Pop music
Not raving but drowning
Marcus Berkmann
Yes, it's stadium rock season once again. As normal, sensible people retreat on holiday to escape it all, stars from across the world are taking advantage of the glori- ous summer weather (gales of ironic laugh- ter) and hot-footing it to Britain's most prestigious First Division football grounds, there to crank out their tunes to huge crowds of adoring fans. Although a rela- tively recent phenomenon, stadium rock already seems to have become a much- loved seasonal tradition — as intrinsic a part of the Great British Summer as straw- berries, village cricket and fat people walk- ing around central London in multi- coloured shorts.
Is it, though, all that it is cracked up to be? Certainly, the reviews are never less than ecstatic. When Simple Minds play the Milton Keynes Bowl on 24 August or, a week later, when Guns 'n' Roses hit Wem- bley Stadium, you can be certain that dis- senting words will be conspicuous by their absence: both shows, everyone will agree, will have been memorable, even life- enhancing experiences. But then reviewers of these concerts tend to be treated rather well. At Wembley Stadium, for instance, they actually get seats. They also some- times get free booze (very welcome when you're reviewing Bros) and permission to stand in the 'VIP lounge', where gnarled record company executives with leathery skins and gleaming white tee-shirts chat up impossibly young girl's over Malibus and lemonades. What they don't have to do is stand in the main arena with all the pun- ters. Thus the puree misery of the stadium concert, that most overrated, overhyped and pointless form of entertainment, is skilfully diluted. The real hell of it goes unreported.
For one thing, there's the boredom. To secure a reasonable place, you must arrive hours before the concert starts, and amuse yourself by watching paunchy roadies ambling around the stage, shifting micro- phones and setting up the star's drinks cab- inet just behind the keyboards. No genuine entertainment is laid on, but the British, with the sturdy fortitude that characterises our race, make their own in the form of a Mexican wave. That so many of the audi- ence still find this diverting after two and a half hours shows you the sort of people who go to stadium concerts.
The company can indeed be a bit of a problem. Barry, Des, Ken and Barry from Upminster, all clad in tennis shirts and shorts, have each drunk 17 cans of Carls- berg Special Brew and insist on singing along to all the songs — unless there's a woman on stage, in which case they chant, `Get yer tits out for the lads'. Ken, unfortu- nately, has about as sure a grasp on his hot dog as he has on the English language, and most of his easy-to-squeeze English-style mustard lands on your trousers. Then half a dozen international basketball players suddenly barge in front of you, cutting out daylight as well as your already limited view of the stage. And that's even before it starts raining.
Ah, the rain. Naturally there's no room to open an umbrella, and if you try and take cover, the rain changes direction to spite you. But while galoshes and water- proofs look silly, remember that they have been designed for the nearest comparable experience — a day's deep-sea fishing in the North Atlantic.
Even the bands now tacitly admit that stadium concerts leave much to be desired by concentrating less on the music than on the special effects. No big show is now complete without fireworks, lasers, holo- grams and huge inflatable models of naked women being hauled all over the place on massive pulleys. The spectacle is the thing; the music is secondary and the performers, small dots on the horizon, are entirely irrel- evant. You can see some of what's happen- ing on stage on the giant video screen, but it would be helpful if the images weren't two seconds out of sync with the music.
So why does anyone go? It can't be the atmosphere — there isn't one, unless you count the general odour of sweat, beer and easy-to-squeeze English-style mustard. Per- haps it's because people like being herded around and treated like morons, even if they have to pay £20 for the privilege. Sadly, I shall be unable to attend any of this year's major concerts myself, as I have urgent and unforeseen prior engagements many hundreds of miles away. But if you're going, have fun — and don't forget the galoshes.
Previous page
