Occasionally I like to time travel, though I don’t do it a lot as it requires quite a lot of organisation. And I only travel backwards in time, preferring to dream about the future rather than actually see the reality.
This weekend I time travelled back in time to 1976, and in space to Wembley Arena, all thanks to Paul Rodgers of Bad Company (and once of Free). Funny how music can put you in touching distance of a distant self.
Most travellers through time and space find it’s best to travel with a companion – Amy Pond if you’re a doctor who travels around in a newly painted blue plywood Police Box or Ford Prefect if you’re a dressing gown wearing Arthur Dent. For me the companion was the rock encyclopaedia Mrs O.
Ahead of Wembley we wandered and then limped around the capital city – Chelsea (as in “I don’t want to go to…”), Drury Lane (as in “Do you know the Muffin Man?) and The Strand (as in “£220 in Monopoly”).
By the time we’d taken our seats in the back row of the terraces at Wembley Arena our feet were in shreds. But luckily we’d purchased a couple of Foot Spa’s at Harrods so we plugged them into the hoover socket behind us and filled them with Peregrino – bliss. We were the envy of the gathered ancient rockers around and below (far below) us.
Funny how rock audiences have changed, isn’t it? Once they were young and dangerous looking – now they are old and looking for dangers as they carefully descend the stairs to the bar. Or is it just the rock concerts that I’m going to?
Funny, though pretty normal, seeing all the once young Rock Chicks queuing for the loo but odder still seeing the men queuing in equal measure… seems the aging process slows the ability for us all to pass water. (Note to The National Health Service – it would have been a good place to hand out men’s health advice).
The problems with aging didn’t seem to be troubling Paul Rodgers though. He sings as good as he ever did and still throws the mike stand as high as he ever wanted to – though I suspect he dyes his hair… but at least he’s got some.
His energy rubbed off pretty quick on the middle aged and aged gathering, they leapt to their sensibly shoed feet, cheered, clapped and sang along as they, like me and Mrs O, travelled back in time to a point where their schooling wasn’t finished and their career’s barely started. Funny how music can do that to you, let you travel in time… isn’t it? It gives you a rare moment to consider who you were in the past – a fleeting glimpse out of the corner of your eye (Floyd).
Dr Who needs a Police Box, Arthur Dent a towel and some nuts, but all you really need to travel through time and space is to have listened endlessly to an album as a teenager and then have the opportunity to go see the band thirty odd years later. All you need is a jumbo pack of chocolate Minstrels to offset the side effects of a disrupted space/time continuum. Time travel is really very easy.
For Seagulls and Shooting Stars everywhere.