Minor doubts

It's 11.20pm in a dark bar on a side street in Chelmsford on a Sunday night. We're nearing the end of the set, but Brien Edwards, lead singer of The Lunar Pilots, is clearly having issues with his throat. We're playing tight, but the smiles and on stage enthusiasm has been watered down to false glances, as if as a team we're trying to hold it together in the midst of defeat. Is is a defeat? It's certainly not a victory. It's 11.20pm in a dark bar on a side street in Chelmsford on a Sunday night, we're playing to a handful of people all of whom have seen us before; I doubt they want to be here - they're friends of the band and couldn't possibly leave. They couldn't possibly leave because they'd be too exposed in doing so - considering the rest of the audience left when the fashionable other bands on the bill, our support acts, finish their sets. I feel old; I've not enjoyed anything musically tonight. I've got nothing personal against the 3 support acts, but I've seen enough Franz-Ferdinand-Libertines-Pale-Looking-Tight-Top-Prominent-Fringe-Occasional-Disco-Beat-Careless-Expression-Intentionally-Misguided-Vocals bands in my time, I just found myself forgetting to applaud. It's probably me, though. It's 11.20pm, in a dark bar on a side street in Chelmsford on a Sunday night. We're playing tight, the sound quality is exceptional. I'm going through the motions, I'm drifting through the required time signatures but my head is already planning the route home, wondering if our cab-driving neighbour has left me a space outside our own house, considering another Red Bull at the bar before I leave to give me that final kick home but releasing it would keep me awake until the early hours of the morning, trying to remember to set my alarm for 7am for work and then concerned with myself for thinking about all of this when I'm actually doing what I live for - playing live. The thrill of playing live beats anything else in life, if you've got the buzz of an audience it's better than sex, beer, football, classic late 70's sitcoms - there is nothing that can touch it. Which is why the let down of an audience who are only there out of manners is hard to accept. Brien is clearly struggling, but despite the fact his voice is shot to pieces he insists on playing the whole set - I respect this act of dignity, but my heart's just not in it. 2.15pm, lunch time at work. I'm left to reflect on a weekend in which my minor doubts are kicking in to the extent that I'm a frustrated, odd little character, not the most approachable in the office. On Friday we had a 'creative team meeting' in Cambridge where most of my new creative team joined me as I explained my plans for world domination. I arrived caffeined-up, with a notepad of ideas, some new scripts, and my diary. There was absolutely nothing wrong with Friday night - absolutely nothing. My team are lovely. But it just feels like I'm an enthusiastic, rambling ball of randomness, shouting out new play synopsis after new play synopsis, whilst the rest of the team merely sit and try to take it all in. I think it's going to work - we've scheduled filming for my short films 'Chirpy', 'Short Hair', 'Remembrance' and 'Number 12 And Her Amazing Revolution', people agree with me - but there was no high-fives, just polite agreement. Maybe I should learn to accept that not everybody is going to get as excited as I am, maybe they don't share my vision of domination...but that's cool, because they're exceptionally talented, they don't have to - let me do the jumping around, let them be the cool, collected actors who actually make it happen. Or perhaps I'm just creatively bullying them? Perhaps I'm so intense they feel they can't argue with me? I mean, does Heather really want to dress up as a budgie for her role in 'Chirpy'? Does Victoria really feel comfortable standing in a field with a load of sheep shouting 'baaahhh' for 'Number 12'? Surely, they would have said if there was a problem? Surely? I guess time will tell. I should also stop watching amazing films in the cinema (like 'Slumdog Millionaire' which I saw on Saturday) and listening to the original radio series of The Mighty Boosh whilst driving to work; all because it's all so good, I'm starting to lose the belief in my own material, all my work seems kind of vague, and...pathetic in comparison. Or maybe I'm just tired/fatigued/being over dramatic because self-doubt is often considered a sign of modesty, which has once or twice impressed women. I'm not sure anymore - but what I do know is I have a meeting on Saturday about my 209radio show which should finally see our series 'Becoming More Like Mandy' grace the FM airwaves, and that I really need to know what I'm taking to Edinburgh this year. There's no time for being insecure about my abilities (okay, just the time it took me to write this), I really should be cracking on. When my boss here comes back from lunch I'm going to ask her if I can take 3 days off work, and then with those days I'm going to write the best fucking play ever. It's all really simple when I put it like that...