I can’t exactly remember when I stopped going to gigs. Perhaps it was around
the time I switched off Radio 1 and embarked on a passionate love-hate
relationship with John Humphrys. Or maybe it was shortly after I realised
that policemen really do get younger every year; either way, it’s a good
while since I indulged in behaviour that could be described, even in the
loosest sense, as rock’n’roll.
Until recently, I had assumed that this was just another of the many
inevitable side-effects of growing up and getting old. You get married, get
a mortgage, have kids, clamber up the career ladder – gigging doesn’t really
come into it. Even if I wanted to, I just don’t have the time or energy to
go skulking around Camden Town at night, seeking out the hot new bands.
Now, though, I no longer need to. Thanks to an enterprising fellow called Ric
Yerbury, I can simply dig deep and buy myself a handy taster of today’s
young rock scene. Put simply, Yerbury pays top whack to hire hot acts to
perform for audiences who, what they lack in youth, they make up amply in
wedge. Along the way, he provides a variety of creature comforts, of the
sort old, rich people tend to favour: salubrious venues, rivers of
champagne, professional waiters, good food. He calls it the Rage, or
“gigging for grown-ups”: all the cachet of the cutting-edge pop scene; but
with the messy teenage stuff taken out.
This is an intriguing concept. Yerbury’s prices are ambitious: £125 a head,
£350 for access to the VIP suite. For that kind of cash you can get yourself
a decent(ish) seat at the Royal Opera House, or a ticket to a high-profile
football match. It’s a lot to pay for the privilege of a band that, had you
the time and energy, would ordinarily cost you around £20. But that’s just
his point: who over the age of 30 wants to queue outside in the rain to
spend a night in a cockroach-in-fested venue, slipping on spilt beer and fag
ends?
Not me, it’s true. Sure, in my day, I was really quite into music. I was, for
example, the only girl I knew with a proper stereo, one with a preamp as
well as . . . well, an amp (forgive me, it was the Eighties). I adored the
whole music tribe/dressing up thing. I was, briefly and in no particular
order, a modette (black and white shift dress, big green parka, Style
Council), a goth (droopy jumper, ripped fishnets, the Cure), a new romantic
(horrific peroxide fringe, batwing jumpers, Duran Duran), a disco Sloane
(bad perm, white leather jacket, Michael Jackson).
Nowadays, however, I’m totally out of touch. Sure, I know about Pete Doherty
(who doesn’t?), Lily Allen and Amy Winehouse. But I’ve only heard a handful
of their tracks, and I am well aware that they are, by the standards of
people who really know their onions, pretty much the mainstream now. I even
sat at the table next to Winehouse on my 40th birthday, at Le Gavroche, of
all places. I thought it seemed like a slightly incongruous hangout for such
a high-profile rock-chick, a £100ahead restaurant in Mayfair – but like I
said, what do I know about the modern music scene? Nowadays, I am told, even
Paul Weller has a clothing line.
I’m not even sure that the modern music scene is really any of my business.
After all, it’s not meant for me. It’s meant for young people. I really
don’t want to be the fat old fart on the dancefloor, striking terribly
out-of-date moves and reminiscing about the good old days.
Which is, of course, precisely what I found myself doing last Thursday when I
was dispatched to a club called Fabric for Yerbury’s Rage Into Spring event.
The lineup includes a DJ called Rob Da Bank (Rob to his frends, Mr Bank to
everyone else) and the Dirty Pretty Things, whose frontman, Carl Barât, used
to be in the Libertines (that band that Pete Doherty was in before he was in
Baby-shambles. See how complicated modern rock music is?).
The place is vast, and on two floors. The bar, as promised, is free, and will
continue to be so (apart from a brief interval about halfway through) all
evening. This, in itself, is astonishing, since they are not serving cheap
white wine or alcopops but proper grown-up drinks. There is Laurent Perrier
on tap, fancy lychee cocktails mixed by foxy chicks and whatever else
(within reason and the limits of the law) the heart desires. The food comes
round constantly on giant trays, individual sausages-and-mash, or mushroom
risotto. The cost of the staff and catering alone must account for a large
chunk of the ticket price.
The slickness is such that the atmosphere verges on the corporate. Yerbury has
taken steps to ensure that this vibe doesn’t get out of control. There is a
dress code: no suits, no chinos. Anyone who arrives at the door looking like
a City slicker is swiftly escorted to a side room, where the hip clothing
company Firetrap has set up shop. Middle-aged squares in pin-stripes emerge
in jeans and T-shirts, looking slightly uncomfortable but passable. Inside,
there is a corner of the club set aside for a company selling mod-style
shoes. Business looks brisk.
Care has also been taken to make sure the place is not just full of overweight
mums and salivating City boys. Sprinkled among us is an exhilarating
selection of actual youth, all shiny and beautiful. None of them appears to
have actually paid for a ticket – they are all there either by
invitation or because they have won a competition. I meet a record producer,
Toby L. Toby is 21, and he runs a fantastically cool record label called
Transgressive with his equally cool friend, Tim, also barely out of nappies.
Toby is here primarily for work, to scout out the event with a view to putting
some of his own acts into a future lineup. He is incredibly switched on for
a 21-year-old, and keen to know whether I am enjoying myself, and if so,
why. I get the strong sense that my world is as baffling to him as his is to
me. He tells me that the other night some corporate chap from Google brought
a load of office colleagues down to a club night he runs in North London.
Apparently they loved it, which got him thinking – maybe there’s a
market there.
We talk about the blurring of the generation gap, about why today’s hot young
guitar bands all look and sound so retro (all about us are young men in
drainpipes and modish mullets); he cites his parents as inspiration. In
fact, his 66-year-old dad is coming down to the club later on. “I’m always
taking him to see new bands,” he says. “I haven’t told him what this evening
is all about, though,” he adds, grinning. I get the distinct impression that
Toby’s father might be slightly put out to be lumped in with a load of
squares like me.
The Google thing is interesting. Yerbury says he got the idea for Rage from a
banker friend whom he dragged out to the Barfly in Camden one night.
Apparently the man was reluctant at first, but once he got there he had a
whale of a time. “This is what we should be doing,” he told Yerbury, “not
rubbish tribute bands or cheesy DJs.” If Rage can become a viable corporate
alternative to, say, Glyndebourne or a day at the races, there’s money to be
made. Currently, Yerbury is working on his next event, organising luxury
accommodation and entertainment in Monte Carlo for the Grand Prix at the end
of the month. Prices start at around £1,000 per person.
Meanwhile, upstairs in the VIP room at Fabric, I am introduced to two girls.
One, Taylor Glasby, is the editor of Disorder magazine (www.dis-ordermagazine.com);
the other, Megan Burns, aka Betty Curse, is in a band (www.
bettycurse.co.uk). Together, their combined ages equal slightly less
than mine. They are working hard to be edgy, nonconformist, a little
dangerous. They’re actually rather nice.
In fact, despite the free drink and the posturing, the atmosphere is really
very civilised. Everyone, including the bands, is professional. They come on
stage when they're supposed to, they perform well, they leave in an orderly
fashion. There is a comedian, Andrew Maxwell, who is exceptionally funny,
dealing deftly with a few hecklers who haven’t handled the free booze well.
There’s a young singer-songwriter called Newton Faulkner, who looks a bit
like Swampy but performs with elegance and class a series of sweet,
heartfelt songs over the braying laughter of expense-account executives. I
find myself thinking, “Now if my son grew up to be like him, that would be
no bad thing.”
Afterwards, I am resting my feet and chatting to a friend when he sits down
opposite us. I reach out and touch him on the arm (that is one of the best
things about this evening: you get to mingle with the talent). “I just
wanted to say that you were really fantastic,” I say. He smiles politely. I
feel not unlike Margo in The Good Life.
Dirty Pretty Things are the headline act, and they don’t come on until
midnight. If there is a flaw in the evening, this is it. For this crowd, 9pm
would be more suitable, giving everyone time to get home to relieve the
babysitter. Again, though, Ric proves he knows his stuff.
The DPTs are like a shot of adrenalin, an electrifying guitar band that have
the whole club on its feet. I haven’t a clue what they’re on about, but it’s
exhilarating stuff, full of the swagger of youth. Briefly, I am reminded of
a time when I too was effortlessly thin, and devoid of the tedious baggage
of age.
I eventually leave around 2am. I honestly cannot remember the last time I was
up that late for anything other than the purpose of tending to a child. I
feel exhausted but revitalised. The fact that the evening has clearly been
carefully engineered to make me feel this way doesn’t bother me. I have no
delusions. I know I am not part of this scene and never will be. But at
least I’ve seen the DPTs live; which is more than can be said of most
40-year-old Tory-wife-mothers-of-two.
The next Rage will take place in July at Canvas in King’s Cross, London. The
lineup will be announced this weekend, so check the website, www.rageevents.co.uk,
for details.
