Clash of the Stereotypes.
Ive waited my whole life to see The Rolling Stones. Honestly, no lie. My dad played Beggars Banquet to me when I was in the womb. So technically, Ive waited longer than my whole life. Ive waited twenty-six-and-a-half years and Im still only 25. Wow, I wasnt planning on that particular revelation - Im left feeling slightly confused now.
Anyway, I finally got to see Mick, Keef and the boys last month at Twickenham. Mick played me (and the other 69,999 ticket holders) big time by having a girlie little sore throat and delaying the gig for a month, but it all came together in the end. And you know what? It was a really piss-poor gig. Because it wasnt a gig. Once a band leaves the comfy confines of Brixton Academy and moves, first to arenas then stadiums, they cease to play gigs. They play shows. They play EVENTS. And therein lies the problem. Because there is absolutely no way to completely appease 70,000 people of varying shapes, sizes, ages and classes; all of them with a defiant streak of British-ness running through them like Blackpool runs through a stick of rock.
Firstly, theres the venue: stadium shows, as a rule, suck. Its 100% impossible to achieve good sound without a roof. It cant be done. You might just about be able to hear down on the pitch, but seeing as half the audience is in the upper tier the odds are that you, the punter, will get gypped. The sound is like school bog-roll; what doesnt get ripped to shreds is rough and scratchy. In my case, add in the fact that we were only allowed to order tickets two or four at a time. So although seven of my friends went to the same gig (sorry, SHOW) as me, I didnt get to see six of them until after it had all finished.
But without doubt the biggest problem with live music on such a large scale is that you are stuck in your seat. Stadium shows force you to confront people you would normally avoid on a day-to-day basis. Its not like at a festival, you cant just walk away and sit somewhere else. You are completely trapped in the seat that you paid good money for. Whats worse is: the bigger the band, the bigger the gulf between neighbouring music fans. This is worse than a few I-Love-You-Couples. A pleasant night out becomes akin to a bad bout of road rage. Because the majority of Brits cant just shut up and let other people enjoy themselves.
As soon as my mate and I sat down, I knew that watching the other show-goers was going to be more interesting than watching the stage. Two things told me this. Firstly, although I was in Twickenham, the stage appeared to be in Birmingham. Either that, or I was watching the Lilliputian Rolling Stones. As with the sound at a stadium show, if you want to see anything you should be on the pitch. The second indication prodded me on the shoulder about four seconds after Id sat down. He was fat, bald and drunker than Oliver Reed wrestling Keith Moon in a vat of Guinness. I think he said hello, but it sounded more like Urrrreggghoo. He was sat behind my next door neighbour, who just happened to be one half of the most conservative couple in Britain. They were the like a Home Counties version of Ned and Maud Flanders. Ollie Moon tried saying Urrrregggho to them, but they just shrugged and opened a bag of Minstrels. Maud took out her binoculars. Jammy wench, I wish I was as sensible as her.
While Ollie and the Flanders were getting acquainted on my right, a far more interesting pairing was emerging just in front of me to my left. Sat in front of me was a guy in his early twenties and his girlfriend. I think they may have been displaced Aussies, as they were talking about work and work was in a bar. Also, they had Australian accents. Dont miss a trick do I? (Now before you start calling me a mong, I know thats not strictly a BRITISH stereotype, but it is a stereotype you see in Britain which makes me right.) So they were chatting and drinking, and by now the Stones had come on. Now Scott and Charlene werent being loud exactly, they were just part of the background noise. You could still hear the band louder than them, or so I thought. But sat in front of them was the most volatile source of impotent rage Ive ever seen. Halfway between that big-nosed Michael Palin character at the start of Life of Brian and Michael Douglas in Falling Down. Twice the Michael, twice the bluster; truly a volcano waiting to erupt.
And what a sight when he finally blew.
<*dv_1*> He launched himself to his feet, his neatly ironed Fred Perry coming loose of his Burton jeans. His ruler straight side-parting shook and his Coke-bottle glasses were steamed up by his fury. The rage in his voice strangled his West Country accent. His entire frame shook as he told Scott that he hadnt paid sixty quid to listen to some tosser talking shit. Twice the Michael told Scott that he (Scott) would need a fleet of ambulances to clear up all the pieces by the time Im finished. Scott told Twice the Michael to sit down and watch the band or fuck off. Twice the Michael looked ready to burst he was so offended. He chose to fuck off.
Before I could pick my jaw up off the floor, Charlene commented that he was maybe a bit out of order and a shock of blonde hair and cheap gold launched herself to her feet and bellowed: Thats my dad you slag! Oh God, Twice the Michael had bought his entire family! Charlene engaged in a bout of swearing with two Twice the Michaelas (or is that Quadruple Michaelas?) for a good fifteen minutes before Scott dragged her off to get a beer. When they returned they danced in the stairway with Ollie, who was now bellowing reucknruuurl every five minutes. Ned tried a smile and said: Rock and Roll indeed! Ollie frowned at him then belched at him. Twice the Michael returned to his seat and entered into a scowling competition with one of the Michaelas for the rest of the night.
By now Id lost all interest in what was happening on stage. Mick and Keef couldve been spit-roasting Jerry Hall and I wouldnt have noticed. I was absolutely fascinated by the audience around me. Everywhere I looked, stereotypes were engaging. I saw a monumentally stoned bloke stumble into a blue-rinsed septuagenarian and send her flying. I saw a jolly-hockey-sticks girl throw her beer over a French-cropped townie. I saw a tart with a heart Cat Slater type about to square off with a sensible Deirdre Barlow type. In my drunken state I realised that mass appeal brings exactly that: the masses. And the masses cannot get along with each other. They just refuse to accept others and let them get on with their lives. If you want to be sensible then fine, but dont take a cheap pop at the reckless ones. If youre reckless be nice to the more staid people around you.
As Sympathy for the Devil kicked in, I promised myself Id stick to theatre gigs for the rest of my life so Id avoid such a situation again. I dont really want life affirming moments at nights like this. I want to get drunk and see the band.
As I sat there swearing and promising Satan Id never do this again, I felt a nudge and looked at the guy on my left. There sat a bespectacled, smiling priest of about sixty. He leaned over to me and said: I knew I shouldve gone to see Napalm Death at the Highbury Garage. Stadiums kill the sound. Dont you agree?
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