Life is a Cabaret, Old Chum

When I was younger the biggest part of my life was gigs. I've seen hundreds of bands over the years and it was always the best experience, to witness my heroes and enjoy the thrill of live music.

Over the past year I've become aware that something is missing. At a number of gigs I've left unfulfilled and have found some excuse to blame - like the sound was crap, or the couple in front kept snogging, or even on tiptoe I couldn't really see. Last night, watching New York Dolls, none of these excuses were valid. I had a perfect view of the stage, room to move and no one was particularly annoying. But somehow I couldn't get into it - I'm afraid my rock n roll spirit is dead.

I mean, the band were superb - David Johansen was adorable with his painted nails, skinniest arms and self-deprecating stage patter. They played an inspired set of old and new and I wanted to get my old bones moving, but only Dancing on the Lip of a Volcano really hit the spot.

On the way home I thought about the fantastic nights I've had lately, and they all come back to cabaret. I've cried laughing at bearded drag queens performing Dallas, gazed in awe at the beauty of Suppositori Spelling and swooned at Kiddie doing Paris is Burning. These are the emotions I used to experience at gigs, but now I just get backache, get pissed off at being squashed and worry about getting the last train home.

At the gym I still listen to Marilyn Manson and sometimes imagine I'm the guitarist as I puff away on the stepper, but more often I reminisce about nights at Duckie dancing to Tina Turner with Maur ... or wonder what I should wear at VauxhallVille on Thursday.

But I don't mind this sign of getting old - it's only swapping one thing for another. It's not like it I'm sitting at home knitting. So pass me a Martini Cocktail - cabaret is the new rock n roll.