Behold! The Horsemen of the Apocalypse – The Hold Steady!

So, last week I go to watch The Hold Steady with my Uncle Pat. This is the guy who introduced me to my favourite bands - The Doors, The Clash and Joy Division to name three. He's seen them all. And now he wants to see The Hold Steady. At first I'll admit I was a little coy. I'm not too keen on their music but I'm thinking 'hey my Uncle's done enough for me why not give a little back.' So I go.

I immediately regret my decision when the first thing he says when we enter the auditorium is ‘let’s go down the front!’ My uncle is in his forties. I’m in my twenties and he wants to go down the front. I realised then that the flask of milky tea and the Tupperware box of shortbread wouldn’t be needed and I rued my visit to Waitrose. We were going down the front whether I liked it or not. My uncle’s life depended on it even if his nephew’s sanity was at stake.

Once there I was surprisingly proved wrong. The first band, The Haze, from Glasgow encourage a small number of early crowd dwellers to the front but so far this is an experience I’m quite enjoying. The music is practically intravenous, I can feel the phlegm in my face and there’s an immediacy I haven’t felt in years – the last time I stood with my toes to the bottom of the stage was when Pete Doherty was clean…yes that long!

The second band, a young outfit called The Bombay Bicycle Club step up onto the plinth and now I’m really loving it. Their guitar playing is like Bernard Sumner and co and the lead singer is so close I can count his blackheads. This is great. I can’t believe how young I look and feel. I’m tempted to hug my uncle but one glance tells me he’s on another planet and at this rate I’m going to be joining him there any sec…

Oh my god my spine! I’m squashed against the railings like an American policeman’s administrating a frisk his superiors would be proud of. The band aren’t even on the stage and I feel like a sardine. And then it relaxes. The surge has ended and I can rest easy once again. I convince myself it was just a rare moment of panic from a normally rational crowd. The lights dim. The Hold Steady arrive on stage. And my backbone is broken in two.

By the third song my uncle asks if I want to go back but I grit my teeth and smile to let him know I’m OK when beneath this veneer of nicety I'm living in fear of being trampled on, crushed against metal and sodomized in synchronisation. The Hold Steady have brought hell to London and I’m Satan’s first victim. There’s an elbow in my ribs, a groin in my backside and a hand on my arm. And now I feel old. Old. Old. I’m reaching for my flask but it’s leaked and all the shortbreads have been smashed to smithereens…oh the morality of man! This crowd is completely without reason. I’m witnessing the end of our species. This is anarchy. This is the end. This is violation. Breathe I tell myself it can’t last forever. I grip the railing. The lead singer can see I’m in pain. I’m thinking about stopping the concert, turning around and saying: ‘now I don’t want to rain on your parade but could you all just take one step back. Please?’

But I don’t. I’m British so I just smile and enjoy the agony. That is what I’m programmed to do. And when the end comes it washes over me like an orgasm. I have survived. Praise the lord I’m alive! My Uncle smiles at me. ‘Did you enjoy that?’ he asks. ‘Yes’ I reply cradling my rucksack. ‘Very much so indeed.’