It’s that time of year when the factor of one’s sun-cream ideally should match the average age of the season’s headline acts. When the country’s prodigal musicians return kicking the arse of twice your time on Earth but with double the energy, and an unparalleled bladder prowess that has you speculating on the possible use of catheters.
Anticipation through a crap camera
Where the anticipation of the dizzying call and response routine from huddles of deft guitarists rises with the same speed of your involuntary fist by the time they take the stage. Where 20 minute jammin’ sessions are implored with licks and flicks through semi-century-spanning oeuvres of which the gathered never tire.
When heads are bowed in solemn shakes of sheer joy and feet stomped to the beat of the rhythm of a youthhood its owners are fearful of forgetting. When three hours on a trans-aorta flight makes the soul pop and the wooziness from the jet lag of daily living kicks in from the ankles up.
After which neon lights shiver across the city in joint jubilation and the moratorium on smiling to oneself is momentarily lifted. Then your heart burps. And it’s all over till next time.
Ladies and Webtlemen, Mr….
AKA Neil Young
Belfast, 7th June 2016