The future is unwritten

When asked to write about a music concert I’ve attended, the options are expansive to say the least. To choose to write about one that left an impact on me leave is molecular by comparison.

Sunday, January 19, 1978, Sheffield Top Rank

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It took seconds to steam up the windows.
Eight teenage bodies exploded into the minibus.
The same cool bus we had boarded four hours ago.
It was now a mobile sauna.
Sweat still soaking clothes, blood still bursting veins;
Lives changed forever.

Earlier, we’d gathered quietly in the darkness.
Sunday night in town meant partial safety.
The drunks were all at home.
No heads would be kicked in tonight.
Still, we kept to the Town Hall’s shadows.

In this dank northern town,
Our open difference cultivated disapproval.
Outsiders one and all,
Our eyes clung to each other,
Our safety pins and zips fastening, binding us together.

The driver never blinked an eye.
That was nice; maybe he understood?
Excited hands fingered cold leather seats.
The charabanc’s sliding door slammed: shut.
We were off.

Suffocating little town behind us,
Nirvana’s city lights ahead.
Senses flooded and broke their banks.
These fireworks were ready, primed.
The beacon of change burned bright!

Barely out of school,
We entered the club.
Us newbies got membership cards,
Suddenly we were all over 21!
Rules are meant to be broken.

Coal shed darkness sucked us in.
Adjusting our eyes and ears,
Then we saw them.
There were others! Others like us? Many others…
There must be millions!

Isolation jackets fell to the floor.
Skin failed the containment test,
As immense imaginary crowd hugs took place.
We were not alone. Here we were safe. Here was home.
We overdosed on being ourselves.

The tribe came in all shapes, sizes and colours,
Literally.
The jumble sale army was on parade,
Proudly.
There was hope. Change could come.

Pressed together like the leaves of a bellows,
We stood and waited; eyes front.
Behind the drums draped flags of every nation,
Behind us stood their peoples.
The lights dimmed, a little.

Strummer took the stage,
Assuming the size of a giant at the mic,
Narasimha sent to slay our enemies.
Time ceased its forward march.
Life threw its old book in the bin.

Topper hit the drums.
Joe, Mick and Paul hit the strings.
3,000 feet left the floor,
In unison.
They’ve been there ever since.

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