It’s a tepid June Saturday night in Southampton. Mere hours ago we’d tucked into the spread of heartiness abundance Toby Carvery offers, celebrating my dad’s (Age redacted for modesty) birthday.
My wife has long departed into the land of nod, a habitual routine of ours which see’s me flick the TV over to her perennial comfort blanket of Vampire Diaries, delicately remove her glasses and place her phone on charge, ensuring alarms are set for her early morning rise.
I shuffle across the landing as the familiar throbbing, rigid sensation of the awakening plantar fasciitis takes over my right foot (A recurring tennis injury I’m yet to shake), take position in the chair placed directly akin to the spare room TV and feel a surge of anticipation wash over as I remember Brazil are facing Morocco in a late (For European viewers) kick off.
As it so often does in these moments the mind begins to monotonously meander, this time landing on live music, gig fever and the sonic thirst that comes with witnessing a show.
As half-time struck, I succumbed to the trance and a continuous revisiting of one simple question.
Why have I built so much of my life around live music?
The obvious answer and foundation to the mayhem is a pure love and adoration for music. A sentiment shared by legions is that music has soundtracked so many moments in our life.
Childhood car journeys drowned by Kaiser Chiefs, Franz Ferdinand and ska anthems, usually overshadowed by the backseat warfare undertaken with my sister.
My formative years in school where I discovered the holy trinity of guitar music (In my eyes and ears), britpop, 00s indie and pop punk all trading megabytes on my MP3 player that would become my school commute suburban soundtrack.
There’s also the permanent soundtrack to my marriage and the Venn diagram of noise we share and suffer together. Overlapped by our love of Blossoms and her strange fixation of strong accents like Gerry Cinnamon, Dylan John Thomas and Keyside. All of which are a far cry from the Hampshire hog sound we produce.
Hearing these songs played to venues and stages takes me on a path of rediscovery and rose tinted reflections on school years, family trips and our ever blossoming relationship.
This brings me to that ritualistic gamble live shows bring. You know the venue, it’s smells, your favourite place to stand (The Joiners, front right of the stage with an underlying stench of lager, damp denim and a dash of sweat wafting under your nose) and the band/act. From there however, there’s a beautifully unscripted unknown.
Will the gig exceed expectations? Will the support become a favourite (Hello Keyside, Red Rum Club and Trampolene)? It’s like buying a lottery ticket and trading the prize money for great music and a memory.
After years of gigging, you recognise familiar faces in the mayhem of the night. The doorman (Hello Wes), the local band you’ve seen headline nearby venues and on support slots around the country (Hello Dead Freights), your schoolmate in a new band (Hello Peter Wright) and the promoter with an undying enthusiasm for putting on a show (Hello Mr Steve).
For some of the unspoken roll call, you don’t know their names or what they do for a living, but you do spot the familiar denim jacket and untameable barnet (guilty).
At this point, a gig feels like ritual and a routine. Part of your weekly pattern. Buying the tickets, sometimes over a year in advance, and prepping train journeys, parking spots and the ideal time to arrive.
There’s a familiar rhythmical sense to the hobby now. Very much a metronome to my life, anchored by predictable door opening timelines, house light drops and the effervescent feeling that cloaks my entire body in that crowd.
It’s a beautiful irony that in the chaos and unpredictability of live music, I’ve found a routine. I’ve planned my journeys, I know what train I’m getting or where I’m parking (Same location as last visit) and I’ve memorised the set times. I derive great pleasure from planning stage hops via a festival app.
I’m ashamed to say FOMO shapes a lot of my gig decisions these days. Actually I’ll own it. I hate turning down a gig, or choosing not to go, then seeing the Instagram stories and TikTok’s the next morning. The existential dread of opening the app to another missed masterpiece. I’ve labelled it an addiction for a reason.
The next legendary night could be the one you stay at home for.
It’s not about the music, or the community, or the routines. It’s about all of this combined. After years travelling to venues, refreshing Ticketmaster at 10am, signing up to mailing lists to earn pre-sale access, writing reviews, meeting friends and unknown faces alike, and collecting a database of memories, live music becomes a part of your identity.
Maybe that’s why I keep doing this. Not every gig is life changing, but it does store another memory in my quiver, that’s been expanding for years.
A disappointing 1-1 draw between Brazil and Morocco. Bedtime.
Written by Brad Halcrow for The Songbird HQ