It doesn't feel good to admit this, but I realised recently that I’ve become a music fascist.
That's right. I'm the guy who, when you take a call on your mobile phone during a concert, gives you a look that says, 'What the HELL do you think you're doing?'
I'm the guy whose neck veins start throbbing ominously as your loud and tedious conversation with your friend drags all the way through my favourite Ron Sexsmith song.
I'm not proud of it, and it led to possibly my most humiliating moment ever, in an impressive field of humiliating moments. But more about that later.
Why am I like this? I blame society – or more specifically, Tilley’s Devine Café. Because, like a generation of Canberrans whose musical life revolved around the café, I developed some unrealistic expectations about how concert audiences should behave.
You see, I thought it was normal for an audience to sit quietly during an acoustic show, listening intently to the music. I thought it was normal to turn off your mobile phone before a show. I thought it was normal not to take calls on the damn thing during a show. I thought it was normal to save the story about Darren getting it on with Cayla from personnel for after the show.
But no. All those things are freakishly abnormal. They only happen at Tilley's.
Don't get me wrong. At the right show – say, You Am I at The Holy Grail – I'm up the front, spilling beer over myself and doing my white boy, Tom Cruise 'Whoo!!' with the best of them. I make noise. I'm rock'n'roll, man.
But if there's a guy on stage playing songs on an acoustic guitar, you better can it, buddy.
I should explain that I have an idea of what it's like to be on the receiving end of music fascists. Years ago, as a young culture vulture, I went to the National Gallery to hear my first live classical show. It was a string quartet, playing Vivaldi I think – one of those German composers, anyway.
At rock concerts you applaud when the music stops, right? So at the end of the first piece of music, which was quite lovely, I thought I'd show my appreciation.
But get this: at classical gigs, it's VERBOTEN to clap between, um, movements or something. So my enthusiastic (solo) applause was met with a circle of baleful stares. Even the musicians looked disgusted. I might as well have been wearing a T-shirt with 'Philistine' in big black letters.
OK, live and learn.
I certainly learned a few things at Tilley's. Tilley's owner, Pauly, is legendary for her crowd control. Start a conversation during a show, and you'll get a high-powered torch shone straight into your face. You can’t see for about 10 minutes afterwards - and she never misses, even from across the room. If you keep the conversation going, you'll be told to pipe down or leave.
Well, that's how it should be.
But that's at Tilley's. In the real world, attempts at crowd control can get you into trouble.
I was at a Jeff Lang concert at the ANU a few years ago. If you read my first blog, you'd know that I LOVE Jeff Lang. He visits Canberra far too infrequently for my liking, so when he’s in town it’s a very special occasion for me.
Lang can be pretty loud – very loud - but some of his songs are performed on an acoustic guitar, when audience noise easily intrudes. And wouldn't you know, during the first set at the ANU, a group of four girls gathered at the side of the stage and began talking. And kept talking. And got louder and louder, until they were literally yelling at each other, and all my enjoyment of the music was evaporating like fog on a summer’s day.
I thought my head was going to explode, and I could see I wasn't alone in getting annoyed. Even the other guitarist in Lang's band, Tim Hall, was giving the offenders dirty looks.
Finally, in a class action of frustration, a bunch of people yelled 'SHUT UP' as the girls' volume rose to a shrill roar – to these ears, like the sound a jet makes as it taxies to the runway - during a particularly quiet section of the music. Emboldened, and slightly intoxicated, I threw my empty (well, almost empty) plastic beer cup at the loudest of them.
You know those times when you do something that, the second it's done, makes you feel a wave of deep regret? This was one of those moments. After the cup reached its target, in slow motion, I looked around sheepishly at those who had called out 'shut up', hoping for support. They all looked away quickly.
Oops.
Then one by one, the four girls – led by the girl who now wore the dregs of my beer - stopped by to tell me basically what a prick I was. I tried a feeble defence: 'Well, um, you were really loud and I'm trying to enjoy the show ….'
'Yeah, so why didn't you just talk to us?'
'Well, if I'd had a torch …'
It gets better.
Half way through the second set, between songs, Hall stepped up to the microphone and said he had something to say. Everybody tuned in to listen. He'd had a chat during the break with a group of girls, he said, that he'd treated "like a bit of a music Nazi". He wanted to apologise. Hey, they were just enjoying the show, what's wrong with that?
I thought, I don't like where this is going.
Hall continued: "Not only that, but somebody actually threw a glass of beer over one of them - and by the way, who was it?"
Well, you know who it was. I thought, should I sit there and wait to be identified, a cowardly criminal trying to melt into the floor, or just put up my hand and take it like a man? I put up my hand.
"Hey, maybe you should apologise."
As all my blood rushed to my face, and everybody turned to look, I mumbled "I already did".
Cue much merriment from my brother, sitting next to me. A moment to remember fondly, for sure.
So what's the moral of this story?
Firstly, don't drink: it lowers your inhibitions and makes you do stupid things. Secondly, if somebody ticks you off, resist the urge to throw things at them.
Finally, and most importantly, don't EVER get between me and my enjoyment of live music.
Beer + music fascism = public humiliation.
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