Bleep #13: or... Why Middle Aged Men Should Not Headbang to Electronic Music

My tummy went all funny when I saw the poster the Collective had made for us.

I don't know about Libby, but I've been super excited ever since hearing that we'd been picked to play Bleep #13. Excited, as in waking up in the night and grinning like a cartoon. Excited, as in washing my hands at work and grinning at my stupid reflection in the mirror. Excited, as in sitting in traffic, and suddenly shouting at Radio 4, "Oh my GOD! We're playing BLEEP!"

Bleep was the first EMOM-style night I attended when, back in April, I stood alone in the audience downstairs at Manchester's famous Peer Hat, and my inner idiot said, "I bet you could do that...". Mental cogs began to grind away in the background, and "I bet..." morphed quickly into "I demand..."

I say Bleep is "EMOM-style", because there's a subtle distinction between what the Manchester Electronic Collective do and the nights mounted by most other organisers. At a true EMOM, anyone can put their name down and play their slot, on a truly open mic basis. It could be an amazing night, filled with challenging sounds you really don't understand. It could be a night where you think you've heard the EMOM answer to Kraftwerk or Nitzer Ebb. It could be that night when someone believes they've made a dreadful mistake and walks off mid-set. You never can tell. Sometimes, there are rules such as "Strictly no guitars", but essentially, you sign up, plug in, switch on, and let your truth be known. BLEEP, in contrast, is curated. The Manchester Electronic Collective strive to host an evening covering a range of styles and abilities, from first-time performers to seasoned acts who have been playing such nights for years.

Cut to Thursday, and the familiar scene of me taking in the crisp evening air, trudging up the hill to the station with Libby and the rest of the gear on my back. It's a ritual I'm beginning to enjoy. It's a quiet time. The set is well-rehearsed, everything has been ticked off the packing list as it was loaded, so there's nothing to worry about. We're through the looking glass now, anyway. 30 minutes with nothing to do but just walk, on this occasion meeting an old friend at the station, who had volunteered to experience the racket we make.

As a performer, Bleep is very well-organised. After replying to the initial offer email, another one arrives a couple of days before the gig with details of the venue, times to be there, and to whom to make yourself known. Photos and phone numbers of the Collective members are included with instructions about what to do if you can't make it or are delayed. So, at the duly appointed time, we made ourselves known. Dave Walker (Mho) was already there, and had already set up his impressive rig, ready to headline the night, including a camera and screen for some extra visual stimulation. We were to be on second, with a stage time of 7:45, which was 50 minutes away. I quickly set up, and then there was nothing to do but retire to the bar for a little light drinking at sensible northern prices.

Our office for the evening, all set up and ready to play.

There are those who maintain you should always go on stage absolutely sober. I am not one of them. I freely admit that I rehearse in the evenings with a glass or two of slutty red by my side. I've rehearsed this set like my life depends on it, and my fingers know what to do. This is my happy place.

Looking back at footage of the previous gig at the mighty Electric Tentacle, I realised that, even though I was ready and well-prepared for the evening, I was probably concentrating so hard on getting everything right that I forgot to be seen to have much fun onstage. I was concerned that the one variable I can't control - the live sound - would be as good as possible. I did a lot of EQ using the bank of four knobs on my MIDI controller, which I've mapped to an Ableton EQ8, and which are christened, Boom, Thud, Shouty, and Hiss. I should have spent more time letting the audience know that I'm enjoying myself, and that it's OK to do the same if they feel the vibe descend upon them.

This would have to change. Dignity, as I'm fond of saying, is overrated. I decided to headbang along to the beat, throw my arms about in emphasis, dance around like an idiot, and generally have a groovy time.

Anyway, first up was Hezza-T. A young male vocalist with a set of self-produced tracks, lamenting lost love and the human condition. Very well put together. Halfway through his set, he admitted this was his first gig, and the audience cheered encouragingly. Maybe it's the overwhelmingly good vibes generated in God's own city, maybe it's a Peer Hat thing, or maybe it's the people drawn to Bleep, the audience is always very positive. I got to talk to Hezza and his companion after my set, and he was absolutely buzzing.

7:45 came, and it was time for us to play, but we weren't plugged into the desk! I waved the ends of the jack cables around, and the sound engineer was summoned to the stage. He presented me with two more jack cable ends, in no particular order. As I only speak a few words of Engineer, it took me a moment to realise he wanted me to plug these things in to my audio interface. Asking which was the right channel sent him scurrying off into a rat's nest of possibilities. But we got there. 

I turned up the interface to 50% and played a few notes. I could hardly hear the sound, so I cranked the big black knob up to 100% and it was VERY LOUD! Just the way I intended it. A quick thumbs up to the MC to introduce us, a smattering of polite applause, and off we go.

It seemed to me that we were the loudest thing I'd ever heard in that room. I was actually quite shocked at the power we were producing. But the sound engineer didn't turn the desk down, and I wasn't about to turn it down either! My friend, stood at a safe distance, said it was loud behind the cushion of an audience about 8 deep.

It was the best of times, it was the loudest of times.

I headbanged my way through the thunder of Gory Corners, enjoying every second of it. The track finished and people clapped enthusiastically. So enthusiastically, they took me genuinely by surprise. I have markers in Ableton, linked to keys 1 to 4, so that if I end a song and there's silence, I can swiftly get Libby to introduce the next one, but I didn't need them. The timeline rolled through the 10-second inter-song gap. 

Libby announced that the next track was about looking after the things that make you truly happy, and that it's called Happiness Is A Warm Synth. There was a cheer from the synth heads as it clattered into life. And so the set continued, the end of each song gaining more applause and even a bit of cheering.

 Libby giving a shoutout to the Manchester Electronic Collective during the final song.

We blasted through, and with the usual screeching of tyres and car crash noises, it was over. Applause and cheering, me comically curtseying, and my inner idiot raising his arms in triumph like a wannabe superstar DJ. The MC jumped up, raised another round of applause, and that was it.

Shutdown, switch off, unplug, pack it all away. The sound engineer came over, said he'd enjoyed our set and could he have his jack leads back.With pleasure!

I've often wondered what it would feel like walking through the audience to the room at the back, while people say nice things and chat to you. Nice. It feels very nice. A receipt for a job well done. Enjoy it, baby, it's better than drugs.

The rest of the evening is a bit of a blur to say the least, partly induced by alcohol, but mostly by talking synths and techniques with loads of people, and thanking people who said they liked what we'd done. I was broadly aware of the other acts, including a young woman called Nova Bella, whose set ranged from RnB to DnB. I meant to listen to everything, make notes and write it up here, but my inner idiot was firmly at the controls and savouring the recognition.

Having work in the morning, we couldn't stay for the whole evening. Maybe this was a good thing, because as we reached Piccadilly station on the trek home, I suddenly realised just how tired I was.  

Next morning, I felt like I'd been in the car crash that marks the end of our set. My neck was agony from headbanging, my hips and lower back hurt from yomping about with the heavy gig bag on my back, and my voice was a mess from talking to so many people. But looking back, none of that matters. I once drunkenly declared to a stranger at a previous Bleep that one day Jon and Libby would be the loudest thing in the room, and for 15 minutes we were.

If you're nervously hesitating about putting your name down for an EMOM and live local to Manchester, I cannot recommend the supportive atmosphere of BLEEP highly enough. I suspect you could play white noise for 15 minutes over a kick drum, and someone would get lost dancing to it, people would clap, and any noise connoisseurs present would cheer you. 

Do it. Your inner idiot demands it!