My oh my.
30 years ago Di and I attended our first gig together.
It was at the UCL in the Aldwych.
I had dragged my new 'squeeze' (then a disco disciple) out to sample the folk musings and jangling introspections of Boo Hewerdine and The Bible.
The support band was Deacon Blue for Christ's Sake...
Di, initially reticent, was ultimately smitten and thus her rehabilitation began: Tom Waits being the next hurdle.
But I digress...
Tonight we joined the puckered pilgrimage to watch The Bible reform to perform 'Under the Bridge' at Stamford Bridge; a 'one off' 30 year reunion. Synchronicity indeed for Di and I. It being Chelsea, if 'blue was the colour' it initially seemed that the game was more about blue rinse and Blue Stratos than anything more sanguine... Things soon became more buoyant: Not since haunting a memorable Blue Nile gig (at The Albert Hall around the 'Peace at Last' album) have I seen so many misty eyed middle aged men punching the air in dolorous delight. 'Love at second sight will see me through' sang Boo and we all nodded 'Oooh yeeess', sagely, like that fricking Churchill dog. Boo fronted things gamely like a 'have a go hero' in his ultimate dream life; a happy rabbit in the headlights; gleefully throwing shapes that his 50 year old hips would surely question in the morning. That sweet, venerable vibrato endures: as vulnerably swoon-some as memory pledged. And the band made a glorious sound. Guitars chimed, rhythms syncopated, jazz infused chords were diminished just so... reassuring us that, yes, we had known our onions. The delights were many: 'Mahalia', 'Honey be Good' and 'Skywriting', before the inevitable goosebumps of 'Graceland'. Then came the night's revelation: 'King Chicago'. "And I love you a little bit more than I love myself... home of my heart" seemed to ring true as many grabbed at partners and joined the swelling chorus. It was a real 'chicken skin' moment. Our creased and crumpled heroes threw themselves manfully at the songs with a dynamic gusto and dextrous clarity of intent; keenly displaying a musicality that more than justified those aged Steely Dan comparisons. But this was no disparate Dan; there was a muscular thump and rattle, an earnest integrity to the playing that could do nowt but make us love and reclaim them as our own.
And there we were, as the dust settled, sated and sure, slapping our virtual friends on the back; misty eyed strangers who we knew inside out, after a mutual baring of souls on FB. We stood there standing: a mugging and a hugging in a kindly way; kissing like statues, reeling in the years, recognising what we were, what we'd become and what we'd never be.
The euphoria of nostalgia eh?
The wondrous power of music: to filter, distil and fulfil. To move you to that moment when you clock your younger self and realise that you might have actually known what you were about.
It was kind of wonderful: a kind of living, a kind of loving, a kind of slipping away...