriving, there was no direction as to where to line up. Yes there were metal gates, but they weren’t arranged in an obvious way implying, “Hey you in the skinny jeans. Line up over here.” 6:45 rolls around and the only reason a line forms is because each individual person has gone up to the 8 Large Security Men (I’m pretty sure that’s the name of their company) and asked where they’re supposed to go. I don’t line up because I (wrongly) assume that the large line over there is for the masses and, because I’m on the all-too-important media guest list, I will skip the queue and waltz right in through that magical door on the left. I try to play it cool and walk past the gate in hopes of overhearing what other VIP-looking people are asking the security men. I find out that even though VIP allegedly stands for Very Important Person, I still have to line up over there behind those 300 people. (Keep in mind that because I arrived at 6:15, I could have been 2nd in line had there only been signs telling me this is where I needed to go in the goddamn first place.) I’m in line. It’s 7:00. The show is supposed to be starting right now but they haven’t even started letting people in to the building. The guy behind me asks me where I’m coming from and I say, “Well, I just came from work downtown at Blackfriars but I live in Notting Hill.” When I ask him where he came from and he says Bath, I realize my answer should have been London. Turns out he’s in one of the bands up for an award; their name is CuteLooney. I tell him it’s a great band name (actually, it’s only about a 4 out of 10), ask him how he came up with it, and then I meet his parents who abruptly cut join us in line. As we’re standing there wondering why the hell we’re still outside at this point and not inside clapping for Promoter of the Year, it becomes apparent that the VIP line (the one we’re patiently standing in) is about 50 people longer than the general audience line. I don’t know if they sold any non-VIP tickets to this shindig. But fine. I can deal with this crap.

I make my way inside. It’s 7:30. I find a seat (obviously there were no assigned seats with organization skills such as these). I wait. I read the program. I make comments to myself about all the “fashion statements” being made. I gather up my legs every 13 seconds for people to walk in and out of my row. It’s 8:00. I have read the program 3 times. It’s 8:15. Some BBC personality guy I don’t recognize comes on stage and introduces some whiny dude with a guitar who sings 4 songs. 4 songs!! Each of which makes me want to rip my ears off my head with a plastic beach shovel. But fine. I am suffering because there is still the hope that tonight I will hear some good music and be introduced to some great new bands. After this guy stops singing the lyrics, “You look like my father and my father’s an alcoholic.”

Okay great. 8:45 and the show is finally starting. The first winner is announced and we wait 5 minutes while everyone looks around the auditorium wondering where Winner Dawn is and why hasn’t she come down to the stage yet to claim her hideous glass award? Then the announcer has the brilliant idea of getting everyone to chant her name to make her appear. Dawn! Dawn! Dawn! Un-fucking-believable. She comes out from behind the stage curtain with a face that seems to say, “Oh hello. Were you calling my name? I didn’t hear you. What’s this, an award? Where am I? Why am I wearing this hideous, sparkly dress?” She accepts her trophy by mumbling into the microphone which muddles her words even more and the people around me continue to chug their beers. 5 more awards are given, each acceptance speech as painful to listen to as the last (one was merely a loud, prolonged “whoo”). Dawn plays 2 songs which match her outfit in beauty. It is 9:30. The announcer comes back to the stage, says they’re taking a 10 minute break and the show will continue with more awards and performances later. And THAT, my friends, is my breaking point.

I stand up, feel a twinge of regret that I won’t be around to find out if CuteLooney wins Best Folk/Blues group, and walk out of the place. On the subway ride home I realize I am okay with what I’ve done. But only because I’m not okay with what the organizers of that event have done. I am a responsible adult. (Stop laughing.) I take certain things seriously. (I mean it, quit giggling.) And in return I expect others to be professional, especially when it comes to THEIR JOBS. Even if that night had been filled with A-list celebrities instead of 200 bands I had never heard of, I still would have been disgusted by the way things were handled.

And so, to wrap up, this is a very long-winded way of telling you that I will no longer tolerate unprofessional people. I am better than that and shouldn’t have to deal with the stress and frustration it causes me. (Tim Curry, if you are reading this, I DO NOT mean you. You could keep me waiting for days and I will still worship the ground you walk on. Call me!)

*music - Rally round tha family, with pockets full of shells Bulls on parade