Well back from the gym which, to be honest was a bit of a disaster cos' I was feeling lazy. Anyway, half an hour's exercise and -350 calories later, I am back home and have rationed myself to 1 chocolate biscuit because otherwise I shouldn't have bothered.
I thought I would focus this post on a review of a gig we went to on Sunday. This has already set me pondering. Is gig still the right word to use when it is pretty sedentary and dare I say it, middle aged? Should I use the word "concert"? But that makes it feel like a classical concert or a recital. Whatever?
I suppose I should introduce my musical tastes here. Growing up in the seventies, I went from pop to progressive rock to punk in the space of 5 or 6 years and have pretty much stuck there ever since. But I have discovered that many bands from that era that I sneered at in the late seventies are actually pretty good and much to my amusement are still going (lack of pension contributions, I assume). So in the last few years, I have seen Jefferson Starship, Hot Tuna, Caravan, Barclay James Harvest, Wishbone Ash and probably a few others.
What cracks me up about so many of these is the dress sense of the bands. Hats are generally de rigour, obviously to hide lack of hair, but stage gear for the over-60s varies from trackie bottoms to creased suits: the worst I've ever seen was Barclay James Harvest's matching waistcoats.
So venturing out on Sunday, and having read the Saturday Times' list of 25 things you shouldn't wear/do after you are 40, we went to the St. Albans Arena in search or peace, love and rock'n'roll.
For those of you who don't know the venue, it is a medium sized corporate hall with comfy seats but way too little legroom. But every time I have been there, it has been filled with a fine selection of Hertfordshire's middle-aged middle-class. Nothing wrong with that as I am probably bang in the middle of that category but it sort of sits uneasily with my recollection of gigs as hotbeds of fermenting youth (though, there was definitely some fermenting middle-agers there on Sunday)
What amuses me is that it seems just like Guildford Civic Hall which I attended many times in the 70's with my group of pimply friends. While 40 years ago, it was the length of your hair or the width of your loon pants that differentiated you, now it is the breadth of your stomach or the inappropriateness of your trainers that tells one ageing hipster from the next (and according to the Times - you should only wear trainers when you are doing something sporty. Simon Nicol take note.
So on to the music, but can I really be bothered. If you like Fairport Convention, then you know what they are going to be like, if you don't, then you probably couldn't give a s***. I think I can sum it up by saying they were quite good. They came, they played, they tried to get the audience to buy their CDs, no-one walked out and everybody clapped at the right times. A few people tittered at the anecdotes, probably in the same way as they would titter at Sir Ranulph Feinnes giving at talk to the WI about losing his fingers.
The most exciting bit was that the bassist Dave Pegg could not play because he had hurt his hand in a bizarre dishwasher accident, so his son played instead. It was that kind of evening. The band only came alive in the last song and the encore, possibly because they were joined on stage by an ex-guitarist (Maartin Allcock) and the support act (Edwina Hayes) who livened things up a bit and made it sound like a band rather than a group of old folk musicians going through the motions.
Don't get me wrong, it was not embarrassing like seeing a fading punk-star drunk on stage in the eighties or just plain awful like a sixties pop band with no original members playing someone else's hits at a corporate Christmas party.
But it was not rock'n'roll and for that reason, I won't be seeing them again.
Toodles
No comments:
Post a Comment