When I was young, sigh, Rock Concerts were unheard of, uninvented, unknown. In any case I lived in the smallest town in the outer reaches of civilization (or so it felt), and who would possibly even visit there, let alone bring some culture with them.Hollywood and all things famous were a million miles and a million zillion light years away from our existence.
My best friends, Priscilla and Cynthia, were totally besotted with Elvis, and in our teens, they got a subscription for a monthly Hollywood ( mixture of 'Heat' and NME ) style magazine, which we devoured over and over and over. We drooled over him in his army uniform, we mourned his love affair with Priscilla (although Cilla was chuffed that she had the same name as her. Imagine anyone famous being called Priscilla?)
Later,when my kids were young, sigh, they adored Michael Jackson. Steven idolised him, ate, drank, and slept him. he adorned every wall, every space with posters of the great singer, spent all his pocket money on his music, and then at about 12 years old, demanded a Michael Jackson glove, which I then created for him in a rush, having to somehow locate the exact beads to make this phenomenal replica, as he hovered over me with scarcely contained excitement, and then wore every day from then on. I'm sure he even slept with it on at first.
When Mark, who is five years younger, then also got hooked, I joined the gang. Every one of his records was played and played and then played again, each time with renewed enjoyment.
Imagine then, in 1988, after we had moved to the UK, going to see the 'man' himself at Wembley on his 'BAD' tour. We sat miles away from the stage and watched in fascination and awe as he steppped, writhed, moon danced, sang and created a spectacular show before our very eyes, with images on large billboards across the arena. It was magic!That's it, the sum total of my lice Concert experience. Oh, almost forgot, saw Johnny Clegg and Savuka in Johannesburg a few years later with Mark and I jived the night away, a totally diferent, but equally fabulous experience.
I wanted to see the princess Diana Concert a few weeks ago, but somehow I missed all the hype and hubbub; watched it all on telly and loved it too.
Heaven only knows whether my poor old ears could withstand hours and hours of yelling, loud music, often unintelligible, and crowds of eager young things pushing and prodding, not to mention smoking, and boozing all around me.
Sigh, maybe I'll wait for Pavarotti, and hope he makes some sort of last minute, last return to do a concert in London. Sigh, come on Luciano, you're not Elvis, but then,who cares?
