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bigwave

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Event Reviews posted by bigwave

  1. The tender echoes of a past overlapping with a now, presenting the possibilities of a different tomorrow. Don’t really know what that means yet. Think it might be poetic, but I am having it as the opening lines of this ramble-cum- first hand narritive from Manchester 1. Tonight,

    Bono recalls on stage the first ever time the U2 came to play Manchester, !980. May 1980 he pinpointed. I wasn’t there that time, but I was in this city back in 1992 when the band played the G-Mex Centre, captured on video as Stop Sellafield - The Concert. The G-Mex ‘room’ was quite similar to this one here at the Manchester Arena, as I recall - the 3 hour drive there and back to Newcastle area very similar.

    I have long outgrown that ‘Mini’ car that I made that journey in, sadly. Company back then was Mrs Bigwave, a last minute decision to chance it without tickets to see if we could blag some on the day. We got lucky.. 6 rows from the front… or so we thought. Soon as the band walked on stage, the first five rows stood up on their seats so all we were looking at were a line of fat arses.. and when we tried to stand on our seats, the security were having none of it and made everyone from Row 6 back, sit down! All this going on as Zoo Station, The Fly and Even Better Than The Real Thing were rocking the house (all 3 songs were played in tonights experience and innocence set too amazingly!), and we were left feeling faraway.. so close. 5 rows still on their seats jumping and bouncing, security letting them… not letting us. By the time One was getting introduced that night 5 songs into the set, the crowd lulled to listen to the singer’s intro speech.. which got interrupted by this scream from the soul of one angry fan… ‘I can’t fucking see!’ Guess the name of that angry fan. For a moment it seemed to silence the whole hall.. and caused the singer to pause for just a moment… I swear… (I couldn’t see him because of the fat arses at eye level), but as he paused in surprise of this angry cry, he calmed it in an instant with one word… ‘Speeeeech!’ The fat arses looked around briefly for a moment, to see who this nutter was behind them, the rest of the spoken intro to “One’ continued, and the show went on. Despite all this drama, we still ended up having one of the nights of our lives. Which leads on to how and why I find myself back in this city 26 years later, not with the Mrs this time, but with 4 of my Friday night drinking buddies, having worn them down over the years with this and other tales from my U2 life, they accompany me on this part of my personal ‘journey’ with this band, this night.

    Friday nights are a tradition in these parts for my generation. The numbers vary, depending on who is out that week. We have a regular watering hole where we meet, then wander around the local pubs in loud conversation, banter, pisstsaking, karaoke and watching whatever solo artist or covers-band happens to be in town. Sometimes we push the boat out and venture further afield, but the spirit is constant. Sometimes aggravating… infuriating. Sometimes belly-laugh funny as the cares of the working week are let go and the alcohol does it’s work. Sometimes heated, especially when the conversation gets around to politics or religion or the dreaded upcoming Brexit (for some of us), or why we are here, why we exist… and other light hearted stuff. Sometimes when I am feeling mischievous I remind this bunch of misfits, some of who I have known since schooldays, that I only hang out with them because they are my living social experiment. That goes down well as you might imagine… In truth these folk are my friends. As imperfect and beautiful as friends come.

    I have often been at U2 shows and had a moment when I though, gee, I wish he was here… Oh wow, she would love this bit… I have heard other fans talk about this phenomena too. An invocation of ghosts that can appear to accompany the thrill of being at a U2 show… something like that. Well, with this lot I am with tonight, this dreamy manifestation that has been invoked into being; its not so much as being in the company of ghosts tonight, but more apt a title for this gang, we will go with ‘The Spooky Clowns’. One is a Hard Brexiteer. One is a People’s Vote staunch Remainer. One has never been to a rock show. One is a long-time ‘casual’ U2 fan, but never seen them live. As we travel down in the car (a bit bigger than a Mini), the banter starts early, the piss-taking and rib-digging about how this ‘better be fucking good, dragging us down to this palaver of a fucking-Friday!’ quite relentless.

    That mood kind of changes completely the minute we walk not the Manchester Arena... yapping stops. Gobs and eyes a bit wider than usual. Don’t think they were quite expecting what presents itself within touching distance. The giant screen, the 2 stages either end.. wheres the Amps? Where’s the PA? Who is the support band? Where do we fucking stand? (We were in GA). Instead of trying to curate each and every moment of the night for them, after sorting them out with a beer, I stand back a few paces and let the magic do its work. Yep, thats Adam & Edge IN the screen. Which was a (barri)cage just seconds ago… Yep, Charlie Chaplin is The Great Dictator. Yep, thats also a drum kit and a drummer, drumming IN the screen. The Blackout begins. The Brexiteer is bouncing. The Remainer has disappeared down the front cos the opening chords of I Will Follow crack out, (where he remains attached to the front rail for the rest of the night, aged 16 again). The Rock-show virgin and the casual U2 fan both looked happily confused for much of the night, phones constantly in and out of pockets capturing as many moments as possible, whist trying to make sense of whats going on around them. We have hit a lucky night in that this floor space has a bit more room to wander than the recent European shows, which means I can tip them off about some good vantage points as the show progresses, they start getting the hang of it…

    I manage to take in some special moments from Manchester 2018 version of the U2 experience. Only feet away from Larry Mullen Jr, I am sure we catch each other’s eye, I think a tiny nod, a raised eyebrow! Was that the hint of a smile. I must be drunk. Can’t be. I am designated driver. That man can drum like no one else. It's his band in a line next to him. It’s his crew that put up this whole show each night, then take it down again and drag it around the World. It’s his audience that pay for it. As Bono reminds us. The Spooky Clowns phrase it well just after the show,  ˜How fucking close did we get to see U2! - We were even closer to them than we were that covers band in the local boozer last week. How dio they do that???!!!’

    Tender, tender moments too, like the feelings expressed during tonights intro to ‘One’ about how sad the singer, and the rest fo Europe are about the (dis)United Kingdom are, knowing we are leaving the European family soon. And the spoken prayer that becomes ’13’, for those lost in the Manchester bombing just yards away is sincere and received by all around me. The defining moment from tonight, as experience truly meets innocence once again, will forever be as the band are well into their set on the e-stage, Elevation, Vertigo, and Bono is telling us all us about the time his brother does the put down, asking who the hell he thinks he is, he is not a rock star etc etc. I have heard versions of this bit of the story told before at recent shows, but the big guy just to my left with a mad look in his eye obviously hasn’t, and with something he needs to get off his chest he suddenly lurches forward, 20 feet from the band and screams “Just play the fucking music Paul!”… I want to stop him, want to challenge hm, but why should I? I wanted to tell him to wait just a few seconds, hear the man out, he will get it if he waits for the punchline… Too late - big mad eye guy on left has stepped back, having had his moment. Wonder if his ears are open enough to hear the next bit… Paul? I’m not Paul! Paul is DEAD! I’m fucking BONO!’ Even Better Than The Real Thing fires up. And the big guy (him and me), are dancing.



    The tender echoes of a past overlapping with a now, presenting the possibilities of a different tomorrow. Again

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