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While I have music and concerts on my mind, I decided to blog about a concert Patrick and I went to a few weeks ago at the House of Blues. It was one of his favorite Punk bands, Stiff Little Fingers, from his region of Northern Ireland.
The evening started out on a good note - while we were waiting in line to buy tickets there, a gal suddenly came up waving 2 and said, "I've got free tickets!" We were too slow (probably from shock) and the 20-something kid in front of us snatched them to find out a couple minutes later that there were 2 concerts going on that night and he was attending the other one. So his friend turned to us and said, "You can have them, they aren't for our concert." But the taller one who first snatched them literally held onto them for a few seconds and we could just see him greedily adding up in his mind how much he could sell them to us for. Please - the concert was around $20 bucks. And not selling out, so he wasn't going to make anything from us. The shorter friend read his mind, and ordered, "Dude - just give them the tickets!" Which he did - begrudgingly.
So we happily entered and ordered a drink while people-watching before the show started. One could see a few aged punks in the crowd of dressed-in-black alternative kids and T-shirt wearing men like P in their 40s. (note - I wore jeans and a dark t-shirt too, but I am sure I stood out by a mile he he he). There weren't many women there, let's just say.
I love Patrick's stories from growing up in Ireland and he commented to me that when he was about 12 or 13, the older boys about 16 would come up to all the young boys and demand to know if they liked and followed "Stiff Little Fingers". And if the 12 year old was naive or for some reason didn't like punk and answered, "no", then the older boys would punch and slug him. Let's just say that the Irish (especially those in Northern occupied Ireland) seemed very loyal of their region's great punk band.
At last the band came out and started - P, had, of course seen them a few times previously. I have to admit for some older guys they could strum some seriously quick guitar licks but it was not without raised eyebrow that the band looked vastly different than their heyday - see video above. The lead singer Jake even joked about it, "Now we're fat and 50!"
Still, the crowd really enjoyed it, and I am not above enjoying the music and atmosphere. Very interestingly was P pointing out the dynamics of the mosh pit. As the concert first started there were about 5 guys center and up front who were doing the 'pogo' jumping-up-and-down dance that punk invented. Halfway through the concert and with the alcohol starting to be felt they switched to moshing on the popular songs. As I commented to P having seen one mo-hawked, angry-looking 40ish punk, 'That one punk has been waiting all night to start moshing."
It was true. And here was where P pointed out the dynamics of the pit. He noted how no one really was pushing or slamming into Mo-Hawk because he was obviously OG (original) and not there to play. He was violent and probably wouldn't care if he hurt someone or got hurt himself. That said, the younger boys and 1 girl who were also moshing on an adrenaline high were running around in the small circle pushing each other excitedly - but not out for blood. Meanwhile, the rest of the standing crowd - like us - served as a barrier and anytime anyone fell out of step of the mosh circle, the barrier would just push them back in.
On the final encore of the night, SLF played P's favorite song (the video above) and in the blink of an eye he disappeared from my side to ....join the pit!!!! I was half-screaming and half-laughing as I stood on tippy toes desperately trying to keep an eye on his bobbing head in the circle of violence. "NOOOOOOO!" It was hilarious to see him do something I'd heard stories about when he was a teen but to see my man at 41 pushing and slamming into others and then eventually losing sight of him altogether was just awesome!! he he he
When he returned to me triumphantly he was breathing heavily, and soaked with sweat - I hate to admit that it wasn't just his sweat on him. When we got home Fred-the-basset was intrigued by all the different smells of sweat on his owner and heavily sniffed him from head to foot, thus also partaking in our entertaining evening of fine Irish punk music. :P
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