Art-rock ensemble R.E.M. once opined, ‘That’s me in the corner.’ When it comes to attending live music events, not only am I invariably in the corner, but way up the back, wedged against a vending machine and stuck behind someone who’s much taller. Live music is a wonderful thing, but sometimes the idea of seeing a band live doesn’t quite match the actual experience. That’s because seeing a band is an exercise in faith. You go in the hope that it might be an exhilarating, life-changing experience. Mostly, though, it’s a really late night from which it takes you the rest of the week to recover.
Art-rock ensemble R.E.M. once opined, ‘That’s me in the corner.’ When it comes to attending live music events, not only am I invariably in the corner, but way up the back, wedged against a vending machine and stuck behind someone who’s much taller. Live music is a wonderful thing, but sometimes the idea of seeing a band live doesn’t quite match the actual experience. That’s because seeing a band is an exercise in faith. You go in the hope that it might be an exhilarating, life-changing experience. Mostly, though, it’s a really late night from which it takes you the rest of the week to recover.
I was in a band before I really started seeing them. At thirteen, I played synthesizer with some older people. It sounds incredibly cool but, in truth, I was terrified of playing a dud note. Not long after, I was in a band with kids my own age including my younger brother. One of our earliest gigs was supporting a band called ‘The Switch’. They were older, American and we were awestruck. To them, we would have looked like we’d just finished work at Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.
Somewhere, I have a tape of that apocryphal performance. It’s just a couple of minutes but, believe me, it’s more than enough. The song in question begins with an atmospheric synthesizer overture before – gulp – a spoken word introduction. It gets worse. Whilst the first part of the song is performed in near darkness, when the band kicks in, the guy at the desk wakes up and we are bathed in light. It’s at that moment that we begin our synchronized dance moves. Had I been in the audience rather than on the stage, I doubt very much that I would have complained about being in the back corner with my view obstructed. I would have been grateful.
There are certain rules when it comes to seeing a band. Firstly, wherever you stand is a thoroughfare. People will push in front, behind and side on as they seek to get from A to Z and all points of the alphabet in between. Secondly, all attendees at a concert have a duty to try to prevent someone’s drink from being spilled. Not just your own. Holding a drink that’s lapping at the brim creates an automatic right of way. The third rule is that, no matter how tall you are, someone taller will stand in front of you. You could be Yao Ming and drop in to catch a set by your favourite band and still end of with someone obstructing your view.
For some reason, I always have a lousy view when I go to see bands. Even if I arrive early and use fluorescent traffic cones to cordon off a space that’s stage centre, I invariably find myself shuffled like a dud card to somewhere down the back of the venue. Although I’m always pressed up against the emergency exit, I have a friend who has an uncanny gift to find her way to the very front no matter how crowded. We once arrived at Festival Hall to find it stuffed like a cocktail olive. Within seconds, she had vanished into the crowd, weaving her way towards the front. My brother and I remained where we were. For some reason, the crowd seemed unwilling to let us pass and resented our attempts to do so. Perhaps they thought we were pushing in. Maybe they had seen the video of us supporting The Switch and wanted to teach us a lesson. Either way, they had a point.
There’s a band I like called ‘The National’. They play a literate brand of baritone art rock that appeals to me greatly. That the band members are all my age probably helps. It is music for the head, as well as the heart. When they announced they were touring Melbourne, our friend, Dr J, got tickets. When we arrived at the Sidney Myer Music Bowl, I immediately headed for my usual position along the back fence behind the recycling bins. However, it seems Dr J had managed to secure tickets in row ‘N’, right smack-bang in the middle. I could see the stage. I could even see the people on the stage. It was an experience that was so strange, so novel that I barely knew what to do with myself.
After two hours of exhilarating music, all of which I saw as well as heard, the concert reached something of a crescendo. It was then that lead singer, Matt Berninger, threw himself into the audience and, with microphone in hand, began making his way though the crowd. As the song went on he drew ever closer until he began to stroll down row ‘N’ in our direction. The people to my left celebrated by groping him, filming the assault on a mobile phone. As he squeezed passed me, I applied ‘public toilet rules’ in which I did everything humanly possible to avoid actual physical contact. Matt Berninger, obviously appreciative of my efforts not manhandle him, looked up. Not only were we the same age, but the same height also, both with a beard and glasses, except Matt Berninger looked every inch the rock star and I looked like I’d just been to Bunnings. In a strange way, it was like looking at a novelty mirror. Whether it was glimpse of the road less travelled or just a great night out matters little. I’m just grateful that there are people not unlike me who are making great music. And that I ever got close enough to realize it for myself.