Concert Evening
Now that we're getting old, we're going out to concerts. Last year, we camped out at the Resurrection Fest, and saw Scorpions, in July. Then we drove to A Coruña to see The Pretenders at the Festival do Noroeste, in August. This year, we saw Mark Knopfler in A Coruña, in May, and last Saturday we went to the music festival in Santiago, O Son do Camiño, to see Iggy Pop.
We've been to other concerts at the Monte do Gozo, the hill outside Santiago that shares an amphitheatre with a pilgrims' hostel complex. The first was in 1993 to see Bruce Springsteen. The second was to see Bob Dylan in 2004. Back then, the amphitheatre had seats and was more comfortable. Then, at the oversold Bruce Springsteen concert a few years ago, the seats were filled in to sell more tickets and now the seats are simply low ledges difficult for a fifty-year old to sit on in any kind of comfort.
But sitting was done only in between acts. When we arrived, at just after eight in the evening, the sun was still rioting, and we stood near the main stage to one side, with a good view, awaiting the Madrid-based indie rock band, Vetusta Morla. We had only heard one or two of their songs before, but had been told they were good. When they came on stage and started playing, they were good. They played until the sun started to sigh and the moon to shout, and then we went walking around the amphitheatre to the other stage to get to the food trucks.
On the way, we found ourselves with people we knew, and tarried a while before arriving at the clearing with the enticing smells. My husband had brought a recognizable chorizo sandwich with him, which he ate while I considered which truck would have good food with a low salt content. After a couple of minutes, I realized salt didn't matter. I had to find the food truck with the shortest line. Some trucks had lines that amounted to a half hour wait, at the least. That was the time we had before Iggy's concert, so I had to be fast. I finally found the vegan truck. It was the only one with a line short enough to consider. Luckily, the falafel I ordered was low in salt and tasted good.
Munching, we went back to the main stage, found a spot opposite the center and splayed ourselves as well as we could on the ledge that remained of the seat. The Romans and Greeks would not have approved of the blasphemy committed on their idea of what an amphitheatre should be. But when Iggy came on, we got up and forgot about sitting down.
He may be 72. He may have a limp from a childhood bout with polio. But that guy has energy. In the hour and a half that his concert lasted, he didn't stop. From one side of the stage to the other. Down to the bottom of the stage and the people standing below it. Up to the stage again. All the while singing the songs that made our parents cringe. Regaling us with his favorite word; "Fucking thanks for fucking coming!" It was quintessential Iggy Pop. It was a concert where no one stopped moving from the beginning to the end. It was what a rock concert should be.
When he finally left the stage, and it became evident that it was being rearranged for the next act, we wandered to the exit, tired but happy. The next act was David Guetta, a French DJ who specializes in electronic music. Not our cup of tea. Along our walk back to our car there were small groups of young people. One teenager came up to us and asked if we were done with our bracelets. The bracelets were put on our wrists when we presented our tickets so we could go in and out without any more accreditation. My husband gave him his, but we explained it might not let him through because the adhesive is designed to break a pattern when it is pulled open. The pattern is what the doorkeepers check to make sure it's valid. Still, since it was night, maybe he got away with it. As we continued, others were asking people leaving the venue for their bracelets. Hope dies last.
Now, for the next concert; Bonnie Tyler in Vilagarcía next month.
We've been to other concerts at the Monte do Gozo, the hill outside Santiago that shares an amphitheatre with a pilgrims' hostel complex. The first was in 1993 to see Bruce Springsteen. The second was to see Bob Dylan in 2004. Back then, the amphitheatre had seats and was more comfortable. Then, at the oversold Bruce Springsteen concert a few years ago, the seats were filled in to sell more tickets and now the seats are simply low ledges difficult for a fifty-year old to sit on in any kind of comfort.
But sitting was done only in between acts. When we arrived, at just after eight in the evening, the sun was still rioting, and we stood near the main stage to one side, with a good view, awaiting the Madrid-based indie rock band, Vetusta Morla. We had only heard one or two of their songs before, but had been told they were good. When they came on stage and started playing, they were good. They played until the sun started to sigh and the moon to shout, and then we went walking around the amphitheatre to the other stage to get to the food trucks.
On the way, we found ourselves with people we knew, and tarried a while before arriving at the clearing with the enticing smells. My husband had brought a recognizable chorizo sandwich with him, which he ate while I considered which truck would have good food with a low salt content. After a couple of minutes, I realized salt didn't matter. I had to find the food truck with the shortest line. Some trucks had lines that amounted to a half hour wait, at the least. That was the time we had before Iggy's concert, so I had to be fast. I finally found the vegan truck. It was the only one with a line short enough to consider. Luckily, the falafel I ordered was low in salt and tasted good.
Munching, we went back to the main stage, found a spot opposite the center and splayed ourselves as well as we could on the ledge that remained of the seat. The Romans and Greeks would not have approved of the blasphemy committed on their idea of what an amphitheatre should be. But when Iggy came on, we got up and forgot about sitting down.
He may be 72. He may have a limp from a childhood bout with polio. But that guy has energy. In the hour and a half that his concert lasted, he didn't stop. From one side of the stage to the other. Down to the bottom of the stage and the people standing below it. Up to the stage again. All the while singing the songs that made our parents cringe. Regaling us with his favorite word; "Fucking thanks for fucking coming!" It was quintessential Iggy Pop. It was a concert where no one stopped moving from the beginning to the end. It was what a rock concert should be.
When he finally left the stage, and it became evident that it was being rearranged for the next act, we wandered to the exit, tired but happy. The next act was David Guetta, a French DJ who specializes in electronic music. Not our cup of tea. Along our walk back to our car there were small groups of young people. One teenager came up to us and asked if we were done with our bracelets. The bracelets were put on our wrists when we presented our tickets so we could go in and out without any more accreditation. My husband gave him his, but we explained it might not let him through because the adhesive is designed to break a pattern when it is pulled open. The pattern is what the doorkeepers check to make sure it's valid. Still, since it was night, maybe he got away with it. As we continued, others were asking people leaving the venue for their bracelets. Hope dies last.
Now, for the next concert; Bonnie Tyler in Vilagarcía next month.
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