Once I got married and moved back to
Essex, we went to even more gigs. It was brilliant. The Number 20 bus at the top of our road
took us to Walthamstow Bus Station, then it was one stop to Blackhorse Road on the Tube to our final destination, The Standard, sticky-carpeted palace of cheap beer, loud bands and much
enjoyment. We used to go with a huge group of friends, two
of whom were in bands of their own.
We’d have loud nights, resonant with riffs and riotous laughter, then we'd roll home on the
night bus with our ears ringing and reeking of stale smoke. In the early
Nineties, it was fine to light up anywhere you fancied and lots of people did.
Ending up with a hole burned in your denim jacket was a badge of honour.
The same group of friends used to go to
the Cambridge Folk Festival where we saw some excellent bands. I was known for
my ability to get right to the front of the stage at any gig. I remember
standing at the very front of Number Two Stage, gigantically pregnant with my
first child while a very loud blues outfit (Robert Randolph and the Family
Band) gave it their all. Here they are in action, just as good as I remember. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2DE9JO9Lo0w.
Such a dose of loud bluesy soul and gospel
in utero clearly had an effect on my eldest son. Every afternoon at nap
time, I’d put on a blues CD and watch him nod off. He once fell asleep in front
of a 20-foot speaker at a festival. 16 years on, he is a massive metal-head,
just as his father was when we met at Sixth Form Centre aged 16. He went to
his first gig recently (at Brixton Academy – start as you mean to go on)
wearing my husband’s treasured denim jacket, covered with patches and badges
from all his gigs way back when.
Now obviously as his mother, I am a bit of
an embarrassment to him and he’s shocked to hear that I used to live another sort
of life before I had him. That said, we do have some great conversations
about music and it’s been lovely seeing him getting into some of the bands I like. He’s introduced me to a few along the way too as well as joining a band
of his own (he’s the drummer).
A couple of weeks ago, he came back from
work and mumbled, “Like, James’ band[1]
is playing soon. I got some tickets. Do you want to come?” James is his boss.
The gig was at Old Jet, a music venue at the
old RAF base near us. It’s probably one of the most inaccessible venues ever,
but it’s well worth schlepping across the airfield in the dark. I was offered
earplugs on arrival, but waved them away. Once we were in, the following
conversation ensued:
Son: “Yeah, look, no offence, you’d better
go and stand a long way away from me. I don’t want people knowing you’re my
mother.”
Me: “None taken. I’m not standing next to
you. It’ll cramp my style if I’m seen with a 16-year old boy.”
Son: “Oh. Right. Yeah. See you.”
Me: “Not if I see you first. No offence.”
Well, it was brilliant. I was right at the
front, natch, with my middle-aged eardrums unprotected and ready to absorb as
many decibels as the band cared to throw at me. And believe me, they were LOUD!
3 lead guitars, a bass and the drummer. It took me right back. Once it was all
over, we rolled back to the car, across miles of unlit runway, our ears
ringing. It was just like the old days. I couldn’t hear properly for three
days. There was no chance of anyone burning a hole in my gilet with their
cigarette, unless I’d gone up to them outside and specifically asked them to.
Apart from that, and the lack of unexpectedly adhesive floor coverings (oh, and
my tendonitis and achy knee) I felt 19 again.
As someone once
said, “Where words leave off, music begins.” So let's leave it there, a middle-aged woman with ringing ears and a 16-year old with blood
blisters on his fingers from a 2-hour drum practice session. That mother and son nearly 17 years on from the final gig of the night at Cambridge, still rocking out, albeit with a little more distance between them. But with a whole lifetime of earplugs, drum solos and sticky carpets to come.
'There was no chance of anyone burning a hole in my gilet with their cigarette, unless I’d gone up to them outside and specifically asked them to.' That made me laugh! The whole piece is so evocative. Just right for the 'Culture' section of a magazine or newspaper.
ReplyDeleteDash it all, Fran, why not? I am sitting looking at my still unpacked suitcase from my weekend Chez Hill and there is the Guardian poking out. You're right. I should pitch. It's a bit scary, but faint heart never won syndicated column!
ReplyDeleteAnd thank you for your encouragement and for being my Blogger Guru. And indeed my only follower. It means more than I can say, fellow gilet wearer.
ReplyDeleteAlthough the number has just doubled!
ReplyDeleteJust followed you, Ruth. It's almost a landslide. Wanna reciprocate? My posts are few, and elderly in tone.That about sums it up. suerussellsblog.blogspot.com. You must admit it's a wittyb address.
ReplyDeleteSue, I have taken to my bed with a poultice to draw the humours from my over-stressed brain. A veritable outpouring of followers. Why of course! I shall reciprocate this very moment to your wittily address blog
ReplyDeleteAll done! Your follower numbers have rocketed to 40. I can only gasp in awe.
ReplyDeleteHardly - years old and static since the age of the dinosaurs! But thanks you! I too am somewhat germ-ridden. Trust it is an ordinary old URTI.
ReplyDelete