Emailing, an old Danish friend the other day, I recalled the last time I was at a gig, as in music show, ken?
It was December 2018 in Glasgow and the act was Danish singer Myrkur. She’s half-way between folk and heavy metal, and she sings like a lintie. When she caught and held my eye for six seconds, time stood still and my insides melted.
I feared she was looking in bewilderment because life’s vicissitudes have left me looking grim. A comedian doing an outdoor gig on the streets of Edinburgh during the Festival once gave me grief about it, and I wasn’t even watching his show but was some way off looking at something else.
Perhaps I it was because I was the oldest person there…
Perhaps, however, Myrkur was only looking at me because I was the oldest person there. I nearly never went to the show. I’d bought my ticket months before but, as the day drew closer, I began to get cold feet about the journey and the whole gig thing.
I’ll be quite candid with you here and confess that I deplore headbanging and disapprove of whooping. I’d much rather everyone remained seated, sucking boiled sweets and applauding politely. But that’s not the way of it.
Sometimes it pays to be brave
Still, I girded my loins and hied myself thither and, for sure, I did not regret it. Sometimes it pays to be brave. And you had to be, in Glasgow on a Saturday night. I don’t meant that it was violent or anything, and I guess it’s the same in any Scottish city at that time of the week.
But, boy, it was raucous. I thought it vaguely apocalyptic. Some of the ladies had forgotten their raincoats and, indeed, quite a lot of their garments. I was tempted to lecture them on the need to wrap up properly when the weather was inclement.
However, I desisted and took my place in the queue. I’ve a soft spot for Glasgow. Its people are so chatty and friendly. I think it’s the Irish influence. Anyway, everyone was gassing away and it was convivial.
Oh, the exciting darkness!
Inside, I found a spot by the wall, away from any potentially exuberant people. The lights went down – oh, the exciting darkness! – and the show began. It was great, though I was discombobulated by the fact that the musicians were wearing hoodies – and the hoods were up!
I was tempted to shout and draw this to their attention in case they’d forgotten to put them down but, again, desisted. The situation reminded me of that YouTube video of a terrorist making some demands. Pretty sure I’ve mentioned it before, but it always makes me laugh.
So anyway, I’ll do it again – in a hoodie
Underneath the supposedly threatening video, a woman had written that, by wearing a balaclava and hood indoors, the chap wouldn’t feel the benefit when he went outside.
Back outside, I felt elated by the whole gig experience, and confidently negotiated inebriated persons wobbling hither and, in some instances, yon. I had been a brave boy. I’d been out there, right in among it, and I’d survived.
Will I ever go oot thus again? Possibly. I’m getting self-conscious about being older. I know: I’ll wear a hoodie – and keep the hood up!
