Unheard-of Development: I Take a Pop Concert at the Ally Pally «

Unheard-of Development: I Take a Pop Concert at the Ally Pally

Friday 22nd November 2013

Sebastian Archer, who once shaped world-taste in words, was having social life in New York, where he spends much time. The circle is Michelle Obama, Jackie O, Sondheim, Lennie, Nico Muhly, the Widow Ono. At a party he met an unassuming young man who said he was in The National. Sebastian was like: ‘The National what…?’

Well, the long and short…it’s a Group, fairly massive, a Pop Group. The young man from the National had read all the books Sebastian selected for the world; he gives Sebastian two comps for a concert to be given by the National at the Ally Pally as part of their world tour – with Backstage Bar access.

We couldn’t not go. Sebastian kindly used me as his plus one. We spent most of the day working out how to get to the Ally Pally and what to wear for a Pop concert, never having been to one before. Really we were completely at sea.

Sebastian opted for his famous goat-coat, by Hermes, now a classic. It’s made of goat. I had my new Zara spray-on waxed jeans and my Guaglianone car-coat with the diagonal silver zip. Somehow we sensed that it wouldn’t be dressy.

We were right. We gained the Ally Pally by public train. Hordes pouring in, all in boil-wash border-line grunge outfits, no colours or glamour. The place like a railway station. We home in on a vast room. I’ve never seen the like. Definitely a room not a hall, but so huge. 12000 people present apparently. This National are big. We timed perfectly because the band arrived as we did. Sometimes, I’ve heard, these pop musicians never arrive.

The extraordinary thing was – there were no seats. Just a massive milling, not a still moment, always someone wanting to get by with a big cup of beer. We had to move away from the speakers otherwise it would have been death. Sebastian said, ‘I don’t think I can stand for two hours.’ So we retired at intervals at the Backstage Bar where you could sit on a pub-type (i.e. plastic leather) Chesterfield.

So we saw the National live. ‘What kind of mu is it?’ I asked Sebastian. He thought for a bit: ‘Indy Pop, I think.’ It was very hard to make head or tail. One of the National had a nice voice. None of them were young. Some words were sung many times coming through a overwhelming blast of amplified sound. The stage was very expensively illuminated with a light show.When it was over it was as if nothing much had happened. I think that was part of the cool – not to be at all worked up. The performers were cool and the spectators were come-and-go-as-you-please. Nobody was going to be shattered at any price.

The same at the after-party. The Backstage Bar was an underground bunker, possibly a half-finished Chinese restaurant. Very red like a pub. Some grunges ambled in and bought drinks. We had pub-type wine. Even ladies had achieved an astonishing lack of frockage. One was not dressed up for the National at the Ally Pally. Sebastian and I sat on a Chesterfield in mottled old-red leathette. A young man from Seattle was a friend of the soundman. He was also quite something in the Starbucks hierarchy but he had to leave for Ascot where he was staying. Thinking we’d had our drama, we rested a little longer on the sofa, then prepared to leave. ‘None of the Band have come in here,’ I said. Forlornly we looked at our tickets. Various options were crossed out including VIP. ‘There must be another party elsewhere,’ we cried. But near the door, at the door almost, Sebastian suddenly lit up like a whole town’s Christmas lights being switched on by a celeb. ‘That’s him! That’s…. of the National.’

It was indeed. We were in casual conversation, just so cool and banked down and un-mega band with world following.

You won’t believe what happened next. Who could think that one moment we were almost at the level of a Harvester on quiet night and the next…. ‘Over there… that person over there,’ the National member said, ‘do you see… that’s the American Ambassador.’

An overgrown schoolboy in blazer and open-necked shirt was apparent, talking to some people from the Guardian, indeed taking down numbers on his iPhone.

The American Ambassador! We were throbbing next the White House. I Googled later. Appointed by Obama, an Internet tycoon, wife the heiress to Jack Daniels.

It was time for the Ambassador to leave. A perfect diplomatic departure, swift but all he’d spoken to courteously bid farewell, then out with lanky son to the car and away.

As were we, as high, high as could be.