Standing in the middle of a small crowd in the Academy, a criminally overpriced pint of the sponsor's lager in my hand and legs tired from an afternoon walking the streets of Birmingham, I had envisaged a night of tapping my foot in time to the music and politely applauding from the back.
However as the Hold Steady launched into "Massive nights" the lack of cash in my pocket and energy in my legs was soon forgotten, as was everything else not illuminated by the lights from the small stage. I remembered. I remembered that more often than not good music is played by fat men with beards, not thin kids in skin tight jeans from Topman posing on the cover of the NME.
“The guys were feeling good about their liquor run”
I remembered what the words mean to me. They last, they have a life beyond the catchy hook of a soon forgotten pop song.
“The dancefloor was crowded, the bathrooms were worse”
I remembered a feeling nearly forgotten. The feeling of singing along to a favourite song with friends who were strangers two verses and a chorus ago.
“Everyone was funny and everyone was pretty”
I remembered too late that I was holding a nearly full pint as it crashed to the floor.
“We had some massive nights. Every song was right”
I remembered a friend. His pupils dilated and a village idiot grin on his face many could have been forgiven for thinking him drunk. But he wasn't drunk on alcohol (having observed the "One pint behind Pete rule" all night long) he was drunk on the music and the emotion. And as I grabbed hold of San with my left arm we launched ourselves forward into our very own massive night - and yes all the songs were right.
