One of the greatest compliments I ever received was when a mate at university told me, “You look like a young Johnny Marr.” I really wanted to be considered cool and this was music to my ears. I was thrilled at the time. I still am. As someone with a huge love of music who simply can’t play an instrument, unless you count the bongos, if the closest I can get to one of my musical heroes is looking like him, then I’ll take it!
For those who don’t know, Johnny Marr was the guitarist and founder member of The Smiths, a legendary English band. And sadly for a lot of people, that’s where the story stops. But fans know that Marr then went on to be part of several other influential bands across the decades and as such, to a lot of us he’s an absolute legend.
‘Set The Boy Free’ is an absolutely fascinating read. From his early life and humble beginnings in the suburbs of Manchester, Johnny was always fascinated by guitars. And once he got his hands on one it was a relatively short time before he became responsible for some of the most memorable, iconic records ever produced. The Smiths changed lives and continued to change them long after their split.
Marr describes, sometimes in incredible detail, how some of the most amazing Smiths songs were written. And for him, it’s more than just coming up with words and adding some music. He makes the song writing process in The Smiths sound quite magical, giving as much credit to his guitars as to any of his own skills. The relationship between him and Morrissey sounds remarkably harmonious and the way they write some of the greatest pop of anyone’s lifetime is conveyed as being almost mystical. But then tensions set in and Marr makes the difficult decision to leave the band.
As a reader, this is where even more magic starts to happen. You forget how many great bands Johnny Marr has had a hand in. But we’re led through all chapters of his musical journey. And oh, what a journey! Let’s drop a few names to either jog your memories or give you a bit of a surprise – The Pretenders, The The, Electronic, Modest Mouse, The Healers, The Cribs. Marr’s contribution to music has been amazing. And it’s all here in the book.
And yet, Marr talks about his life as if nothing remarkable has happened. There is no ego whatsoever in the book. This is just the tale of a boy who fell in love with guitars and music and then went on to live his life around them. In many ways it’s like reading about some kind of dream and because of this it sends a message to people, young and old, everywhere – if you want something; go and get it! And while I realise that life isn’t that simple, well it’s nice to dream. But that said, Johnny Marr is proof positive that dreams do come true.
What a man and what a life! If you’re into your music this book will be very much for you. Get yourself a copy and enjoy a fantastic read! Even if I wasn’t a fan of The Smiths, Marr or any of the other bands featured, I’d recommend this. A fascinating insight into making music – I’d give ‘Set The Boy Free’…
5 Guitars…because everything musical is rated on the famous guitar scale, right?
I listen to a lot of music. Always have done. When I was a kid it was vinyl and sometimes cassettes. I even managed to take in eight track cassettes via my parents’ collection. MTV then brought an abundance of these new things called music videos and around this time I started going to gigs too. Then came the compact disc – let’s skip past mini discs – and finally the time when you could magic music out of thin air with downloads and then streaming – or witchcraft as I still call it!
It’s safe to say that I fell in love with music at an early age. I was fortunate enough to have a record shop in my town – Music Box – and could regularly be found in there going through the racks of vinyl albums and singles looking for treasure. Another favourite haunt was the library where there was a music section that I was always borrowing from in order to copy the music on to cassettes. It was by borrowing records from the library that I discovered artists that it probably would have taken me far longer to discover otherwise. I think we must have had a librarian with their finger on the music pulse!
As I’ve got older this love has remained and although my tastes have developed, I’ve stayed loyal to many of the old favourites too. And with over 40 years of active listening and gig going behind me it’s only right that I have some questions. Lots of questions. So many in fact that I intend to make this a bit of a series of blogs. So I’m going to ask them three at a time. They’re all serious of course…
So here we go.
1. Was James Brown as deaf as a post? Now before we start, although this question mocks Mr. Brown, I mean no disrespect. For me James Brown’s music is and always has been incredible. However, I’m sure he must have been hard of hearing and although I adore it, listening to his music often makes me think of conversations with my dad.
My evidence here best lies within Brown’s most famous track – ‘Get Up (I Feel Like Being A) Sex Machine. The amount of repeated questions that Mr. Brown (he’s always Mr. Brown) asks on this track is quite incredible. As the track approaches the bridge, he starts. “Bobby, shall I take it to the bridge?” Bobby (and a few others) replies straight away with an enthusiastic “Yeah!”, proving that Bobby and pals do not have the hearing problem and also that they absolutely love a bridge. Mr. Brown, however, asks again – maybe this is just to confirm though. But no, he actually goes on to ask about the bridge four times in total. Four times! By the time he’s asked it a fourth time and they’re actually heading towards the bridge I imagine Bobby and friends are more than a little irked. Possibly, what you can’t hear as the track surges to the bridge finally, is Bobby himself saying to a backing singer, “Can you remind me to change the batteries in Mr. Brown’s hearing aid when we’re done?”
But it doesn’t stop there. Later on in the song, Brown asks, “You wanna hear it like you did on the top?” and when the fellas reply “Yeah!” again, he clearly misses it and just asks again. No doubt Bobby is, by this point, is praying that Mr. Brown doesn’t start hankering after the bridge again.
And then, as the song draws to a close, Mr. Brown simply cannot hear anything anymore and proceeds to ask if the fellas want to “Hit it one more time like we did at the top?” three times before finally shouting, “Can we hit it and quit?” four more times. Every time, his gang are screaming “Yeah!” and every time he just doesn’t seem to hear them. A bit like when you ask my dad anything if he’s watching one of his programmes. So while musically he has nothing to prove, I think you’ll agree I’m onto something and James Brown may well have been a little bit deaf.
2. Is it actually possible to sing along to a David Bowie song using anything other than a bad David Bowie impression? The answer, for me , is a categorical no. Try it. Ask Alexa to play Space Oddity, Life on Mars, China Girl or any other of Bowie’s brilliant collection of music. If, like me, you can’t remember lyrics, get them on your phone and away you go.
Now, as a Geordie (someone from Newcastle, a city in the far North of England, if you don’t know) I have quite a strong accent. So changing that can require quite a lot of thought and vocal dynamics. However, as someone who reads aloud quite often for a living, I can manage. But it is never easier than when listening to Bowie and I literally cannot manage to sing along in anything other than a bad Bowie voice.
And along the same lines as this I give you Mr. Mick Jagger. You know I’m right. I defy anyone to sing along to a Stones song without their Jagger voice. And their moves like Jagger. Put me in the kitchen with ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’ and hear me ‘Jagger’ while I mince around doing air claps and pouting. Why? Because it is not possible to do anything other than this.
Oh, and just to blow your minds re this question, I give you ‘Dancing In The Streets’ by David Bowie and Mick Jagger. I dare you to try it…
3. Does every middle-aged man believe he can do a credible moonwalk? Surely it can’t just be me again? No, I think there must be loads of us. Perhaps we should form a club?
This question came to me again while listening to James Brown. I was cooking tea for my kids and as such, couldn’t leave the kitchen. You see, I’m quite the simple fellow and if I leave the kitchen I will undoubtedly find myself getting side-tracked and probably by something ridiculous. Before I know it, tea will be burning and so I’ve learnt to become a little more disciplined in my approach. My kids aren’t food critics, just whingers!
However, while listening to James Brown it was inevitable that I would start to dance. And dance I did. But when you’re out of moves, you’re out of moves. So what better to try than the moonwalk? I mean, it can’t be that difficult for a man with my skills, right? After all, my dance trademark is The Running Man and not everyone can pull that one off. And so, moonwalk it was.
I have to admit, that long after the music had finished, I was attempting to moonwalk. Practising like a good ‘un! I think, in a typical middle-aged man kind of way, that I’ve managed to perfect a reasonably convincing moonwalk too! But that’s the point though, isn’t it? Have a I just proved my own question right? Of course I think I can moonwalk! Of course I would watch a video of Michael Jackson doing the same and be convinced that we speak the same dance language. But of course, put under scrutiny, I can’t really moonwalk. Can I?
Most likely – and I’d say this is the case for most of us who presume that we too can actually pull off this move – I can just slide backwards across the floor. The slippery floor. While wearing just my socks. On my feet that is. But, as a middle-aged man and a father, I don’t think I’d be doing my job properly if I actually admitted defeat.
So there you have it. My first three questions about music. Not my first three ever, you understand? I hope you enjoyed them and that you found yourself nodding along. Let me know what you thought. And, furthermore, if you have any of your own questions about music, let me know and I’ll do some digging on your behalf!
Having studied both world wars in my time in education I never thought I’d see the like of such change across the planet. I never imagined that my life – about as typically suburban and dull as they come – would ever be turned upside down in such an unexpected way. Sure, we all face family crises and unless you’re under the illusion that you’re part of the Marvel universe, you know that death will come knocking at your door at some point, whether it’s for you or someone close to you. And similarly, while I was aware of words like ‘pandemic’ I never expected to be part of one. This was the stuff of Hollywood as far as I could work out. But then came the rude awakening. Corona wasn’t just a foreign beer. A pandemic was actually happening and life was changing beyond all recognition.
It seems trite to start writing about football. I’m classed as vulnerable to this virus. I have elderly parents who are even more vulnerable, as well as being quite a long way away. I have a family to support and many vulnerable students to care for. Away from my own personal circumstances thousands are dying not just in our country, but across the globe. But then maybe trivial things like football are the kinds of things we need during such a stressful time.
I never thought I’d miss football, especially if it was taken away to help save lives. Sure, it’s a huge part of my life and always has been, but I’ve found that taking it away also removes the amount of stress that it causes. It’s simple when you think about it! As such, I usually quite enjoy the international breaks because they take away Newcastle United related worries and just allow me to watch some football that I largely don’t really care about.
On 23rd March, via a WhatsApp message from the chairman of the league, the coaches of the Garforth Junior Football League were notified that our season had been voided. It was inevitable and we were probably all prepared for it, but it was definitely very sad news. There were still about 8 or 9 matches to play. As much as it was expected, I imagine that there wasn’t a coach among us who hadn’t hoped it wouldn’t happen.
Us coaches are all probably of much the same mindset. As volunteers we have to be! Optimists, that’s what we are. Maybe not in terms of football as a whole – I mean I’m a Newcastle fan, so optimism does not come easy – but in terms of the teams we coach, we probably all feel the same. Optimistic. Hopeful. Positive.
From my own point of view it hadn’t been a great season. Satisfactory, but not great. I’m the coach of a team called Glen Juniors Whites Under 11s in Morley, Leeds and it’s been a season of upheaval for us. We’ve lost several good players from last season and brought through a number of new players with not a lot of experience. As such, we’ve had ups and downs. However, it’s generally been enjoyable and as a result, it’s not taken long for me to realise that I’m really missing football. So I thought I’d write a blog and compile a bit of a list. It’s a not quite top Ten, and I’ve been unable to put it in any sort of order. These are just some things that I really miss about my involvement in football and I thought I’d put them out there and see who felt the same.
First up come SaturdayPreparations. We play on a Sunday, but over the years I’ve got into the habit of being prepared on a Saturday. That way I know that despite an early start on Sunday mornings, I’m almost certain to be ready. I say almost certain, because my son can often be found, oblivious to the warnings he’s been given to be ready, absorbed in a YouTube video on his iPad, with bits of kit missing, no water bottle and no boots on! Dad’s ready to leave, but the kid that’s actually playing won’t be ready for another five minutes or so! It’s always a good look to have turning up late as the coach. And so, I prepare on a Saturday as much as possible. The bag is taken from the shed and put in the car overnight. The practice balls for warm-ups, the same. The boy’s kit is out, my kit is laid out. My boots are in the car. I’ve filled in my team sheet, written up the team, written down some notes as to what to mention before kick-off. Sometimes I’ve even thought about substitutions too, as I have a bad habit of getting a bit confused on the sidelines and suddenly everyone becomes a right sided midfielder in my head! Needless to say, if it’s an away game I’ve had a good look at the route and either written stuff down (I’m still a bit old school!) or programmed the sat nav, regardless of how much I know it’ll irritate me.
Preparing on a Saturday means that I have longer to savour the whole experience as well. So, while no football means I have free weekends back, given the amount I put into it all, I really miss those Saturday preparations. It’s a routine that I wasn’t quite ready to get out of and it’s made me feel at a bit of a loss.
Next up, I miss the sheer obsession of being involved in grassroots football. And I know that every coach who reads this will feel exactly the same. To illustrate exactly what I miss I thought I’d write up an anecdote that might just go some way to helping explain. It concerns grass.
At Glen Juniors, although we have our own pitches, they are actually council playing fields. Thus, everybody is allowed on them. And when I say everybody, I mean everybody. It wouldn’t surprise me if one day a coach pulls up and it’s full of people and their dogs come to sample what it feels like to empty their bowels on a different field for once – the dogs that is, not the humans. This is a massive source of frustration for me, but that’s something to vent about at another time. My obsessiveness is shown well – and at its most embarrassing – if I tell you about recent events on our pitch.
Our pitch hasn’t been cut for months. It feels like years. The council only cut it at certain times of the year and because of the wet weather the private company that the club have employed won’t cut it because their vehicles can’t get purchase in the inevitable mud. Further to this, despite several pleas, we’ve not even been able to get use of a petrol mower. So, as a result, for what feels like an endless amount of time, our pitch has been allowed to grow. And grow. And grow. Subsequently, in lots of places it’s several inches thick, meaning that we’ve played games where it’s been difficult to make the ball roll at times!
Cue me. The least that I’ve been able to do over the last few months is to make sure that the lines are kept fresh. If the grass is far too long, at least I can make it look as much like a football pitch as possible. But I haven’t been able to let it end there. Oh no. When I can, I’ve been getting there very early to mark the lines, but with an ulterior motive. Some days I’ve sank low enough to find myself on my hands and knees ripping grass out of the pitch, especially in the corners. I’ll kind of crawl along, ripping handfuls of grass out and throwing them away quickly so that anyone watching me from nearby houses might just think that they’re seeing things. Because no one’s that ridiculous right? Wrong. I have indeed been giving our pitch a kind of hand cut, if you like. Sadly, when my son has accompanied me, I’ve had him doing it too!
At other similarly shameful times I’ve taken our garden shears down – both the lawn edgers and the actual hedge cutters – and furtively stood there cutting as much as I could without taking so much time that I look too stupid and get caught by loads of dog walkers. I’ve genuinely considered just taking scissors to it, so that there was a bit less grass, but also a bit less chance of being seen! However, I’m not quite daft enough to imagine that several householders have watched me, intrigued, from their bedroom windows while slowly shaking their heads. I have no explanation to offer them or you other than to say that I’m obsessed by my part in grassroots football (and I know that there’s a joke in there somewhere), but it’s a level of obsession that I genuinely miss.
And while you try to rid your mind of the sight of a bloke on his hands and knees crawling around yanking grass out of a massive patch of grass, I’m sure you’ll enjoy the fact that about a week ago, around a week or so after the season was actually stopped, the grass was finally cut!
The third thing that I miss horribly about grassroots football is the social side of things. I’m a quiet, shy lad, but while I’ve been a coach I’ve been forced to talk to parents. And I’ll be honest, I don’t always enjoy talking to my own parents, let alone anyone else’s! But I genuinely feel that the social side of the game has really helped me as a person. The parents of my team have become quite a close-knit bunch and they are incredibly supportive of me, something that I appreciate hugely. I try to make a point of speaking to as many people as possible on matchday, time allowing, and I love just getting round people and saying ‘Hello’ and asking about their day or their week. Who knew this actually bothering with folk could be so nice?!
This season, as a group of parents – my son also plays for our team – we’ve sat in meetings planning various next steps for our team as well as fighting their corner within the club and the support has been genuinely heart-warming. Having been deprived of their company, I’m finding I miss them terribly! And I really barely know any of them, but this thing we have in common has absolutely united us over the last few years. It’s been a real surprise to find out how much I miss this social aspect of my grassroots life.
I even miss the social side of preparing for a match. I’m joined for every home game by Nigel, one of the other parents who coaches and helps me out. He’s invaluable. But we chat and laugh and joke when we’re putting up the goals – mainly about our inability to put up the goals – and it’s something I find I’m really missing about early Sunday mornings.
On a similar social note, another thing that I find I’m missing is the WhatsApp groups! During the season it would feel like my phone was almost constantly buzzing with notifications. As a member of several football related groups there was always someone wanting to relay a message and this multiplied when trying to cope with the constant rain and storms we seemed to be having earlier in the year. At that point it was rare that a day went by when you weren’t updating the opposition on the state of the pitch or letting people know that as far you knew the game at the weekend was still on. Or more likely, that the game at the weekend had been cancelled, yet again.
Now, these groups are eerily quiet. If there is a message on one of them, I invariably get a bit of a shock. Thoughts turn to next season and then you open it up and it’s nothing of any real consequence.
Strange how things change so dramatically. Sometimes, being so snowed under with messages to read, respond to or just send got a bit much. There were times when it was just an irritation, something that while trying to do a job and be a dad and husband, I just didn’t really have the time or patience for. Now, in the midst of a lockdown and with the prospect of any football still a long way beyond the horizon, it’d be lovely to send the weekly message about our game at the weekend, where we were playing and when we should get there!
Of course one of the main things to miss about being involved in grassroots football is the actual coaching. Watching the progress of my lads when at times they’ve been so up against it this year has been great. And it’s always a pleasure watching players develop. However, I think what I mainly miss about coaching is watching it all go wrong. And that’s easy to say now when I’m not in amongst it. I certainly haven’t enjoyed it while it’s been happening. But now, when every day can feel a bit of a matter of life and death, it’s just funny to remember the things that can and will go wrong.
Picture the scene. You’ve checked they’re all listening, got them quiet and you may even have made them all sit down, because that’s when ears work best of course! You explain the drill, maybe even three times because you want it to sink in, right? You’ve even given it a run through with one of the kids or another coach to demonstrate how it should pan out. And then you tell them, “Right, off you go.”
The responses at this point vary. But I’m sure we’ve all heard or witnessed every last one of them. Take your pick from,
At least one player is stood, stock still, blank faced before asking, “Wait, what’re we doing?” And when I say at least one, we all know that it could be every last kid.
A selection of kids or even every kid just does the drill completely wrong and much to your amazement some of what’s going on bares absolutely no resemblance to what you’d talked them through. With my team there’s even a chance someone’s pulled out a rugby ball. They might even be hitting it with a golf club.
You realise that you explained it wrongly. You might even consult some kind of notes and see that what you’ve got them doing and what you’d drawn out and written down are two completely different things.
A dog walks past/plane goes over/crisp packet blows by/literally anything happens that isn’t at all football related and one by one your players stop to watch.
It’s a difficult drill – these ones usually don’t involve a football – and suddenly an abundance of kids needs either the toilet or a drink.
Literally any scenario you can think of.
We know it’s not all like that though. I obviously miss the sessions where it all goes right – and we do have some of them! Some nights we’ll run a session where from minute one they’re all giving 100% effort, the passing is sharp, everyone’s eager and there are smiles on every face. You then have a practice game and everything you’ve worked on for the previous 45 minutes is there for all to see.
I miss making mistakes. And boy can I make them. We have a squad of 15 and there’s rarely a session or a game goes by when I don’t get names wrong. On more than one occasion I’ve sent a team out short of at least one player. Sometimes at the start of the game, but more often than not, for the second half. I’m an absolute master at losing track of the changes I’ve made at half-time and sending out a team of 8 for a nine-a-side game. Sometimes I’ve eve watched in horror as we have two players lining up in the same position before realising I’ve sent out one too many. The game’s never actually started like this, but there will inevitably be a time when it happens!
In the past – although I seem to be learning my lesson here – I’ve turned up for a game with no match ball. Luckily, I live around the corner form the pitches and have time to nip home, but it’s an interesting mistake to make. I’ve put the goals up wrongly, only to stand back to admire my handy work and find a ridiculously sagging crossbar or just some ridiculous shape that I’ve created. One of our players even managed to turn up without shorts this year, so I think my influence is clearly having an effect!
The final thing that I miss has to be game related. But I don’t just miss games. I miss the adrenaline involved. There can’t be many other feelings like this; not that can be related on a family friendly blog anyway. It’s that feeling as your keeper makes a brilliant save. Ours seems to specialise in saving penalties and it always feels amazing to watch. For me, it’s when my son scores a goal or even when he plays a pass that leads to the same for one of his team mates. It’s in the last ditch tackle from the kid you didn’t think would get there and it’s there in the minutes leading up to a kick-off, when optimism is at its highest.
This season we’ve had a lot of adrenaline fuelled times. During one early home game though, the adrenaline got unusually high. We were 1-4 down at half time and to be honest when we got them in to talk there weren’t a lot of positives. The lads were told in no uncertain terms to go out and prove a point in the second half. I knew that the game wasn’t beyond us and said as much, but what happened over the next half hour was stunning. We grabbed the first goal of the half and the second, but then conceded again to leave the score at 3-5 with around 15 minutes to go. However, my lads simply reacted once more and used this setback to push themselves further. Now, I’m usually reasonably calm on the touchline, if probably a bit too involved in terms of calling out instructions. However, my adrenaline levels were far too high at this point and as we scored again I was a parent more than a coach, just shouting encouragement as much as I could while trying not to jump up and down too much!
Amazingly, with around 5 minutes to go we’d levelled the score and our opposition looked out for the count. By this point I’d regained some composure and was able to look at the game from a more tactical point of view, but once we went ahead I was back to simply bouncing up and down and screeching.
We won the game 7-5 in the end and I found myself apologising to the opposition coach at the end, conscious of the fact that I’d been like Zebedee for the previous twenty minutes. I’ll never forget the following moments however as the adrenaline coursed through my system. My son nearly knocked me over as he came over at the end and it was an enormous dad and son hug. As we got everyone in afterwards – parents, family and players – it was like one enormous smile and although I couldn’t tell you what I said, it was all positive and felt fantastic to say. I miss those levels of adrenaline hugely.
So there we have it. In the midst of a global pandemic and with life as we’ve known it changing by the day, I find myself still missing football. Ridiculous when you think of it with your sane adult head on. Yet I know that many of you reading this will feel exactly the same.
It’s 2.31am. My ears are ringing and my head is full of songs. Sleep, at least for a little while, is no longer an option. So I get up to write some thoughts down to go towards this blog. Given the current climate it’s best to point out that I’ve not come down with the dreaded virus and it’s not worrying about the toilet roll and paracetamol stocks that’s woken me up so soon after getting to bed. No, I’ve got another bout of middle age gigging to blame. Clearly, the excitement of two gigs in 5 months is just too much to handle for this particular 48-year-old.
Around mid afternoon it didn’t look like this gig was going to happen for us. My wife is feeling ill and despite the fact that she’s doing her best to just soldier on through it, it doesn’t seem like the right thing to do. We’re going to drag ourselves into Leeds (I say drag; it’s a whole 6 miles or so!) and there’s a distinct possibility that we could be heading home before the first support band is done. I’ve said it before here and I’ll say it again; going to gigs in your middle age is not the experience that you would have had in your teens or twenties. Now, we have a whole load of other factors to consider.
One of these factors is the babysitter and having not heard back from ours for a while we were beginning to worry that they’d forgot. Sure enough, a mid afternoon text confirms that, yes, they’d forgot! A little while later though, they confirm that they’ll be here and it’s all systems go, but at a lot more relaxed pace than ever before. In fact let’s call it all systems slow.
Before I know it though, we’re heading out of the door, having said a fairly straightforward goodbye to our kids, who are normally a great deal more fretful than this. On reflection it’s clear that having had another night out just a few short months ago our children are becoming more accepting of our gallivanting. Considering that this is probably our second night out in the last calendar year it’s indeed very accepting of them to not be hanging off our legs and crying as we head down the hallway. On reflection though, given the global pandemic that we’re experiencing, it’s best that we don’t get used to this going out lark. I mean, I can always turn all the lights off in the kitchen and ask Alexa to play Embrace every so often and just jump around a bit, while having someone else in the house occasionally stand on my feet. I’m sure it’s much the same. Maybe this going out is actually overrated.
So tonight we’re off to see Embrace at Leeds First Direct Arena. Embrace are easily one of our favourite bands, if not the favourite, and in the car on the way we find ourselves discussing just how many times we’ve actually seen them live. We settle on somewhere near 30 times, so tonight is kind of a big deal.
As usual when we get in there I’m reticent to move too far forward. I’m a big fan of my toes and none too keen on other people’s elbows. Never have been. My poorly wife however has other ideas and in what seems like seconds we’ve snaked our way through the crowd, levitated a bit – as mentioned before, it’s one of her super powers – and hovered into a space about 5 yards from the front without anybody else batting an eyelid. Being the rebellious type these days, I haven’t even apologised to any one of those we’ve stood in front of either. Rock, and indeed, roll.
We take our place just in time to catch the last bit of local Leeds indie Legends Cud’s set. Having not particularly been a fan back in the day, it’s no great shame to have missed them, but there is just about enough time to realise that these days, singer Carl Puttnam is quite the ringer for Swiss Toni off The Fast Show. So while he’s throwing a few shapes as the set draws to a close I’m listening closely for any lyrics about ‘making love to a beautiful woman’ or any mention of junior salesman Paul. Sadly, it seems we must have missed that particular tune.
With a bit of time until main support Starsailor take to the stage I have a little look around me. It’s still a little bit weird to see genuine grey-haired folk standing around at a gig, especially so far forward. They’re usually stood around the sound desk just nodding. But then reality bites and I realise that although I’m not completely grey – more a rather suave salt and pepper sort of look these days – I’m very much one of this middle aged gang. And as much as I kid myself that I’m still physically fit for my age, I’m going to feel this in the morning. I would certainly hate to think that I’d done it on a school night and was faced with a day at work the next day.
As Starsailor arrive and launch into their first song, something incredible happens. I’ve said before that I’m terrible with lyrics and will frequently either forget them or just sing my own version with an inane grin on my face. I kid myself that this tactic will convince people that I’m high and therefore incredibly cool, rather than just quite old and forgetful. One day, you’ll find me right at the back of an Embrace gig, just doing my ironing and humming along, looking incredibly pleased with myself. Please dear reader, have a look at the address on the tag around my neck and have someone at the venue stick me in a taxi if it happens. However, tonight as the band play Alcoholic I’m transported back 19 or so years. Suddenly, I know every word. Every one of them. No really, all of the words. I have no idea where this gift comes from, but it’s a lovely feeling. Maybe Starsailor hold the key to eternal youth or something. I resolve to ask James Walsh about this should I ever bump into him in either of my favourite haunts, Asda Morley, or Sainsbury’s at the White Rose Centre. I’m sure it won’t be long given everybody’s current obsession with panic buying hand sanitizer and beans. See you Wednesday, James.
Starsailor’s set is fantastic. James’ voice is as powerful as ever and the band are wonderfully tight. They streak through some of the classics – Four to The Floor, Poor Misguided Fool and Silence Is Easy sounding particularly good – before ending with a fantastic version of Good Souls.
However, by 9.15, whatever has gone before is, in the nicest way possible, forgotten. For two reasons. One: my middle aged feet are killing. I’ve chosen to wear Converse boots and in return they’ve chosen to make me feel like I’ve got the swollen feet of an ultra marathon runner. I resolve to contact Hush Puppies about producing a special middle-aged gig-goers shoe. Something a little bit trendy, yet above all, comfortable. And featuring Velcro so I we don’t have to bend for too long fussing with laces. My legs hurt as well, and my back doesn’t seem to be enjoying my efforts at dancing along.
Then the house lights go down and the stage lights go into overdrive. There’s dry ice rising at the same rate as the tension. And then, we’re off. It’s Embrace.
The opening three songs – ‘All You Good Good People’, ‘My Weakness Is None of Your Business’ and ‘Come Back to What You Know’ – are amazing, as well as making for a shit-hot Scrabble score. In particular, the opener brings back some particularly simple but happy memories. I’m transported back to living in our first flat in Leeds and hearing someone leaving the pub next door singing the song at the top of their voice and being sat smiling at the fact that there were others who’d fallen in love with this still relatively new band. And, super special middle age bonus time; I also know a lot of the words! ‘All You Good Good People’ always makes me feel like I’m part of something, like I’m one of the people that it’s for. Maybe after all of these years I am. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Despite the sore feet and creaking knees, I’m smiling along, happy to be here.
In amongst a section of songs from the album ‘Out of Nothing’. ‘Someday’ stands out. It sounds great and like everything in the set tonight, it simply soars. By the time we’re singing along to the line ‘a light is gonna shine, for you and I’ I’m in my own little world and probably screeching at the top of my voice. I might even have my arms stretched up in the air like I’m having a Polyphonic Spree moment. Awkward. I’ve said this in middle age gigging blogs before, but apologies if you read this and realise you were standing near me.
Alongside ‘Someday’ there’s ‘A Glorious Day’ which is another one that brings the memories flooding back, especially here in Leeds, where Embrace’s own mini festival of the same name took place some years back in Millenium Square. We attended both days and then, while watching the DVD of it (remember them old folk?) some months later we noticed a familiar face could be seen repeatedly in the crowd – me! It’s now known in the house as ‘my gig’, often prompting the tired old line of ‘Have you seen Embrace at my gig?’ and is my very own claim to fame, albeit it a pretty poor one!
The pace of things picks up again as the band play ‘Last Gas’ and ‘One Big Family’. During both we’re guided through a bit of a singalong by Danny as we scream out the ba-ba-ba- sections. All of a sudden there’s something of the Bruce Forsyths about him as he motions and mimes to us when it’s ‘our turn’. Little does he know that in my head I’m fulfilling something of a lifelong ambition singing back-ups for the band!
During ‘Higher Sights’ and ‘Retread’ I think I manage to put myself in some kind of trance. It’s possible that this is a middle age thing. It may not actually be a trance, more that it’s just way past my bed time and I’m not used to being out of the house. However, for the sake of the music, let’s call it a trance. Both are songs that I love. Coincidentally and somewhat improbably, given my lack of memory for lyrics, both are songs that I know the words to. Hence the fact that it’s not long before I’m back to screeching at the top of my voice. I may have even closed my eyes for few seconds at one point during ‘Retread’ for the refrain of ‘Will you fight?’ later on in the song. The point is that the gig has reached some kind of peak at this point. This is why we love music, why we follow bands and, in terms of the blog, why we’re still hauling our tired bodies off the settee to go and throw ourselves around in rooms full of like-minded souls in our middle age.
After my trance/impromptu middle aged nap, I find myself checking my watch. I’ve staved off the yawning so far, but my body is telling me that it’s late. More middle age flagging than middle aged gigging. Oh for the days of being a teenager or in my early twenties again when I would leave the gig sweaty and shattered, but then continue on with the evening until the sun was coming up.
I’m perked up somewhat by the sound of ‘Gravity’. This was the first dance at our wedding and – ridiculous as it sounds – we even invited the band. It genuinely felt like the right thing to do given how much Embrace meant to us. We didn’t think for a second that they’d show up, but having met them we knew that our invite and accompanying letter would at the very least raise a smile. As it turned out the band sent us a congratulations card which was read out at the reception much to our delight. ‘Congratu-fucking-lations’ it said and the person reading out the cards just read it word for word, like Ron Burgundy on the autocue! As ‘Gravity’ begins I wrap my arms around my wife and we sing and dance along together – any excuse for a cuddle! It’s another wonderful moment in yet another wonderful Embrace gig.
And then, Danny says a few sentences that are equal parts thrilling and terrifying to me and probably every other middle aged gig-goer in the room. ‘We haven’t asked this once yet, but we will now. We want you to go mad, jumping up and down for this next one.’ He advises us to settle back down during the verses, like some kind of health advisor who’s all too aware of the creaking joints and aching muscles in front of him. But it’s with some trepidation that we go along with the notion of going mad during the more up tempo section. It’s time for Ashes.
In what is now time-honoured tradition as the song starts Danny leans forward towards the audience and implores us to pogo by waving his arms and shouting ‘Up, up, up, up.’ And up we go.
Brilliantly, I find I can bounce for ages – a boast that I should only really share with toddlers and Tigger, but I’m pretty pleased with myself all the same. As always, the song is immense and the atmosphere in the crowd lifts another few notches. But it’s over all too soon. I resist an ever-growing urge to check my heart rate via my watch and concentrate on applauding the band as they leave the stage, safe in the knowledge that they’ll be back for an encore.
Sure enough, in what seems like no time, Embrace are back. It’s very much a sing-a-long encore ending with ‘Fireworks’ and ‘The Good Will Out’ and ensures that the whole night ends at very much a late forties friendly kind of pace. Even then though, there’s time for one last personal moment of magic. As he walks across the stage towards the end of the final song Danny is eyeing the crowd and giving thumbs ups. As he approaches my section of the audience, I swear I catch his eye and then, almost in slow motion he aims a thumbs up in my direction. In fact, not in ,my direction, more straight at me. My arms are already raised and I give an instinctive thumbs up back, he nods and in the blink of an eye the moment passes. But it was our moment. Even as a middle age gig goer, it’s a thrill.
Shortly afterwards the music stops, the band assemble at the front of the stage and there’s a last bow before they’re gone. Danny, Richard, Mike, Steve and Mickey, thanks. You’ve made an old man very happy indeed for around about the 30th time!
Picture the scene. Tea time in an ordinary three bedroomed semi in suburban Leeds. The telly’s on. A family – mine – are sat around watching a bit of post football television.
“You’re not going out again? Really?”
“You’re always going out! It’s ridiculous. What about me?”
Now if you’re thinking that this is perhaps my middle aged reaction to my teenage daughter heading out on some shopping trip or hanging about with ‘the girls’, then you’d be wrong. Horribly wrong. This is in fact the kind of dialogue that my kids hurled my way on Saturday evening when, without warning – unless you count the many warnings that they simply didn’t listen to – me and my wife headed out to watch The Bluetones at Leeds Stylus.
The sense of outrage is palpable. The sheer horror undisguised. The grief is multiplied by the fact that it’s Uncle Richard babysitting and not fun loving, just out of his teens cousin, Martin. Thankfully though, it’s mostly put right by the simple fact that we’re having pizza for tea. This serves to calm the nerves and rationalise the fears of what might happen should your parents have the brass neck to go out for the second time this year, for a few hours. Kids eh? Possibly the simplest and most complex things ever to walk the face of planet Earth.
As I’ve documented in a previous blog, middle aged gigging is fraught with tension, pitfalls and problems. The first of these is brought to light fairly quickly this evening when we realise that we don’t know where the gig actually is. Well, we know where, but we don’t recognise the name of the venue. And this was never the case when we were young and cool. A Google search allays a few of our fears, but even when we’ve parked up, we don’t really know where we’re going. For a start it seems to be part of the student’s union and sadly, it’s been a long time since either of us were students.
And this brings into play another fear. Will there be actual students at our gig? Are we about to have to watch an entire gig from one of our favourite bands while simultaneously hiding in a corner trying to disguise the fact that we’re the oldest swingers in town. And by ‘swingers’ I mean people attending a gig, not people conducting illicit sexual relations with the partners of other middle aged folk. I mean, even the image of me naked, let alone other more out-of-shape-forty-and fifty-somethings is enough to prompt you, dear reader, to be sick in your mouth. So come on, pull yourselves together: stop picturing me naked and read on!
Thankfully, our first element of tension, is dissolved when after a relatively short walk I find memories of my PGCE at the University of Leeds come flooding back. I know – sort of – exactly where I am and before we know it we’re heading into the building and down the stairs towards the Stylus. We don’t have a ticket though and instead are relying on picking them up on the door, so there’s an anxious wait while the girl scans the list before finally finding our names and highlighting them. She stamps our hands and we’re in. However, here’s another potential crisis point if you’re a middle aged gig goer. How can you preserve the memory in the time honoured fashion if there’s no ticket? What do I put in a box of memories that’s destined for the loft? What do I frame with other tickets in order to attempt interesting artwork that the wife will not allow on our walls?
Overcoming this tiny existential crisis we go into the gig. It’s early and the crowd is sparse so we head to the front. Sort of. I’ve always been too polite at gigs. It’s got worse as I’ve got older. So now, in middle age, while I’ve got a bit bolder in moving forward I’m still unlikely to stand straight in front of those people who’ve left a gap. Don’t get me wrong, it’s their fault if they’ve left a gap and someone’s inevitably going to stand there, but it most likely won’t be me. So we stand and ponder for a couple of minutes. My wife is a lot shorter than me – a clause that will undoubtedly get me into trouble – while retaining her status as an intellectual giant – a clause that might just get me out of jail – so she likes to be as far forward as possible. So we’re caught between two stools, so to speak.
I’ve been going to gigs with my wife for a very long time. It’s a wonderful thing. We like much of the same music and it helps us get on. I’ve noticed my wife has certain mystical powers that only come out at gig time, but I’ll only let you in on the one in case you’re ever at the same gig as me and we need to use her power’s for the greater good. She can levitate. Genuinely levitate. And as such, while I’m worrying about standing in front of a couple near the front, she levitates into the space, forcing me to follow. I’ve let slip that she does mind control as well now. But she’s levitated and I’ve not even noticed her moving, which in turn helps me overcome my middle aged gig politeness. We’re now just three people from the front of the stage. If this was someone like Take That I could reach out and touch Mark Owen’s testicles as he gyrated in front of me. But it’s not and I doubt Mark Morriss would enjoy such over familiar fandom. Anyway, we’re no longer between two stools. Just metaphorically within touching distance of Mark Owen’s scrotum. It’s been quite a journey in a very short space of time.
As a younger man I had a reasonably encyclopedic knowledge of music, especially with what was new at the time. So during what are referred to generally these days as ‘The Britpop Years’ I knew my stuff. And of course, this is where my love of The Bluetones came from. Nowadays however, my grasp of things has slipped. Having a career, a marriage, children etc; these commitments will get in the way of any kind of interests and my knowledge of bands has suffered. Hence tonight, even though I’ve read who they are, I still have no idea who the support band are. In fact, there are two support bands, but being middle aged these days, the temptations of having a proper tea and staying in the warmth for a little bit longer meant that we weren’t out in time to be queuing at the doors and being two of the 23 people who may have watched the first support.
We make it in time to catch the second support though, although due to middle aged hearing and a lack of annunciation on the singer’s part I couldn’t tell you what they’re called. However, I can furnish you with a few observations. Firstly, they sound and dress a bit like Joy Division. There are hints of The Fall in there too. Secondly, they swear quite a bit. ‘Fuck’ this and ‘fuck’ that and no doubt ‘fuck’ the other as well. Risqué. Thirdly, they’re quite brave. Why? Well they follow one song that has a chorus of ‘this in not a joke, not a fucking joke’ with another that asks ‘Can I speak to a manager please?’ If you think about it there’s a certain level of confidence there, right?
Once they’ve left the stage a glance at my watch tells me that we’ve got about 25 minutes until our heroes, The Bluetones arrive. They’re touring their album Science and Nature, released in 2000, which for fans is a bit of a classic. Not only that though, having played the album through in its entirety, the lads would be back with a second ‘Greatest Hits’ set afterwards. This is great in theory; a real treat. However, given my age, it actually throws up another middle age gigging problem. By the end of these two sets, while I may experience a certain euphoria, to misquote Khia, my legs, my back, my everything is going to hurt. It’s bad enough having to stand still for this long, but tapping a foot, raising the odd hand, arm, pair of hands to clap, actual dancing, well of this is going to take its toll. And that was never a worry when I was a younger gig goer. And this is before we even give a thought to what state we’ll be in the next day.
Age is a constant concern at gigs these days and as such I find myself turning around to check the rest of the audience. I scan both balconies – although their more like ledges in the Stylus – and have a good look at everyone behind me and I’m more than a bit pleased to see so much grey and white hair, as well as many a bald head. We’re all middle aged gigging together and as far as I can see there’s not a hipster student type in site!
There is one more slight problem of a middle aged nature, however. It’s cold out tonight and I’m feeling the cold a little bit more these days – another reason to revoke my Geordie membership as well, I know. So I’m wearing a jacket. It’s not quite sitting at the football with a tartan blanket round my knees, but I feel that it marks me out as old. It reminds me, once again, that middle age has well and truly hit, but there’s nothing else for it. The days of being cool are sadly long gone.With a two hour set ahead of me I’m going to get hot, but there’s no way that I’m tying my jacket round my waist. I can’t avoid feeling like a bit of a twat though. That said, I’m surrounded by middle-aged gig goers, so I can afford to relax a little bit and it wouldn’t be a surprise to find more jackets knocking about. As long as there are no gilets, eh?
Whatever my age, the pre-gig excitement remains the same. So as 9pm approaches, I’m watching the door at the side of the stage like a hawk. And when it opens a fraction, letting in a tiny bit of light, my heart leaps a little bit. Seconds later and our heroes are taking to the stage. Without checking I’d say it’s around 24 years, maybe more, since I first saw them live, but just the sight of The Bluetones walking onstage still makes me smile. In fact, as I get older and especially as a few years ago we attended their ‘farewell’ tour and I thought I’d lost this forever, I think it makes me smile a whole lot more. It’s widened a little bit more tonight as well as the lads are resplendent in white jeans and white lab coats – Science and Nature, you see?
The gig is an absolute triumph. Frontman Mark is on top form, regaling us with tale after tale of life in The Bluetones over the years. And the songs don’t sound bad either! First up it’s Science and Nature and we’re treated to a number of favourites. It’s an album I’ve always loved and the sound of opener Zorro immediately lifts my spirits a little bit more. Suddenly the self consciousness of the middle age gigger is gone. I don’t feel like a mature student or in fact a bloody English teacher and I’m shuffling from foot to foot in something that resembles at least a kind of rhythm.
We’re quickly in to ‘The Last of the Great Navigators’ and Mark is crooning the line about believing ‘there’s something good around the corner’ and do you know what, he’s never sounded more convincing. The beautiful ‘Tiger Lily’ is next before drummer Eds takes centre stage – kind of – with the ‘Ch-ch-ch-ch’ refrain from ‘Mudslide’. We’d been listening to this round the tea table before we came out and bizarrely none of the family can actually do it, apart from me. As I’m the bloke who always sings the wrong lyrics this is quite the achievement, believe me! As the song kicks in and I’m doing it – obviously – my wife turns around with a knowing smile. A knowing smile that says, ‘Yes, you can make a noise, but face facts love, when it comes to actual words you’re like a four-year-old.’ I don’t care and I’ll take any victory I can get, even if it is that I make noises better than anyone else.
Perhaps the last time I heard ‘Blood Bubble’ live was when we saw this album toured originally, although given my age and my memory, I could be wrong. But it’s sounding great tonight. I’m a sucker for an instrumental. And then we’re into the wonderful run of ‘Autophilia’ and ‘Keep The Home Fires Burning’. By now I may well be singing – loosely – at the top of my voice. This makes me a little self conscious as you don’t want to spoil anyone else’s night, but gig after gig after gig I can’t help it. I suppose after all these years these songs just mean a lot and I rationalise my brief worries with the thought that the band’s amps and mikes might just make them a bit louder than me anyway. If you’re reading this and thinking you were stood near me as I yelled along and it spoilt your night, I’m sorry. And I’ll extend my apologies for getting the words wrong so much as well. I was in my element though!
The set ends in frankly remarkable fashion, even if it was completely scheduled and not a surprise to many present who simply know the album. I’d like to think I speak for a lot of Bluetones fans though when I express my total and utter undying love for ‘Slackjaw’, the band’s humble, beautiful and wonderful ode to lost love. It’s a song I could listen to again and again and not ever tire of, with the added bonus that it’s short enough even for a perennial lyric loser like myself to remember all the way through! And with that in mind, if you’re reading this Mr. Morriss (either of you) I’m available for back up vocals on this one in the future.
A brilliant set is ended with the wonderful ‘Emily’s Pine’ and the band are off stage as quick as a flash. We’re into what Mark has referred to as an interval for the benefit of an ageing audience and he’s even given us permission to retire to the foyer to purchase drinks and locally sourced ice creams, but apart from a few middle age bladders being emptied, as you’d expect, we’re going nowhere. (And I hope you appreciate the lack of a ‘never’ in there to avoid using an awful pun, Bluetones fans).
Before there’s time for my joints to seize up the boys are back on stage and we have the second half of the show to look forward to. This time it’s a ‘Greatest Hits’ set and we’re treated to a few that aren’t always played, like ‘Freeze Dried Pop’ – revealed by Mark as a potential top 27 hit that never happened – and ‘Fast Boy’.
But it’s the old favourites that dominate and put the perfect glaze on tonight’s gig. ‘Bluetonic’, ‘Never Going Nowhere’ (with Mark chanelling The Eurythmics), ‘Solomon Bites The Worm’ and many more, as they say, are played to the delight of all in the crowd. We end with ‘If’ and a brilliant moment of Bluetones magic as Mark asks for the phone of the woman in front of us in order to film the whole thing for her. There are cameo appearances for the rest of the band including a lingering shot of Adam’s crotch before it’s handed back. Tomorrow, the video will ‘go viral’ as they say, albeit on a smallish, Bluetones sized scale and thousands will view it on Twitter. I will spend much of the day ruing the fact that it could have been me and thinking about the benefits it would have had for this blog! I gather myself, forget the blog – knowing my luck Mark wouldn’t have pressed ‘record’ anyway and look to the stage. After a well deserved bow The Bluetones are gone and it’s almost time to head home. But what a night!
We end the night with a visit to the merchandise stall to make some apt age-related purchases, including a tea towel and some fridge magnets. Never has gigging felt so middle aged and yet so bloody brilliant. I’m shattered, my feet hurt, my ears are ringing and I know that Sunday is already even more of a write-off than usual, but boy am I happy! The Bluetones are a band to be cherished and thankfully – and you promised, Mark – they’ll be back again in 2020. And there are new songs to look forward to as well. Can’t wait. The battle for renewed gig fitness starts now for this middle-aged gig goer!
As you get older everyday things will either get a bit more difficult or you’ll find that, having gained knowledge over time, you’ve become quite the expert. So for instance, as I’ve got older running has become harder. My knees aren’t what they used to be and out of nowhere I’ve developed a bit of a paunch that I now have to haul around as I run. However, as the years have gone by I’ve got better at sexy time. If you’ll pardon the pun, this comes with experience. I’ve become a passionate and considerate lover. Honestly, my passion can be measured by the fact that my wife can often no longer cope with its intensity. Lots of the time nowadays, unable to handle my passion, she’ll shout, ‘Get off me!’ because she knows that at my expert level, sexy time will almost be too much.
But enough of that. A man can only bare so much of his soul. I really hope that has been one of the most difficult paragraphs some of my friends have ever read though!
One of the things that has definitely got more difficult as I’ve got older is also one of the things that I seem to have spent most of my life doing. Going to gigs. Concerts. Watching a live band. Or, if you’re my dad, jigging. Whatever you might call it, it’s something I’ve been doing since I was about fifteen. The first band I saw live was Europe. That’s right, Europe of ‘Final Countdown’ fame. They of the big hair and leather trousers. And I can’t lie and tell you it was regrettable. It wasn’t. That gig made me fall in love with live music. I watched in awe as they completely commanded the audience and saw a potential future career as I watched ladies’ pants being thrown onstage at Joey Tempest. What was not to like about this?
While my musical tastes have changed over the years, my desire to go and watch bands has not. But what has changed is that my ability to watch bands has declined. In short, I’ve got worse at going to gigs. And it’s not as simple as retiring from being down the front and moving back towards the sound desk either. If anything I’ve got better and began to move further forward as the years have progressed.
Going to a gig can be an exhausting experience. The 15-year-old me left that Europe gig like a typically sweaty teenager having jumped around – and quite possibly indulged in some gentle head banging in order to get my long locks flowing a-la Tempest and co – like a proper metal-head for an hour or so. I wasn’t really a proper metal-head; I probably just got a bit carried away. But my point is this: getting carried away at a gig can be an exhausting business and this is OK when you’re under 30. In fact, if you’re fit enough, it’s probably OK if you’re under 40. However, at my age things have changed, gig-wise. Anything even slightly up-tempo, anything that represents a bit more than just shuffling about, and I’m faltering.
But a lack of energy isn’t the only that’s changed about going to gigs in your forties. Let me talk you through my most recent gig experience to illustrate my points.
On a recent Saturday I went to see the band Embrace at the 02 Academy in Leeds. This would be the final gig of a tour to promote the 21st anniversary of their debut album, The Good Will Out. Now Embrace are easily one of my favourite bands, I’ve followed them since they started out, written articles about them, bought their records and merchandise and attended too many of their gigs to mention. We even invited them to our wedding and received a lovely card from them politely explaining that they were out of the country and couldn’t attend. Our first dance was to one of their tunes. If all of that seems sad, then I guess you have to know the band, but believe me there’s a genuine bond between the band and their fans.
On the morning of the gig I just felt tired. I’d done a week at work and coached my football team on the Thursday night. A night out was not top of my list of priorities. That’s middle age for you, right there. Put simply, I was too tired to be bothered about something that I should have been genuinely excited about. I was too tired to be interested about something that I genuinely love. To give further context, this was and is an album that I truly love. There are so many songs on it and so many lyrics within those songs that mean something to me. I was 26 when it came out and pretty much starting to make a life for myself having moved away from home. It would have been around this time that we were planning to move back north from the Midlands and I would have been considering my career options, having not really had a ‘serious’ job after university. ‘The Good Will Out’ made a huge impression on me.
Tired or not, by the time we’ve got to around 5pm the privilege of babysitters has cost us around £200, so I’ll be going to the gig. In case you’re wondering, that’s not the going rate for babysitters, but these ones are my parents, meaning they need a hotel and we took everyone out for a meal on the Saturday; so £200. The doors open tonight at 6pm due to the fact that there’s a curfew in place, so by about 5.50 we’re heading off, safe in the knowledge that the curfew should mean we’ll be home early. How times have changed!
It has to be said that the main worry of this middle-aged couple on approaching the venue wasn’t the choice of clubs to go to afterwards or the ensuing hangover. No, the main worry was parking. I choose to drive nowadays, having left the wild days of drinking behind once children came along. Now we know there’s parking by the venue, but whether we’ll get a space is another thing entirely. This also leads to worries about clothing – it’s not cool to be going out in your coat, but it’s not warm in England in March either! If we get a space in the right car park it’s a very short walk, so at least we can retain an element of cool by not looking too concerned about the weather!
Inside the venue we head straight for the bar. For water. No, really. In fact, I don’t even want a drink of any kind for fearing of having to go to the toilet! Us middle-aged fellas don’t have the bladders that we used to have! But for all the practicalities, the absolute shame of going to a bar and ordering a bottle of water is almost too much to take. The shame is made worse as we’re told that it can’t be served in the bottle; it must be poured into a pint glass. Said shame is then multiplied when it looks like you’re the kind of bloke who takes a girl out and makes her share your pint of water. It’s all I can do not to explain myself to the girl behind the bar, but I stop, knowing that she doesn’t want to know about my bladder or my wife’s problems with dehydration. I leave the bar safe in the knowledge that she’ll find it all out in about 20 years anyway. This is neither the time nor the place for education.
It’s early and the crowd sparse as a result. We stand out like a beacon with our pint of water so we huddle round it just to keep it reasonably well hidden. At this point in time I’ve never felt so old. And this brings us to the next feature of going to gigs in middle age; the chance that you’re the oldest person there. We quickly establish that we’re not. Or at least we don’t look anywhere near as old as some. Some of our contemporaries this evening have actual white hair, so they must be older than us. But it’s still a genuine worry. No one wants to be the oldest swinger in town (and not that type of swinger, by the way).
Just when we’ve calmed our worries on this score though, we spot something that both unnerves us and sets us off in fits of giggles. Over to the side of the now ever-increasing crowd are three fellow gig-goers, who themselves stand out for all the wrong reasons. But they’re not huddled around a pint of iced water. Oh no. They stand out because their combined age can’t actually be a lot higher than mine alone. In fact, their combined age might actually be younger than me! And while their undoubted youth is one thing, it’s their attire that really catches my eye. All three are dressed in jeans, t-shirts and trainers. But it’s the kind of jean that makes it almost impossible for me to look away. Skinny jeans that sit way too high above the ankle. As my dad used to say, it’s like they need to put some jam on their shoes and invite their trousers down for tea. And as if to draw attention to the fact they’ve coupled their jeans with white sports socks. So you have jeans at calf level, followed by an inch or two of pale skin and then some bright white socks. It really makes for quite the sight.
This relates directly to being a middle age gig goer as well. On reflection, I realise that they were simply kids being kids. Who am I to judge their look? Perhaps they would have laughed at my attempts to look like Ian Brown when I was their age. And perhaps they’d have been justified. But for now, given my own middle age insecurities, it’s easier just to giggle a bit.
After a while, I feel more settled. We’ve taken turns holding the water, partly to lessen the impact on our image and partly because due to the amount of ice in it it’s too cold for our fragile middle-aged hands! The lights dim further and the support band enters the fray and it becomes clear that we have another middle age problem. It’s all too loud and too bright! The band is ‘Land Sharks’ and they feature two of tonight’s headliners, Embrace, so it feels rude to be behaving like a pensioner who wandered in through a side door by mistake. But it really is too loud and too bright! I’m beginning to question whether I can actually look in the direction of the stage when I realise I’m quite enjoying them. ‘Land Sharks’ are undoubtedly rocky (and that’s easily the most middle age clause I’ve typed in a long time), but it’s likeable; there’s a tune and a bit of a groove. And the singer is a proper old school frontman too. He commands the stage in a part Jagger, part Plant way and this means that I forget about the lights and forget how loud it is in favour of simply enjoying myself. I’m starting to feel a lot less out-of-place. I’m relaxed and although I can’t sing along, I’m definitely smiling.
By the time Land Sharks leave the stage I’m completely comfortable. Maybe they can add that type of thing to their posters – Land Sharks; relaxing the middle-aged since 2019. My thoughts turn to Embrace and I’m now genuinely excited by the prospect of seeing them again. But there are other middle-aged problems to contend with yet.
Firstly, my feet hurt. I mean really hurt. To use Geordie parlance, they knack. I’ve probably been standing here for less than an hour, but my feet are screaming that they’ve had enough. They’re telling the grown up section of my brain to go home and watch telly. I’ve opted for Converse footwear tonight and given their very flat nature, I think that they’re the problem. Mind you, I’ve had forty odd years of being able to stand up as well, so it’s no wonder my feet hurt. I decide to shuffle a bit from foot to foot to try and combat the ache. It doesn’t work – and I must look like an idiot – so I try to relax and shift my balance subtly to different sides of my feet in order to help. Whatever I do must be making me look like I’ve got bladder problems, which is unfair. I’ve got at least another decade before they strike. I have no option but to stand still and put up with it. I think of Land Sharks again and try to just relax.
As time creeps on yet another middle age gig problem arises though. Now I’ve never had the best of memories. However, if we bring spoken language into it, I’m lost. Lyrics, catchphrases, funny sketches from comedy…I can rarely remember it. At least not in any complete kind of form. So here I am, about to watch one of my favourite bands play their first album again in its entirety, and I can’t be sure that I’ll be able to sing along. I feel like my mother. As a child and later as a teenager, I’d be around the house while she was ironing or cooking and would be able to hear her singing. However, it was a distinct style that she had whereby she’d be able to sing actual lyrics for a short while, but it wouldn’t be long before she was just reduced to humming or other noises. Let me give you an example.
Picture my mother – short, dark, of average build for a lady – doing the ironing. It doesn’t matter what she’s ironing. She’s singing along to ‘Walk on By’ by Dionne Warwick. It goes like this.
If you see me walking down the street
And I start to cry each time we meet
Walk on by, walk on by
Dee, dee, dee Dee dee de dee dee dee dee dee dee deee De dee dee De dee dee Do doo doo As you say goodbye Walk on by
My mother can’t remember lyrics either. And she solved this by simply replacing them with noises when she’d forgotten. It seems it’s hereditary too. Although with me I don’t make noises; I just sing the words that either I think it is, or the words I think it should be.
Tonight though, as Embrace play through The Good Will Out, these are songs I’ve known – or maybe not known as well as I thought – for 21 years. Songs I can’t listen to without singing along to, after a fashion. It’s a genuine worry for me that I’ll forget the words to everything and look like some middle age civil servant on a work’s night out. Worse still, I’m about 5 metres from Danny’s microphone, so he’s bound to see me and wonder why I’m at his gig getting all the words wrong. Surely I should be off watching Scouting for Girls or something else equally shite? In my head the whole band are going to see me singing my own words and hate me!
As it happens, I surprise myself. I’m almost word-perfect in my singing along. Pitch perfect? Not so much. But who cares! I probably look a little too lost in the music to appear cool, but it’s an amazing gig. Embrace are, incredible and the songs still mean as much as they did when I first heard them all those years ago. As ever with Embrace it’s a bit like watching a group of old friends up on stage and there’s that wonderful feeling that the band are with us, rather than just artists performing for us. Songs like ‘One Big Family and ‘Retread’ are precious to me and they just sound immense tonight. Middle aged or not, I’ll never get bored of this band or these songs.
By the time the encore comes along though, I’m tired. I’m probably right when I say that I’m too old for this. However, the band play ‘Gravity’, the first dance at my wedding, and with my wife stood in front of me it’s an emotional few minutes and I think I’m safe in saying that it means the world to both of us. And then Danny McNamara has one last surprise. He starts by telling the crowd that he’s not asked us to be jumping up and down tonight and confesses that it’s partly because none of us are getting any younger. He’s not wrong! But then, he asks if we can jump around just once for the song ‘Ashes’. Now, while I adore this song, I’m not sure how long my legs have got left tonight, but I resolve to give it a go. About 5 minutes later, I’m elated, but I feel like I’ve run a marathon. I’m more sweaty than I’d like, but I’ve survived! My feet hurt, my legs ache, but there’s life in the old dog yet.
Let’s do it all again soon, lads! As long as I’ve had a bit of a rest. And if someone could remind me to wear sensible shoes next time, that’d be grand.
It’s 2.31am. My ears are ringing and my head is full of songs. Sleep, at least for a little while, is no longer an option. So I get up to write some thoughts down to go towards this blog. Given the current climate it’s best to point out that I’ve not come down with the dreaded virus and it’s not worrying about the toilet roll and paracetamol stocks that’s woken me up so soon after getting to bed. No, I’ve got another bout of middle age gigging to blame. Clearly, the excitement of two gigs in 5 months is just too much to handle for this particular 48-year-old.
Middle Age Fanclub 