Forty years ago, in July 1986, I went to my first gig. Queen, playing at Wembley Stadium, were one year out from their much-applauded Live Aid set.
By Miles Salter
I was fourteen and my parents, bless them, bought me a ticket, priced £14.50. I’d had an uneven year at school, getting into a spot of bother at one point, but redeemed myself somewhat by winning the school’s poetry competition. I came home one day to find a colourful ticket for the stadium gig on my desk. My eyes filled with tears.
I have mixed feelings about Queen now. They became a sort of cartoon rock band, a bit overwrought and silly. That said, A Night At The Opera remains one of the best albums of the 1970s. It was their Sergeant Pepper, with multifarious songs and complex arrangements that never outweighed the brilliant melodies.
As for the gig, I was completely mesmerised. The support acts were INXS (yet to move into the stratosphere), The Alarm, and Status Quo. Harvey Goldsmith, the rotund promoter and Live Aid fixer, made an appearance at one point to appeal for crowd patience. I think he was just enjoying himself.
70,000 people in one place was spectacle enough, even if the coke cans being sold for 50p outside the stadium seemed outrageously expensive. Freddie held the place in palm of his hand, got everyone to sing along, and a hundred thousand hands were in the air for Radio Ga Ga. It was riveting.
In the decades since, I’ve seen a lot of gigs – festivals, small clubs, stadiums. It’s been a trip. There’s nothing quite like a live gig, even if some shows left a sour taste in the mouth. In 1988, I attended the Monsters Of Rock festival, headlined by Iron Maiden. When Guns N Roses came on, hours earlier, there was a stampede for the front. Two fans died in the crush. I read the news in Kerrang! and shook my head. The whole thing felt overshadowed by the tragedy.
Because I grew up in Buckinghamshire, I was able to go to North London gigs. Wembley Arena was fertile ground – Bryan Adams and Bon Jovi played in the late ‘80s. Whitesnake, in late 1987, was so loud that my ears rang for days afterwards. It was like bombs going off. Fortunately, health and safety these days is much better, and most big venues must comply with noise levels. Pink Floyd in 1988 was a spectacle, complete with flying beds and flying pigs. I missed REM the same year at Wembley Arena – tickets were a bargain £8 – although I did see the American band years later in Hull, of all places. The Pixies, some time around 1990, had a jubilantly sweaty audience.
Fibbers opened in 1992, when I was a student in York, and small, sweaty gigs were available. I saw Eric Bell (formerly of Thin Lizzy) and Energy Orchard, just the once.
In Hull in the 1990s, Jonathan Richmann played a tiny gig to about forty people, and it was – wow! – quiet. Hull was also the site of The Adelphi, a legendary back street venue presided over by the cigar-chomping Paul Jackson, who died recently. The Adelphi was a tiny place with a wildly varied programme and had-drawn flyers by Jackson, aka Jacko. I saw Jackie Leven play there, and opened the show. Jackie Leven, what a talent!
Greenbelt in the 1990s had some classic gigs. The Alarm in the big top in 1990 were extraordinary. The venue was heaving; it was hot and the guitars kept going out of tune. The place was drenched in sweat. Also at Greenbelt were Juliet Turner, Iain Archer, Martyn Joseph, Kate Rusby, and Joan Armatrading, to name a few. The acoustic gigs were wonderful. Some gigs were pleasant surprises. I was blown away by Bruce Cockburn at Greenbelt, around 1995, when he played an acoustic set in the big top. I’ve seen him numerous times since then, a wonderful guitarist and songwriter.
In 1992 I saw Bruce Springsteen for the first time, back at Wembley Arena. I’ve seen Bruce numerous times since in vast stadium shows, but every time I saw him outdoors, it rained. The time in Manchester where a bloke dressed as Father Christmas demanded Santa Claus is coming to town was memorable.
One of the best acoustic gigs I saw was Richard Thompson and Danny Thompson at York’s Grand Opera House – beautifully intimate. Greenbelt had numerous great acoustic moments. Mike Scott, in his solo years, employed the best heckler put down I’ve ever witnessed. One audience member in Greenbelt’s big top kept shouting for A Girl Called Johnny. Eventually, Scott retaliated. ‘In ten years’ time you’ll be shouting for the next song so shut up and listen to it now.’
Other acts were less effusive. The first time I saw Van Morrison, in Hull, he never said a word to the audience. Morrison is famously grumpy, bordering on rude. I got the distinct impression that his band was afraid of him. He was an outstanding musician and songwriter but a tricky bloke, to put it mildly. Few gigs have been unhappy occasions – I have been truly fortunate – but Hugh Cornwell in Pocklington in (I think) 2007 was not fun. He did a sort of ‘live interview’ in front of the audience but was remarkably egotistical and self-centred. I left early.
Talking on stage is hard to get right. Over the years I’ve noticed most acts prefer to say little, letting the music doing the talking. Billy Bragg is good at talking to audiences – garrulous but witty. Generally, crowds like to be talked to, especially if a bit of banter ensues. It’s not easy to get the balance right. Rarely has anybody talked too much, but Raye in Bridlington chatted way too much – it changed the energy of the evening, which was a shame. ‘I’m a chatterbox,’ she admitted. Indeed!
Some acts I saw just once. Motorhead in Newcastle in December 2007 had to be seen to be believed. They were a thunderous juggernaut. It was like watching the three horsemen of the apocalypse. Lemmy was already slowing down after a lifetime of drugs and alcohol. He died eight years later. Bob Dylan headlined a formidable bill in 2019, with Neil Young, James Taylor, and Bonnie Raitt also appearing. ‘He sounds like Scooby Doo’ I said to the friend I went with. Within hours of the gig, some wag on social media wrote ‘Dylan sounded like a drunk Scooby Doo.’ I love Dylan with a passion, but his voice has been whittled away. It was the only time I was in the presence of Bob.
Leonard Cohen at the First Direct Arena was extraordinary. He was 79, and his voice had descended to subterranean levels, but he was funny, passionate and utterly committed. He also has an extraordinarily good band. It was one of the best gigs I ever saw.
Some acts want you to know how important they are. Neil Sedaka, at York Barbican in 2014, ran up slides before his set telling the audience how many records he’d sold, and after every song took a bow at the front of the stage. It was an oddly egotistical gig, even if his many hits were enjoyable.
David Byrne, earlier this year, was a highlight, combining Talking Heads classics with his solo years and a very carefully rehearsed show. His autism was in evidence, but so too was his creativity and fantastic songs.
Some acts are just reliably good. The Waterboys and Del Amitri, both with their roots in the 1980s, have never disappointed. The Dels remain one of the best live acts anywhere. I’ve seen both numerous times.
I’d like to have seen some acts in their prime, especially late ‘70s and early ‘80s bands like Thin Lizzy, The Police, The Clash, Blondie, Elvis Costello and The Pretenders, who I did see (at last) in 2024, even if was Chrissie Hynde plus hired hands rather than the original band. Tears ran down my face, as it was when when I saw Bruce Springsteen light up Sunderland’s Stadium Of Light in the same year (in the rain, of course.) Why the tears? You know you’re witnessing something brief, that you probably won’t ever see again, so you better live it while you can.
At least seven of the people I have seen on stage over 40 years have since died. I once asked my friend Oz Hardwick what he wanted to see at a gig and he said ‘something that will never happen again.’ He was spot on. The moments that stay in the memory are exactly that – not shows that stick to a dogged routine, but snatches of life that come alive. You get something unique. Like a bloke dressed as Father Christmas, in Manchester, in the rain. Forty years and barely a bad gig the whole time. I’ve been very, very lucky.