The Art of the Gig

I love, love, LOVE going to gigs. There's nothing quite like it. I recently saw Gaslight Anthem in Birmingham, at the O2 Academy. It was one of the best gigs I've ever been to. I saw them last year as well, being supported by Frank Turner, for whom I was there, and they were amazing them as well. This was in spite of the fact that at the time, I knew only one of their songs. This time, I knew them all, I sang along, I threw my arms in the air, I danced, I cheered.

The gig is a tricky thing to pin down. You stand in a cavernous hall that feels as small as a school locker, because it is crammed full of hundreds of people. The persperation, the body heat, the noise generated by such a number of people is close to intolerable. Still, you stand, watching, waiting, drinking beer or coke from a plastic cup, your feet beginning to ache from lethargy.

Then the music begins, the soundcheck over, the lights go up and the band take the stage. You cheer, you throw up some horns or a raised fist of triumph. The songs begin. If you're anything like me, you descend into a petty, ridiculous gig snobbery, where you realise those around you aren't singing every word, as you are, and you look down on them, because YOU'RE a better fan than they are.

You sing, nay, you shout every line and clap along to the bass, throw fists into the air with the chorus. You sway, you jump you bash at your own body and stamp your feet. You make stupid little gestures that match the lyrics (well I do, at least). You go into the mosh pit and get crushed against the bodies of other fans, their sweaty, heaving, hot forms closer than any stranger has any right to be. You are pressed against men and women in inappropriate, hillarious, degrading ways, the crowd sways, the crowd shifts and bucks, like an angry ocean swell.
Crowd surfers take to the waves, buffeted along by punches and pushes, gropes and shoves. Their boots and shoes sometimes catch your head, pain flares. You take elbows to the nose, and backs of heads to your temple. Your feet are trodden on and sometimes you go to far and fall on your comrades in arms. Sometimes this is enough to save you, sometimes, you go to the floor and your allies pull you up. Because despite the circle pits, the skanking, the shoving, the violence, we're in this together. We're brothers and sisters of the gig and we help each other, because otherwise, it would simply be chaos, rather than organised chaos.

You sing, you scream, you rage your appreciation. The band goes off half an hour early. The traditional song and dance that no-one buys. They come back for an encore. You wait for that signature song, that everyone, even the amateurs know. A sing along begins, lighters are lit and dance above us. Sometimes, a gust of cool, fresh, clean air drifts down into the pit and gives you a momentary breather. It is the most glorious thing in the universe, I assure you.

The band ends and you dispurse, waiting, patiently shuffling forward as the bottleneck at the entrance grows. The walls are damp with sweat and condensation. The floor is litered with cups. The roadies dismantle the stage. You escape the building into truly orgasmic fresh air and a cool night breeze. The adrenalin remains, but as it fades, so does the memory. You recall the gig, you recall the event, but the details drift away, like long lost photographs. Still, you know, deep down, that you witnessed glory.