Rock Opera
8 December 2003
The lights go down, a cheer is raised to the roof of this hall which could be attached to any swimming pool or ice rink in the world. I am relieved to find that I still get a shiver down the spine. We have already looked excitedly at the ceiling, wondering when the large black heart balloons will be released. The lead singer shouts, "Good evening, --------!", and, inanely, "Is everyone OK?" We now bear witness to the power of music: the lighters come out - or rather, 3G 'phones and Glo-sticks. Before too long the Glo-sticks run out, and two hundred kids suddenly realise that they would have been much better off buying lighters. The noise is impressive, vibrating not, as expected, through my feet, but in my ribcage and the fabric of my trousers, a sensation hardly matched by the gestures of my fellow fans. One arm in the air, they make horned fingers at the stage, in scathing pastiche, I assume, of my evangelical chemistry teacher's stance when singing his praises to the Lord. Maybe not. But there's definitely something of the dervish in their pogo-ing. Looking around it dawns that I'm one of the oldest people here. For the most part the demographic is adolescent to young adult, the age when ginger boys go goth so they can dye their hair. A Punkyfished schoolgirl nicked my pint of beer-flavoured water in the foyer; in an hour's time parents will start gathering there to pick up. I am as aware as the next man that the gods of music are - and always were - twenty, but I hadn't expected to feel quite so out of touch. Columns of kids shouldering past me in the crowd rouse feelings in me hitherto unknown. I want to offer my services to Neighbourhood Watch, become a Church Warden. A 16-year-old Piltdown Man has barged his way in front of me, obscuring my view with his white boy's dirty afro. I consider assaulting him with a hair band. He bears more than a passing resemblance to a man at a gig a couple of weeks ago. He had the same hair, and a long, matted beard with it. There was no light in his eyes as he rocked backwards and forwards for two hours. Half-way through the set he put his head in his hands, still rocking. At the end of each track he extended a hand to sprinkle invisible fairy dust over the crowd. He must have been in his early fifties, and had clearly never come out of his first trip in 1968. The rest of the crowd, signed off from pogo-ing by the onset of rheumatoid arthritis, bobbed up and down out of time to the music. Piltdown Man 51 was a "rocker", alright; just not in the right way. Piltdown Man 16 also is off his face. I can't be bothered to wait for the encore, so I join the steady trickle of those desperate to be first out of the car park. He's in the bar area, topless, being helped into a wheelchair by two burly St John's Ambulance women. Around us can be heard the usual euphoric post-gig froth: "I got right near the fucking front and held on - like that - as long as I could." "As soon as you fall over, someone else picks you up". Our boy in the chair had obviously been unlucky. And so, children too short to see become olds too fucked to stand. Such is the transformation of Piltdown 16 into Piltdown 51. A voice from the auditorium cuts in: "Is everyone still OK?"
Current clown: 18 December 2003. George writes: This List Most recent ten: 15 December 2003. Jamie writes: Seven Songs Also by this clown: 8 December 2003. Victor writes: Rock Opera We are all Upsideclown: Dan, George, James, Jamie, Matt, Neil, Victor. Material is (c) respective authors. For everything else, there's it@upsideclown.com. And weeeeeee can entertain you by email too. Get fresh steaming Upsideclown in your inbox Mondays and Thursdays, and you'll never need to visit this website again. To subscribe, send the word subscribe in the body of your mail to upsideclown-request@historicalfact.com. (To unsubscribe, send the word unsubscribe instead.)
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