It’s a sunny day in Manchester. A short but crowded tram ride has taken me to Wythenshawe Park at the edge of the city. Eager concert-goers have taken over the park today; I follow a great host of them through the gates and past the ushers into the open green.
A shimmering guitar playing a few notes. Bright as day. Controlled. Evocative.
I make my way towards the edge of the great big stage. The park already seems full, and the first opening act has only just got started. I won’t be able to get any closer to the stage, but this is good enough. I can still see the gear. A Roland keyboard. A Fender amp behind it. A Vox amp next to that. A row of Hiwatt stacks next to a Fender Jazz Bass. A bright red drumset.
Bass notes join in. Steady. Composed. Sparse, but sure of themselves.
The forecast said rain. I wore a jacket. But it’s sunny, and quite warm. The sky is as clear as any I’ve seen, but over the edge of the treeline I can see some storm clouds far away. Just a hint of precipitatory danger to keep us on edge. Two planes pass overhead. The sun is now beating down on my face. I sense summer is ending at last.
Drums. Loud. Fast.
The crowd shifts. It is as if a pulse of energy has passed through all of us. There is an unspoken magnetism in concert crowds. Swaying, moving, feeling together.
A voice. Melancholy.
The man next to me starts singing loudly. The woman next to him is dancing. The mood is set. The stage is set. I look around; I see no familiar places, but somehow it feels safe. These are my people.
The music ends. A goodbye. Thunderous applause.
The stage is now occupied by a busy crew. They all wear the universal attire of all road crews everywhere: black. Instruments get unplugged, new ones take their place. Leads are wound and unwound. Amps moved about. They are fast, yet methodical. It’s a dance, choreographed, perfected over years. When the crew leaves, it’ll be time for music again.
