Paperjam

Lessons I learned from going to see Foo Fighters in Hyde Park

Gigs // Jim // 25th June 2006

It is a sunny Saturday afternoon. Together with an accomplice who (because you can’t dust for vomit) can only be named as “Jane”, I have just enjoyed a suspiciously straightforward journey down to London on the train. At this point I have little idea that the next 24 hours will involve:
- Some practical chances to put everything I was taught on those fantastic manual handling and kinetic lifting courses into action.
- A stern test of the London public transport system.
- Really quite a lot of sick.
- Some deep concern regarding what the Area Child Protection Committee in Blackpool are actually doing with their time.
- Me apologising a record breaking 584 times.

Here are the lessons that I learned in this brief, yet dense, period:

1 Choose your companions carefully

Imagine you are someone who considers herself to be a bit unlucky or even a touch jinxed. If you are going somewhere and it involves getting to places on time, finding locations that you haven’t been to before and some quick decision making in order to co-ordinate the day’s events, should you choose to go with:

a) A punctual, organised, dynamic sort of person with a clear understanding of geography and a healthy dose of luck.

Or

b) Some half-arsed bloke who only got up half an hour ago, makes key decisions by tossing coins and has the sort of luck that even an England penalty-taker would shed bitter tears over.

The only sensible answer of course is option “a”. That is unless you want to have a few stories to tell afterwards involving hilarious two hour walks in the wrong direction, comedy policemen with no grasp of geography and the only bus stop in London where the buses inexplicably stop fifty metres away and act like they have given up for the night.

2 Appearances can sometimes be deceptive

I need to get some cash and Jane needs some cigarettes. I get in the queue at the HSBC while she sets off on the sort of quest that Odysseus wouldn’t sniff at to obtain some menthol fags. The upshot of this is that I am waiting for her to return for about half an hour. After the first five minutes I start to suspect that the visual signals I am putting out to the world might be a bit flawed. First this homeless bloke gives me the distinct impression that I was cramping his begging action, I put another 50p in his Starbucks cup and edge a few paces further away.

Then a woman who had clocked me hanging around for a while approaches me: “Are you alright?” she asks, “Fine thanks”, I say. She strolls off, not even slightly convinced.

Ten minutes later she is back, “Is someone with you?” she enquires in the way you might ask an abandoned five year-old lost in BHS where his Mum is. “Yes, I’m fine. She’s just gone to get some cigarettes”, I respond. “Of course she has” says the woman in a going-to-phone-the-police sort of way, her fixed kindly grin not matched by the cold glint of steely evaluation in her eyes.

I consider launching in a lengthy explanation of why I am standing there and that I am not the homeless terrorist with learning difficulties that she has got me pegged as. But I decide against it and just smile, shrug at her and wait for her to go away. My internal dialogue is having a quick debate on why things like this keep happening to me. All this is lost as Jane re-appears and I start moaning at her before humbly offering apology number 217.

3 The grass isn’t always greener on the other side

Once into the concert compound it is time to get a drink (although only after noticing the highly convenient cigarette vendors and handy row of cash points, I fall to my knees and silently weep) from one of the bar tents with the massive queues. Letting fate decide we go for the one nearest the front-right. On the way a band shamble onto the stage, fronted by what looks to be Elvis, they start up and it isn’t all that great, we decide to continue for the bar. Then they start playing the catchy No One Knows and we realise that it is in fact Queens Of The Stone Age. Whoops.

QOTSA are pretty good, but the crowd where we are standing aren’t exactly going crazy. Towards the end they do Little Sister, which I still reckon is their best track, imagining that in some way you care at all what I think.

What the crowd saw of QOTSA: Elvis, catchy

There follows a pleasant interlude sitting on the grass, drinking slightly dubious, four quid pints of Carling out of cardboard cups and trying to guess the gender of various audience members. Then it is time to find some of Jane’s mates around the left hand side of the stage. We don’t find them but instead enter a strange netherworld of badly fitting bras and thirty year-old men clinging to very, very, very young girls. We exchange worried glances and then make jokes about it far too loudly. On the plus side there is a beach ball bouncing around.

Suddenly a bunch of warts appear on stage with an unsightly man growing on the side of them, it is Nazi memorabilia fan, Lemmy. He announces that “our name is Motorhead and we play rock and fucking roll”, which they certainly do - and for quite a long time too. You try waiting for Ace Of Spades while really needing the toilet, all the while recoiling in horror at the Blackpool Grooming Society pawing their fourteen year-old girlfriends.

We decide to go back to the other side of the stage.

Hang on - it seems things are not loud enough for Motorhead, they are going to turn it up, possibly Jane speculates, to eleven.

4 Avoid overstatement and exaggeration wherever possible

Imagine that you are a famous rock star, you are playing a very big gig. You remember that in order to get the crowd going it is de rigour to act like it is the best thing ever, what approach would you take?

a) Barely interact with the audience at all, tell a couple of meandering stories that don’t really go anywhere. Bookend every song with “This is called…”, at the start and then a gruff, yet childish “cheers” at the end. Smash the place up just a little bit. No encore of any kind.

b) Give it the basic “You guys rock” initially, before holding forth on a number of political and philosophical points during the show, have a few sing-along moments and finish with loads of balloons, explosions, glitter going everywhere and a big pounding cover version, smile like a loon throughout.

c) After the first song bang on endlessly about how this is the biggest and best gig ever in the history of music. Tell the audience how much you love them, how much this love means to you and how you are going to demonstrate the intense depth of this love to them with the next song. Get Lemmy back on stage after introducing him as though he has won the world cup, cured cancer and shits gold, play a Probots song with Lemmy and then give the departing Lemmy a big lingering snog.
Protractedly restate your very real, deep, sincere love for the audience and say that this gig is easily better than playing in Brighton. For the encore wheel out Brian May and Roger Taylor of Queen (yes, really), do a Queen song as an extra special treat for everyone. Dedicate the whole shooting match to Freddie Mercury while waving upwards at the sky. Finish the gig with one final declaration of sweet, sweet love and then call it a day.

If you answered “a”: You are Graham Coxon, cheer up Graham you are ace.

If you answered “b”: You are Wayne Coyne, you really should run for president.

If you answered “c”: You are Dave Grohl, please Dave, don’t love me that much.

Lesson 5: The people will always rise up against oppression

The Foo Fighters take the stage to a reasonably excited reception, however the whole thing is slightly blunted by the fact that we are stuck behind a fence fucking miles away from the stage because we didn’t buy the expensive tickets. Jane expresses a desire to have a crack at getting over the fence and making a break for the inner sanctum, which seems to be full of rather bored looking people who may as well have not bothered. I admire her spirit but point out the scary shaven headed men behind the fence in the SECURITY t-shirts who may have different ideas.

Foo Fighters: Distant, love

Then a young man comes surfing through the crowd, we help push him over the fence, which demonstrates the efficiency with which the bouncers pounce on anyone making it over the barriers. A side effect is that suddenly I have become the chairman of the escape committee with a number of people asking me to pick them up and throw them in the direction of the fence. A few of them do this several times after being dragged away by the bouncers and put back in the crowd. I help as much as I can. Eventually Jane decides that she wants to go over (as long as I will look after her bag - rock and roll!). I pick her up and shove her as far forward as I can, unfortunately there is little help forthcoming from the geezers in front and one of the bouncers pushes her back with nonchalant ease. I feel guilty about not being taller and issue apology 429.

Lesson 6: Size isn’t everything

I have been finding the whole gig a bit confusing and weird all day. I think the problem is that it is just too big, the rich/poor divide thing isn’t helping either. The crowd seems a little bit aggro, or at least not all that friendly throughout and by the time the Foo’s are halfway done some dozy girl is pouring wine very slowly down my back. Oh yeah, thanks, that’s going to smell great later.

Not being a massive Foo Fighters devotee I am not sure what to expect, happily, most of it is pretty good Times Like These, Monkey Wrench, and Everlong at the end are ace. As I am from the nineties I am also hoping that This is a Call will get an outing, while the ever miserable part of me wants to hear Low. We don’t get either but I’ll Stick Around gets an airing. Excellent. [NOTE: it now seems that this song didn’t get played at all, although I seem to remember it quite clearly. No, I can’t explain.]

On the downside Best Of You, which I really, really just don’t get at all, goes on for what seems like hours and the Queen encore is just, well, not needed.

The audience is a bit odd, after some initial, mostly abortive spates of jumping around a bit, the crowd diverges into two parts; firstly - people who stand scratching their chin, occasionally singing along and secondly - the gladiatorial psycho element. This lot form the basis of the fence jumpers union and then create some kind of slam dancing circle which evolves into a sort of homo-erotic wrestling ring, Jane likens it to Fight Club. Eventually a girl in a floaty dress and combat boots gives the lot of them a right old shoeing.

The concert compound: Too big, strange crowd

Lesson 7: Take time out to relax whenever possible

It is all over and the time is only about ten pm. We head for the exit and I have mad plans for finding another gig somewhere. On the way out of the park the grass verge is just too inviting for Jane and we lie down in the middle of it while the crowd streams around us. After attempting to record the ambient sound of thousands of people walking past and jumping over us, Jane demonstrates her cat-like ability to fall asleep anywhere. This is just as well as I am talking absolute shite about how if I “lean back, like, all the way, like, the world is upside down, which is, like, really weird.” What a complete tosser.

After a while a group of people, who may well be a scout troop on a day out, sit down next to us. They get out an OS map, find magnetic north and plot a route to the nearest tube station. The man in charge, wearing a very nice pair of shorts with a motorhead t-shirt neatly tucked in, leaps up and announces, “let’s roll, move out!” which they promptly do.

Lesson 8: Know what you are doing before you order Tapas

In a cunning move that is almost certain to backfire later I brilliantly suggest that we wait out the rush at the tube station for a bit, we decide to give a nearby tapas place a go. The menu looks good but they just don’t have any paracetamol at all. Opting for some kind of set menu we get a plate of bits and pieces that might be fish but I’m not staking the rent on it. Having had a go at this we get the second course, which I am guessing, will be another plate of various delicacies.

But no, that was just the warm up, the rest of it is bought to the table in shifts and there is absolutely fucking loads of it. The quality varies wildly, from meatballs in tomato and fried fish through to Turkey Twizzlers with a bit of paprika on, Potato Croquettes and a steaming bowl containing every single mushroom in the greater London area. There is no chance of eating it all so we bottle it and settle up while they are still bringing out yet more food. The waiters seem a little miffed to say the least.

Lesson 9: If you can’t say something useful don’t say anything at all

Unable to get into the bijou delight that is paper-jam’s usual haunt at the Generator hostel, as you have to book for two nights on the weekend now. I’ve found accommodation in the halls at Queen Mary University near Mile End tube station. Nice rooms that are dead cheap and you actually get your own bathroom which is very handy, especially if you are sharing a room with someone who is liable to repeatedly throw up, say six or seven times, during the night.

One thing though, the place reminds me intensely of the Ludovico institute from A Clockwork Orange. I have a mildly disturbing dream about being drugged up and suffering forced aversion therapy involving Wes Anderson films to a soundtrack by The Smiths. Fortunately I am woken from this nightmare by the reassuring sounds of retching, something that might well be tapas hitting water and a load of suitcases being rolled over cobbles.

After Jane has given it the big Technicolor yawn a few times I decide to try and help out. This help takes the form of me pointlessly asking “Are you alright?” to which she says something along the factual lines of “No, I keep being sick”, I realise that I’m not really adding anything here and go back to the Ludovico dream following a mumbled apology number 516.
Then it is nearly ten in the morning and I have to say it is nice change to be staying in London and getting up for a shower experience that doesn’t involve portly German geezers with a limited grasp of the concept of personal space.

Lesson 10: Don’t drink shitty draft Carling lager out of cardboard cups at any sort of event ever

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