Adam Gnade: You’re The Loudest Motherfucker in the Room: A One-Act Play (Oxford, England) -- Local Cut

Adam Gnade: You’re The Loudest Motherfucker in the Room: A One-Act Play (Oxford, England)

February 9th, 2009 [1:00PM] Posted by: ADAM GNADE | 2 COMMENTS

What is it that makes memories? I want to say it’s the big stuff; the drama and vivid moments of Real Living that brand their shit onto our bedrock. But sometimes it’s the smaller things, the faint smell of car leather rather than the long ride to hell. I’m sure there were notable things in Bristol but I don’t remember any of them. Now, Oxford, I remember almost everything. I remember the distinct quicksand sensation of sinking into the couches backstage at the Carling Academy after sound-check. I remember feeling strangely anxious when Foals’ bus pulled away from the venue and I remember every word of a seemingly inconsequential conversation about why I won’t grow a beard.

So, why those memories? Why do I keep those instead of, say, my entire sophomore year or how to spell the word “odyssey” or any of my friends’ phone numbers? In Oxford, my biggest memory is of talking to some guy in the audience during my set.

It’s age-old shit: I was playing quiet; he was talking loud; I got derailed. This is a direct word-for-word memory transcription after I stopped mid-song and singled him out.

Me: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. There’s some—you, you right there. You’re talking so loud I can’t hear what I’m playing. I’m sorry.”

Guy: (Points to himself and looks around, confused. One of his buddies elbows him, nods, and sneers.)

Me: “You. Your voice is so loud it’s ridiculous. You’re the loudest motherfucker in the room. Yeah, yeah, right, you.”

Guy: (Panicking, shrugs, then half-shouts) “I’m … you know … it’s—”

Me: “I don’t mind people talking. I mean, I talk during people’s sets all the time but all I can hear is, like (Imitates sound of drunken British guy.). If you wanna talk, please take … take, like, fucking 50 steps back. Like, back by the merch table, by the … back wall.”

Guy: “Naw, mate, it’s okay, I’ll—”

Me: “No, no, no, I understand, but still, but still, but still. So that, or come sit right here on the stage by the monitors and be quiet.”

Guy: “I’ll just—”

Me: “Serious. Here.” (Points towards stage left. Crowd begins to giggle and shift around nervously.)

Guy: “Right.” (Shuffles through the audience, bellies up over the stage barrier, and sits cross-legged by one of the monitors, cradling his pint glass.)

Me: “But, really, you have to promise to be nice and quiet, okay?”

Guy: “Yeah, mate, no worries.” (We shake hands and he smiles and I laugh and the crowd cheers wildly.)

Me: “I’m gonna start that song again—this one … goes out to my friend right here.”

And that’s where my memory of the night cuts off.

Onward to Derby, land of ugly buildings, soulless ballrooms, and kids who look like Lord of the Rings characters.