Later, met up with S, to see Aimee Mann at the Astoria. Her voice has a depth and power that had the audience eating out of her hand; Billie Holliday meets Sheryl Crow, but in a good way. And her thighs are slim enough to wear striped trousers. Her range and soul inspired me, and I walked away touched in a way that I don't quite get, yet.
The audience was very thirtysomething once-was-rock, and for some reason there was a preponderance of men in unstylish denim shirts tucked into their jeans. The couple standing just behind us weren't exactly dancing together; he was rocking back and forwards on the spot (rather reminiscent of my best friend's childhood nextdoor neighbour pretending he was Marc Almond and dancing on the spot to Soft Cell in 1982), whereas she was gently swaying from side to side. Neither of them were quite in time with the music, but it wasn't exactly syncopated either. You just know they have disappointing sex.
Oh, and two Smirnoff Ices (girly, I know) cost £7 in the Astoria bar, and £3.50 in the RCA bar. Know where I'm going again.
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