Mon The Biff

In what sometimes seems like a previous life these days, I was an avid fixture on the music scene. Every gig worthy of attending I was there, my cronies and I even travelled regularly to Glasgow and Edinburgh in search of the best music, the best night. I lived and breathed in Aberdeen's only 'alternative' nightclub, and frequently broke my heart over boys that looked like they could be in a band (actual band involvement was unnecessary).

Embarrassingly enough the reason I really got into what could be called decent music was merely to up my girlfriend credentials, if I had been aware at the time that boys who are into music aren't really the committing type then maybe I would have stuck with Take That. I cringe as I write this, but I even used to purposely buy NME and leave it sitting out as though I always casually picked it up every week, or whenever it came out. 

It's funny how people seemingly fall effortlessly into social groups. I refuse to believe I was the only young adult slowly contriving myself into a person I desperately wanted to be. You only had to scout the dance-floor to see perfectly hacked rips into jeans, hair mascara streaked through the tresses of a slave to the 9 to 5, and people lip syncing to lyrics they had probably a few hours previous googled. Just me then? In my older age, I feel I can freely admit my shortcomings. I didn't grow up listening to The Smiths or any other 'must-have-listened-to-old-band', I listened to either Dolly Parton or Tom Petty. My tastes are probably more aligned with my Dad than my Mum, but I do rather enjoy a bit of Country and Western now and again - probably the reason for my uncontrollable love for Taylor Swift. Thanks Mum. 

I don't know what sold it for me, but after a few weeks finding my feet as a music lover, I decided it was the social scene that I belonged to. God, you could almost get drunk from the amount of alcohol in your hair and on your clothes, never mind in your glass. I didn't even mind swapping my vodka and cranberry for a pint of the fizzy stuff. Actually I feel beer goes hand-in-hand with gigs, it feels more homely. 

Recently I went to see Biffy Clyro with my Dad and brother. As my fifteen-year-old brother ditched the oldies to mosh at the front, I reflected as Dad and I stalked out our seats for the evening. Thankfully we gave the seats a miss, treated ourselves to a half pint of cider, and pigged out on cheeseburgers. It was a far cry from the scenester I once was. So many people in one place made me feel so claustrophobic I worried I may actually end up in my seat, and while the terrible support band were on I'm sure I complained about the noise more than once. Where my money once would have been spent on pints of  'Green Death' or shots of Sambuca, I was more interested in a cup of tea and maybe some food. There was even an ice cream van providing refreshments, that shit would have never interested me before, but now I was all over it.

We scoffed our burgers at the van and headed back to the main stage area just in time for the Biff, but while I sipped my cider those around me were less than composed. Young girls slicked through the crowds, eagerly texting, looking for boys. Young boys skulked around with their plastic glasses, uninterested in anything but their friends and alcohol. There was the 'older' crowd who stood on the sidelines, and the others who were there to cause trouble. Those with kids stayed seated, and those who came in jeans and mountain jackets looked out of place. It was nothing new however, just the usual suspects present at any gig.

I turned my back, faced the stage and became instantly aware of how I had merged from one set of revelers to another. Stood with a pair of $250 shoes, my Grandmother's fur coat, and a Marc Jacobs handbag, I was suddenly more concerned about the inevitable flying beer or urine that was sure to some my way. Slipping off my jacket, I neatly placed it over my arm and swung my bag round enough so to guard it with my body.  I couldn't believe I had become that person, but there I was in all my expensive, very much caring glory. The opening beats on the drum started and perfectly protected I felt the familiar surge of adrenaline enter my consciousness. Once again, just like old times, I lost myself for the evening.