The Whole Hogge
A FRIEND sent me a text the other day lamenting the discovery of her first grey hairs, which as far as she was concerned amounted to damning evidence of her advancing years.
I replied that feeling old has been a permanent fixture with me for a long time now and ways of remedying that melancholy feeling include listening to songs from my youth that convince me I’m still 19.
Unfortunately that plan came undone this week, when I tried to play at being a young one by attending a concert of one of the biggest music stars in the world. The fact said concert was on a school night was the first of many pitfalls, but the opportunity to escape midweek was too good to pass up. As was a free ticket to one of the hottest shows in town as Beyoncé touched down in Dublin for four sell-out shows.
Little sister had come runner up in a Facebook competition that delivered six tickets to the gig, so I was quick to accept the offer when it arrived. The logistics of childcare and travel plans were soon ironed out and before I knew it I was on a coach heading east, savouring every second of the freedom, even if it was limited to a 12-hour stint.
It wasn’t as if I was a token fan either, having previously been to a Destiny’s Child concert at the Point back when children and the perils of weeknight socialising weren’t an issue.
That’s not to say I didn’t do a bit of Spotify research before departure, in an ultimately futile attempt to familiarise myself with Queen B’s newer material.
The first sign of my old age came in my impatience at the late start of the show. Not that we weren’t entertained by the sizeable contingent of younger concert goers, who seemed to know the words of every rap song being blared through the venue in what constituted a support act. Note the use of the word blared. I felt like Daddy H on a night at the cinema, unable to cope with the volume levels that were tame compared to those reached when Mrs Carter finally took to the stage.
The first half hour failed to produce a song any of the six of us knew, which didn’t bode well with the clock already ticking on poor Cinderella, who had to make the last bus to Galway after the gig. We knew things were bad when the men in the audience, of whom there was a considerable number, were singing along and responding to her calls for a hello Miss Carter. I was a little confused as I thought this doll was married to an equally famous musical maestro, Jay Z.
As the night progressed, so too did our participation as she finally started to play her more popular hits and when the anthem All the Single Ladies resounded around the arena, we finally got into our groove.
Not to be an ungrateful wench but it was just as well the tickets had come complimentary or I’d have been looking for some of the €94 cover charge back, which again is a worrying sign of where I’m heading. Back in the day I thought nothing of throwing money away on concert tickets and the question was never asked whether it was money well spent. How times have changed.
With age comes wisdom though, or so they say, so I had to make the tough decision to leave the concert early. Daddy H had kindly relocated to our house to take care of the bedtime routine but it was a step too far to expect him to take on the morning torture too. So I made a break for the exit, discommoding several people who had to get up out of their seats to let me pass, with a good 20 minutes to spare before the final curtain call.
It seems I wasn’t the only one with such a thought, or else those already on the Luas by the time I got there were even less impressed with the performance than I was.
Not that it mattered, I had late night O’Connell Street to negotiate so my only concern was getting to that blue and yellow bus before it headed west.
Safely seated with pinched toes released from their high heeled hell I was looking forward to settling down to a two-hour sleep that would stand me in good stead the following morning. Alas no, I had the joy of two other Beyoncé fans sat right behind me, who were also third level students with not a wink of sleep on either.
So I was forced to listen to a lengthy debate on the concert itself, where Beyoncé went wrong with set lists and lack of crowd interaction. This made me feel slightly better as they had a good 20 years on me yet they also were aggrieved at the priority given to new material over old, established, toe-tapping hits.
As I grew crankier by the second, listening to their character assassinations on fellow classmates as the conversation moved to student life, the thought struck me that I may once have been as irritating back in my college commuting days. Worse still, I shuddered at the choice language from the young lady involved, deciding I would murder Lady Muck if she was to speak like that in public, or private for that matter.
The final nail in the coffin of admission that I am no longer the 20-something I like to think I am came the morning after, when on four hours of sleep, I faced into the real life that at times make me feel I’m 100.
Aching limbs and short temper are a sure sign of sleep deprivation and blaming it on a pop diva instead of a restless child garners little sympathy. So it’s official, even without the grey hair (which incidentally may be there, I just refuse to seek it out) I’m getting old.