So Sally can wait, indeed.
One could count on one hand, perhaps two, the number of concerts I've attended in my life. I've never been a concert-going girl. Maybe it's because I've always had trouble with lyrics, maybe it's because I've always been a little too square - whatever the reason, it's just never been something I've craved. People will fight and queue up for tickets, and I'll just kind of shrug and wonder if paying that much for the show is really worth it, because honestly, it's not like the band is ever bigger than a Barbie doll from whatever vantage point you've got. Right?
I guess it was about ten years ago that Wonderwall made me stop what I was doing every time it played on the radio, and I guess it was about that long ago that I opened up an US Magazine, when US was more than just ads on cheap paper, and was actually real interviews on heavy stock instead. There he was, with his guitar and his ego and his unibrow: Noel Gallagher. I don't know what it was: maybe the fact that he used bugger and Blur in the same sentence; maybe it's because he was so open about the dyslexia that made it so hard to write his catchy little songs. Most likely though, it was the fact that he came across as a giant, unapologetic asshole, and no girl has ever passed through life without falling for one ass or another.
That summer, I saw Oasis live, at a giant outdoor amphitheatre; they were the final act before Neil Young, who we didn't bother staying for because we were 22 and a little stupid. Do I like Neil Young? No, of course not, but even I can understand - now, with age - that it was Neil freakin' Young! You just don't leave! But leave we did, because Noel chased his idiot brother Liam off the stage, sat on a wooden stool and sang Don't Look Back in Anger alone, with his guitar and nothing else, and that was enough for me. My heart skipped a beat. Hell, my heart skipped lots of beats, but my loins made up for it. I was in love, and would not have my love tarnished with the songs of another. Don't Look Back in Anger would forever make me stop what I was doing to sing badly and sigh out loud.
Ten years passed. Oasis had their critically acclaimed first album, their hugely popular second album, several brotherly squabbles, a few bloody noses, and a few more bad albums. Time passed, and then, suddenly, our boys grew up. They, God help us all, matured. Noel and Liam stopped punching each other in the face every other week, and finally, Oasis was back.
Now, poppets. Your Mare, she's going to turn 32 on her next birthday. She does not just fall backwards at the sound of a silly song and an English accent anymore. (Except, I'm totally lying, and I totally do.) So when Dawson, the boy who's currently making your Mare's eyes sparkle, told me that he had executive suite tickets to Oasis and would I like to go... well, now. I obviously accepted graciously with only a very reserved modicum of screaming and hysteria. The jumping up and down was done in a very graceful and sophisticated manner, by which I mean I was wearing a very good bra.
Here's the thing, though. I've wanted to write about this concert since Tuesday morning. I've resisted though, a little out of stupid fear, because the last time I wrote about a concert, it was the last happy entry before my world turned upside down. And I know that one has nothing to do with the other, but I still have misgivings about putting the energy into words.
I want to tell you about the little lounge in which we were seated, and I want to tell you about Arctic Monkey, the opening act which are kind of like Oasis' naughty little brothers, and I want to tell you how sitting with Dawson was more comfortable than anything else, which kind of makes me think but doesn't make me worry. I want to go into great detail about Don't Look Back in Anger, and how thousands of people were singing in unison and in tune - so much so that Noel stopped singing at one point, and just let us have the song for ourselves. I want to go on and on and on about the energy of the crowd, how we felt it even from where we sitting, in our padded seats with excess leg-room. It's just a little taste, my beauties, but there was so much more...
Can we skip it though? Can I just tell you that it was fantastic and fun, and will you take my word for it? Because it really, really was. And I think that's all I want to say about it.
Silly, isn't it?
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