I went to a concert a little while ago.
I grew up in South Africa and, because of Apartheid, bands wouldn't tour there. This was the extent of my live concert experience as a teenager:
- Rolf Harris
- Richard Clayderman
- Boney M
Yes, I am scarred for life.
Ever since I got to the UK, I've been making up for it, and I've continued that in the US.
For me, it's not about keeping up with new music. It's about catching up on those bands I've missed. So I tend to go to the shows by 80s bands that have reformed, or are still going.
Enter Depeche Mode - one of my absolute favorite 80s bands.
So there we are, Bill and I, at the concert.
Behind us are sitting four Suburbanites who, when we arrive, are talking about the last time they came to the arena. For all of them, it's been years, and the last time they were there it was for a sporting event.
Then the Cute Crazy Couple arrive. Two guys, probably in their 30s, ready, willing and able to PARTAY. They come into seats in front of us, and the more outgoing of the two introduces himself to everyone sitting around him, talks about how excited he is and generally just gets the fun going.
"Oh my GOD!" I hear spat out from behind us. "Imagine if we were sitting behind him!"
The Suburbanites continue by criticising the opening act and, when Depeche Mode finally take the stage, their arses stay glued to their seats and polite clapping ensues.
They sit throughout 80%, silent. At one point, the one on the aisle starts an argument with a girl who has walked down the steps to the edge of the seating block to see the stage because, as he is sitting down, she'd be obstructing his view.
Eventually, when the concert rises to a crescendo and Depeche Mode are belting out some of the old No. 1s, with the crowd singing every word and generally going insane, the Suburbanites stand up. I turned around at one point and almost burst out laughing right at them... the oldest guy, pot-bellied, was swaying from side to side, shuffling his feet. In his head he was 16, greasy-haired and covered in acne all over again.
As for Bill and I, we danced pretty much the whole time. We sang, we clapped, we waved our arms in the air. I was sweating like a piggy wiggy, my voice was hoarse and my palms were red from being hit against each other.
Tell me, what is WRONG with these people?
If you want to listen to the music without participating, get a high quality CD and sit sipping lite beer in the basement media room of your McMansion!
Years ago, I went to a Pet Shop Boys concert in London. It was a strange venue - the Tower of London. I guess that what would have been the moat back in the day is now a strip of grass between the main part and the outer wall. They put up a small stage and mostly, during the festival, there were jazz and classical performances.
There was a tent where you could buy a picnic with champagne to have before the concert on the grass. It was that kind of festival.
The first block of seats were beige deck chairs. They hadn't been offered for sale, but rather given to media types and music reviewers. My friend, Cameron, and I were in the first row of the second block of seats.
As soon as the Pet Shop Boys came on stage, we jumped up and started dancing.
I got a tap on the shoulder.
I turned around to find a very red-faced, small man who spewed the following invective at me in that vicious camp tone that only gay men can pull off.
"I didn't pay 30 quid for my ticket to come here and watch your fat arse jiggle!" he spat.
Cameron is gay, fearless, extremely intelligent, blessed with an extensive vocabulary and has been exposed to a very wealthy and refined lifestyle, so he can look down his nose at HRH Lizzie if he wanted to.
Cameron said several very rude things to the man which included the phrases "fuck off" and "fat old queen," something that, as a straight woman, I would never have been able to pull off.
By this time people were starting to move into the aisles to get closer to the stage, and were being shooed off by Security. Cameron noticed that, in the front block of free-ticket-giveaways, there were several people leaving their seats to head back to what must have been a well-stocked free bar.
We sneaked down the aisle and slipped into seats left by two people who were clearly not into "this modern crap they call music" and ended up in the second row. We spent the first five minutes there turning around to our detractor, even though he probably couldn't see us from way back where he was sitting, and making rude hand signals at him. We were very, very close to Neil and Chris, so God only knows what they thought we were doing.
Again, what is WRONG with these people?
Did Mr CampyBitch really think that the Pet Shop Boys is the kind of music you sit and listen to, with reverence? If he wanted that he should have come back the next day, bought a champagne picnic and bloody well air-conducted to some Mozart.
The whole point of a live concert is to sing and dance and clap and wave and be part of thousands of people who are singing and dancing and clapping and waving too.
At a live concert there is always someone, somewhere, singing the wrong words to the song, and that is exactly how it should be.
Because it doesn't matter.
It's about being there. It's about loving it. It's about letting go and having fun.
Hell is other uptight concert people.
Get the fuck off your arse!