It happens every time. Before a gig, even one that is only spouting verse to about 20 people in a pub, I’m sick with nerves, hands sweaty and intestines tied into knots. I swear I shall never do another gig, ever. It’s not worth the feeling that you’re about to attend your execution. Get up on stage and I’m bold and brassy, able to ignore the heckling old drunk who turns up to every second performance in a Southside pub; after my spot I’m high as a kite, adrenaline pouring throughout my veins, and snap up the offer to do another performance soon.
I’m chuffed to do something, however small, in the festival and the three friends who came to the gig are each doing something as well - H reading her work at the Scottish Poetry Library, Carl showing some pieces at the Artspace, Craigmillar and Norman doing wave form loops at St John’s Church.
I’m chuffed to do something, however small, in the festival and the three friends who came to the gig are each doing something as well - H reading her work at the Scottish Poetry Library, Carl showing some pieces at the Artspace, Craigmillar and Norman doing wave form loops at St John’s Church.
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