remote cards

It is funny to see them afterwards. Recognising them with their clothes on. The girl, with the short hair, now in a black top, with a plunging neckline and jeans. Beside her, the girl with the shoulder length hair, the one that had been fully topless at one point, rather than just transparent, the one that had played the drums – she wears a yellow t-shirt, a brown long sleeved beneath that. They pass below us, as we sit on the mezzanine floor, on their way to the bar post-show. One of the pony tailed girls appears from the passage leading to back stage, in one hand a bulging luggage bag, in the other a fat polythene bag fit for bursting. They open the door to Tramway 1 for her, and she puts them just inside, and skips off to find the other girls. As she goes by, I can see she has her lip pierced, and I know that it was her mouth, amongst all those mouths, that we had seen on the screen with the lip ring. The guy that did the first version of the show’s monologue wanders about - masturbation, suicide, orgasm, murder, enjoyment – as broad shouldered and muscled as he had been, the t-shirt he wears now equally snug against his torso. Then there is the guy with the Mohawk, who is more obvious, a turquoise blue v-neck t-shirt, a chain around his neck. The first time we saw him he was in heels and a dress, Mohawk and lipstick. When asked which dancer I thought had the best legs I said it was him, absolutely, no doubt. He stands by himself, leaning against a pillar, tired, a little lost perhaps, cradling a glass of white whine. Though, soon, he has three girls around him engaging him in conversation. Its not long before the place starts to empty. The drummer girl is retrieving her bags, pulling on her jacket. The Mohawk bloke is peeling one of the event posters from the wall, rolling it up, I’ll donate it to the company he calls out to a member of staff. We put our jackets on, and leave, the drummer girl is talking to a taxi driver, walks back in, passing us, a woollen hat on her head, earthy coloured, with a flower stitched on to it. We leave, she chases up the rest of her group.

Labels: audience, bar, dance, glasgow, theatre