Flying Solo

I recently attended my first ‘big’ solo gig.  Gigs can be pretty expensive, so unless you’re a real fan — forking out £70 or £80 for a ticket isn’t always an option.  For me, I didn’t want to pass up the chance to see one of my favourite artists, so bought a ticket knowing I’d likely be going alone. 

As the date loomed closer, I could feel an undercurrent of anxiety.  15,000 people were expected to attend, and although I’d been to a lot of festivals and gigs this size before, it was always with friends. 

I planned it as well as I could: don’t arrive too early, get a drink, get your bearings, and find a good spot to stand.  But as I locked my bike outside the venue, I saw so many people heading to the entrance, and felt a mild panic rising.  Am I really doing this? I thought, as I merged into the stream of people.

Last entry was 6pm, but with nearly 3 hours to kill before the main act, I joined the queue for the bar.  Drink in hand, I looked around for a decent spot to watch the DJ on stage.

It was still a beautiful sunny evening and everywhere the mood was high, but as I stood watching the DJ expertly twirling knobs on the decks I felt suddenly exposed — once more an awkward teenager in my aloneness.  I finished my drink and joined the very long toilet queue (nothing changes here, whether you’re in a group or going solo). 

Back in the melee, I decided against another tenner for a drink — and scooted around for a better place to stand.  Another DJ set had started. They were good, though the crowd was getting restless for the main event, and again I felt myself questioning what I was doing there — surrounded  by groups of people chatting and laughing.  My ex suddenly popped into my head and I laughed, thinking this would be his worst nightmare — he hates crowds.

And then the final DJ set was over and they were clearing the stage. After a final toilet break, I bumped into someone I knew.  We chatted for a bit and I felt lighter. 

I headed back to the area I’d been standing in.  It’s funny how those micro connections made in such a short period of time are oddly reassuring.  I recognised the same people around me and I visibly relaxed.

A very tall man kindly suggested I stand in front of him and his girlfriend to get a better view.  I accidentally stood on someone’s foot and I got chatting to the owner of the foot, who was also solo gigging.   Someone placed a furry hat on my head and gave me a drunken kiss on the cheek.

The anticipation was building and then there he was — bounding onto the stage.  The music burst into life — a riot of lights and colour. Everyone cheered.  I forgot about being self-conscious.  I forgot the doubts in my head.  I was here, dancing to one of my favourite artists as the sun was starting to set — everyone swept along in one giant pulsating wave.      

Within a blink, it was over and as we all stumbled towards the entrance a guy turned to me. His eyes were wide and he smiled.

 ‘Epic!’

‘Absolutely,’ I said, and as I cycled off into the warm night, a bright moon shining overhead, I thought that was more than epic, and I’d been lucky enough to have been part of it.