Live & Dangerous

Gig experiences are, in my opinion, one of the most precious aspects of growing up. The memories you're blessed with from spending your formative years packed into one dingy venue or another, or out in a muddy field, translate into a lifetime's worth of anecdotes. It's as if the anarchic angel of rock & roll takes you under its wing at your very first gig, and promises you that whatever else happens from here on in, you will never again want for a good story to tell.

Me? I've thought that I was the coolest bastard on earth after the drummer from my favourite punk band bought me a pint from the bar when I was fourteen. I've been searched for weapons before watching REM, as if security feared that people who like the song Shiny Happy People are in some way predisposed towards gang violence. I've had a full can of lager belted at my head at point blank range by some random dullard, and been ecstatic (in spite of severe cranial blood loss) because I'd thus acquired a free can of lager. I've watched one of my best mates nearly knock the frontman of Space unconscious (and had to subsequently restrain him from finishing the job). I've spent an evening getting pleasantly intoxicated with the bassist from Idlewild, without understanding a single word that came out of his mouth. I've been chased around a field in Cardiff by a bloke shouting COME 'ERE, YOU ENGLISH BASTARD, eventually finding at the conclusion of the pursuit that he only wanted to hug me. I've watched huge skinheads take it in turns to kick each other in the balls while Madness serenaded us with Night Boat To Cairo. I've been forced to down six pints of Guinness immediately prior to watching The Pogues, and still been more sober than Shane MacGowan. I've wandered out of a Levellers gig through lines of police, and proceeded to sit and get stoned in the central reservation of a dual carriageway. I've even watched an evening of riot-folk in a library. Yes, that angel of rock & roll has been on a great old journey with me down the years.

So it interested me to see an old advert from 1967 for concerts in Wolverhampton. Aside from the amusing footnote of seeing Robert Plant appear as a support act, the major point of curiosity is that admission for Tom Jones's gig is five guineas, which includes dinner. Includes dinner?! What the saintly fuck is/was wrong with Tom Jones fans? Were they too good to fuel themselves with half a gallon of beer pre-doors, before staggering down to Baghdad Bob's Halal Kebab van after the tenth encore of It's Not Unusual? I was always led to believe that 1967 was a year of upheaval and revolution. Apparently, no-one told the Park Hall Hotel in Wolverhampton. They who broke all of the hallowed rules of gigging.

Guide me, o angel of rock & roll, so that I may never decide that watching live music would be better done on my backside, whilst eating a three-course meal. Ever. And ever. Amen.