[Not] Meeting The Boss

Five hundred lucky people are seeing a dream come true today when they meet Bruce Springsteen at a book-signing event run by Waterstones in London….I’m not one of them!

photo via “Bruce ‘The Boss’ Springsteen” on Facebook

Don’t get me wrong, I tried – but like 24,500 other fans I never made it to the head of the [online] queue and tickets sold out in seconds.

I was on a coach returning to Oxford from London at the time the tickets went on sale and sat excitedly waiting with both my iPhone and iPad open and ready. I even had my husband and kids primed to act on my behalf and they too were logged on and waiting.

Slowly the time ticked away on the LED display at the front of the coach – it was an agonising journey but I never doubted for one minute that I wouldn’t be successful and had already planned what to wear and decided to print out my blog post The River Revisited to give the man.

When the clock finally did strike 8 pm I didn’t stand a chance. I don’t think I even made it into the queue as the whole site crashed almost instantaneously although one of my daughters managed to get the “Sold Out” message before it crashed at less than two minutes past eight.

The event’s Facebook page was immediately engulfed with messages, mostly from gutted fans that were all very nobly trying to be happy for the few that were successful. Many were angry at the perceived mismanagement of the ticket sales, more still were understanding but frustrated.

When tickets started to appear on eBay not too long afterwards selling for £1,000 a pop, the anger stepped up a few notches.

Everyone who missed out had a story; most had been fans for four decades of more and all were disgusted at the behaviour of the few, although probably not surprised. As my husband pointed out “it’s hard enough getting one of the 70 odd thousand Springsteen gig tickets when they go on release let alone competing for one of just 500 tickets.” It wasn’t any consolation.

Over the intervening week since the event was announced, I have managed to get a hold of my disappointment although I have to tell you I cried when I realised that my dream would not be coming true. That is until this morning when I logged onto Facebook and saw the jubilant posts of those with tickets for tonight. One person asked if we [the disappointed masses] would like to see photos of the event “or would it make it worse”. More tears, but like a junkie I can’t stop reading the comments despite my daughters advising me to steer clear of Facebook for a few days until it has all died down. I doubt I will take their advice…


I’m Off To A Gig, Where’s My Leather Jacket?

© Music Dish
Warning warning midlife crisis imminent…The first sign is the purchasing of a leather jacket, followed by a ‘trendy’ new haircut or maybe a tattoo, then joining a ukulele evening class and announcing that you are “going to more gigs this year, maybe even a festival”. This is what happens once the children have left home and you have more time on your hands, time to do a bit of soul searching and becoming aware of your own mortality,  you want to reconnect with your more youthful self etc…

On the other hand if like myself you have never stopped going to watch live music, then you might be offended by the mere suggestion that going to a gig is the sign of a midlife crisis. I for one have never felt out of place at any gig and I have certainly been to a few. But you must admit its difficult not to snigger when you see ‘an older person’ head for the mosh pit losing complete control, jumping around like a lunatic, oblivious to the pretty young things muttering ‘loser’ under their breath.

So what is the etiquette at a music venue if you are over a certain age? I reckon dress like a teenager if you must, sport the obligatory leather jacket if it helps, but remember, only a gentle nodding of the head with your hands in your jeans pockets (or your leather trousers if you’re really suffering) is acceptable, and if you insist on moving other parts of your body, please stand in the dark at the back, where you’ll find me gently swaying in time with the music, a serious look on my face, pretending I‘m a journalist.