I want to see My Bloody Valentine in Glasgow, though gigs over the age of 40 are a terrible idea

My Bloody Valentine in 1990 | Getty Images

When I saw that My Bloody Valentine were playing at the OVO Hydro in Glasgow this November, I whooped.

This is their first UK headline tour in over a decade.

I was a huge fan of this shoegazey band, back in the day. I still have all their records, though they’re warping down in my cellar, underneath suitcases and other detritus.

The last time I saw them was probably in 1992, when I was a teenager, and they were at Glasgow’s SECC, on the Rollercoaster Tour, and sharing the billing with Mudhoney, Blur and The Jesus and Mary Chain. 33 years ago. Jeez.

It was THE best night, but then I was once an avid gig goer, who’d amass the used ticket stubs, as if I was a Victorian collector and they were fossils, butterflies or bird eggs.

Music was once my entire social life and raison d’etre.

I’d often spend my evenings at the springy-floored Barrowlands, grotty Calton Studios, or The Venue, and only leave when the floor was sticky, my ears were ringing, my plastic pint glass was cracked and empty, and they were giving out flyers for post-concert shindigs.

When it started, I’d always go right to the front, until I could touch the stage. If you weren’t so far forward that you could peek under the floppy fringe of the lead singer, then you may as well not be there. This was also the aperture, where you’d be able to dodge the waves of both moshing, pogo-ing and stage diving.

I’d listen to the band’s albums for days, before the concert, to get myself all hyped up.

So, you’d think I’d jump on the chance to go see one of my all time favourites. However, this time round, I’ve held back.

It’s time to be honest with myself and admit defeat. Maybe I’m too old for this.

I’ve found that I don’t actually enjoy going to gigs any longer. I don’t even get a feeling of FOMO, when I miss out.

That’s why I’ve only participated in a handful of live music experiences over the last decade or so, as my enjoyment has slowly dwindled to almost nothing.

I have stopped raging against the dying of the strobe light. Let me explain. There are various elements of the post 40-something (and then some) gig-going experience that put me off. I have listed them below.

1 You know you’re over it, when the band you worship comes back on for an encore of the greatest hits that they saved for this precious moment of reprise, and you’re like, oh, no, not again, please stop so I can go home to bed. You have already checked the Bus Tracker, and they’re foiling your plan.

2 I hate standing for long periods. Sure, the last few gigs I’ve been to, I did pay for a seat, but that made me feel removed from the occasion. So, it’s either aching legs and the sense of impending varicose veins, or sitting like a prim Morningside lady, doing my little clap at the end of each song, and looking down, as if we’re Statler and Waldorf, on the real action.

3 Are you supposed to dance? I’ve forgotten the rules, so I’ll just nod my head in time to the beat, and feel strange about it. The same goes for singing along. Do we still do that? Perhaps I should just mouth the lyrics and not actually push any sound out. I end up resembling a floundering goldfish doing karaoke.

4 The prices. I mean, come on. My Bloody Valentine tickets are about £60, which isn’t too bad, comparatively. Still, I don’t think a gig should be the same price as a pair of new shoes or a three-course meal.

5 My precious hearing. At this age, I don’t have much of it left to spare. I think I must’ve done some damage, with all those years of going to the front. I went to a gig in the Gallowgate in Glasgow a few years ago, and we had to leave early, because it was so unbearably loud that it felt torturous. And it wasn’t even Mogwai, who are known for their volume and, legend has it, played one Auckland gig at 132 decibels. Apparently, that’s the same as a jet taking off. Even at my much quieter Glasgow show, I felt as if my teeth were rattling and my internal organs were going to sift their way out. And, there’s nothing that’s less rock ‘n’ roll than wearing ear plugs to a gig, whatever they say.

6 I remember talking to a former colleague about music and nostalgia. He’d listen to records and see the bands of his youth, and that would comfort him and make him feel happy. When I do the same thing, I have a violent sense of wabi-sabi. In common with looking at old photographs, it’s a window into a place and an age that you can’t visit any more, and it makes me pine for it. I suppose I could avoid that by seeing more contemporary bands and musicians, but, you know, there’s still the dodgy ears and encores to worry about.

7 Seeing your heroes looking like ancient withered Skesis that have been reanimated from beyond the crypt, and realising that you’re the same age as them.

8 The queues for the bar. The queues for the toilet. The queues for the merch. The existence of too much merch. The price of said merch.

Yep, I think I’m going to sit this one out.