When we got out of the car last evening Bryan Adams was already singing Here I Am. Work, traffic and a last minute decision meant we had missed quite a bit.
Earlier that day, I had found a way to get the cheapest tickets at half price. And suddenly, the concert was affordable – I’d paid more for at a cinema the previous weekend. That’s when I decided to go.
The reason I like large concerts is that music becomes more than just sound. My feet move without me noticing it. When I stand still the beat moves up from my toes and becomes a pulse. Part of it is because it’s loud. But it’s also the excitement.
There’s a peculiar nervous energy at each show that heightens just before a few songs, sometimes just one. This is the song that makes the band. Everyone knows all the words. It’s the reason why everyone’s here in the first place. It’s what drew them to the rest of the music, made them buy all the other albums and give the B Side a listen.
Even before that song begins I know I’m going to be part of something great. Most of the time, the highlight of the evening is decided the next day over the phone. It's different at a concert. A riff will announces it. Everyone knows it’s happening. Everyone’s part of that moment. And everyone's always a little sad when it’s over. Like the cry for “Once more” right after Summer of ’69.
I always imagined that 18 Till I Die would be the anthem for my 18th birthday. But I was done listening to Bryan Adams much before that. By then I had learned to play Summer of ’69 and found an acoustic arrangement that did great things for me in school lunch breaks. I knew all the words to most of his songs and had heard everything he’d released.
But these were his earlier hits. And all the while we were driving there I wondered what I’d do if he sang something from after 1998. It turns out that I didn’t need to carry printed lyrics from his newer albums. We got there only after that bit was over.
When we finally got there, we could only find place right at the back. As far away from Bryan Adams without being actually outside the venue. (I later found that outside did have a better view!) And all I could see was other people. The stage was hidden by thousands of heads who had got there earlier and paid more than me.
There were no speakers in our section. I could hear the concert, but I couldn’t feel it. The couple standing next to us singing was as clear as what was happening on stage. They looked happy to be there.
I looked around and found that almost everyone was happy to be there. I was in a crowd of over 20,000, most of whom knew the words to lesser-known Bryan Adams hits. And all of a sudden that’s all that mattered. I stopped caring that I had to jump to see the top of Bryan Adams’ head and that the front of the crowd far enough for us to hear a cheer delay. People around me weren’t complaining. They weren’t even talking. They were singing.
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