Monday, 17 May 2010
Rockin' out or rocking chair?
Going to gigs is hard when you're over forty. As our recent trip to see Delphic in Brighton proved (they were ace by the way). Firstly, there's the ticketing conundrum. Having more money than your teenage self means that the extortionate price is not a problem, finding time to book tickets to see the latest hip band/be around for the Ticketmaster courier is. And when you do manage to drag your weary bones to the online ticket office, the tendency is to opt for bands playing venues with seats. So that's Bon Jovi at the O2, or jazz. Not so long ago, Mr & Mrs That's Not My Age went to our first jazz concert. Nice. Being part of a sophisticated, older crowd felt very grown-up, but I couldn't work out whether the rows of nodding grey heads were getting into the groove or dropping off.
Standing in a dark room with flashing strobe lights and banging tunes doesn't have the same appeal when you're stone-cold sober and have to get up for work in the morning. The key here is to drink lots of caffeine. Start with coffee and move on to a bottled beer with a Diet Coke chaser. You'll soon feel so bloated you won't want to drink anymore, or dance. Dancing is another problem the over-forties have to contend with. So, gently does it. Stick to an inoffensive sway, avoid the full-blown dad dance and do not under any circumstances raise the arms.
Then there's the whole down with the kids concept to negotiate. The brother in Manhattan is a snowboarder, a couple of years younger than me, he still likes to hit the slopes. I think this is wrong. He probably thinks his older sister should not be swanning around in broad daylight wearing a sparkly sequinned jacket. Arrested development is a funny thing.
Next find a quiet spot. Drunken youths with no spatial awareness can make the forty-something gig-goer grumpy. So try to ignore them and settle down somewhere between the mixing desk and the merchandise stand. Don't forget, if you intend to stay for the encore comfy shoes are a must and should you find yourself queuing for that garish band t-shirt, it's time to go home.
Oh and here are some lovely photos of Brighton:
Do you have any advice for a forty-something, gig-goer?