Pre-marriage and motherhood, a big part of my life involved going to gigs. When I worked at Exeter University in the late Eighties and early Nineties, we got the chance to buy reduced tickets for all kinds of performers. Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine (remember them?) Joan Armatrading, Lenny Henry, Jasper Carrott and many more. I still kick myself for not turning out on a wet Wednesday night to see Primal Scream. That was probably their last gig before they hit the big time. Sigh.
Once I got married and moved back to Essex, we went to even more gigs. It was brilliant. The Number 20 bus at the top of our road took us to Walthamstow Bus Station, then it was one stop to Blackhorse Road on the Tube to our final destination, The Standard, sticky-carpeted palace of cheap beer, loud bands and much enjoyment. We used to go with a huge group of friends, two of whom were in bands of their own. We’d have loud nights, resonant with riffs and riotous laughter, then we'd roll home on the night bus with our ears ringing and reeking of stale smoke. In the early Nineties, it was fine to light up anywhere you fancied and lots of people did. Ending up with a hole burned in your denim jacket was a badge of honour.
The same group of friends used to go to the Cambridge Folk Festival where we saw some excellent bands. I was known for my ability to get right to the front of the stage at any gig. I remember standing at the very front of Number Two Stage, gigantically pregnant with my first child while a very loud blues outfit (Robert Randolph and the Family Band) gave it their all. Here they are in action, just as good as I remember.
Such a dose of loud bluesy soul and gospel in utero clearly had an effect on my eldest son. Every afternoon at nap time, I’d put on a blues CD and watch him nod off. He once fell asleep in front of a 20-foot speaker at a festival. 16 years on, he is a massive metal-head, just as his father was when we met at Sixth Form Centre aged 16. He went to his first gig recently (at Brixton Academy – start as you mean to go on) wearing my husband’s treasured denim jacket, covered with patches and badges from all his gigs way back when.
Now obviously as his mother, I am a bit of an embarrassment to him and he’s shocked to hear that I used to live another sort of life before I had him.
That said, we do have some great conversations about music and it’s been lovely seeing him getting into some of the bands I like. He’s introduced me to a few along the way too as well as joining a band of his own (he’s the drummer).
A couple of weeks ago, he came back from work and mumbled, “Like, James’ band[1] is playing soon. I got some tickets. Do you want to come?” James is his boss.
The gig was at Old Jet, a music venue at the old RAF base near us. It’s probably one of the most inaccessible venues ever, but it’s well worth schlepping across the airfield in the dark. I was offered earplugs on arrival, but waved them away. Once we were in, the following conversation ensued:
Son: “Yeah, look, no offence, you’d better go and stand a long way away from me. I don’t want people knowing you’re my mother.”
Me: “None taken. I’m not standing next to you. It’ll cramp my style if I’m seen with a 16-year old boy.”
Son: “Oh. Right. Yeah. See you.”
Me: “Not if I see you first. No offence.”
Well, it was brilliant. I was right at the front, natch, with my middle-aged eardrums unprotected and ready to absorb as many decibels as the band cared to throw at me. And believe me, they were LOUD! 3 lead guitars, a bass and the drummer. It took me right back. Once it was all over, we rolled back to the car, across miles of unlit runway, our ears ringing. It was just like the old days. I couldn’t hear properly for three days. There was no chance of anyone burning a hole in my gilet with their cigarette, unless I’d gone up to them outside and specifically asked them to. Apart from that, and the lack of unexpectedly adhesive floor coverings (oh, and my tendonitis and achy knee) I felt 19 again.
As someone once said, “Where words leave off, music begins.” So let's leave it there, a middle-aged woman with ringing ears and a 16-year old with blood blisters on his fingers from a 2-hour drum practice session. That mother and son nearly 17 years on from the final gig of the night at Cambridge, still rocking out, albeit with a little more distance between them. But with a whole lifetime of earplugs, drum solos and sticky carpets to come.