|Updated:
By: Andy Blackmore
Picture Editor
According to Abraham Lincoln, you can fool some of the people all of the time. I think he has a point, as right now I’m feeling pretty foolish, and judging by the assembled masses – since at first glance, there are thousands of us – I’m not alone in such foolishness.
You see, nothing, and I mean nothing, tastes as bitter as a small tin of lager that you’ve been forced to part seven pounds for. Adding insult to injury, I had to queue for forty minutes to get it. That’s after queuing for twenty minutessimplyto get in! And what’s even worse – the corny coup de grâce – the bloody lager is warm!
It’sno wonder the other half calls me Mr. Happy, and it’s not because I’m the happiest person in all the land. No, it’s an ironic observation of me being a miserable old git. And that’s on a good day. After being mugged for that drink, I’m even morecantankerousthan usual. Thus, I’m determined not to have a good time.
My feet hurt. My legs ache. And my socks are too tight. I’m not a happy bunny, nor am I impressed by my current vista.Basically,I’m standing in a field, along with 10,000 others, all packed in like morning tube passengers, watching some chap with a record player attempting to charm and impress us with his favourite tunes. Thank God I’m deaf.
Oddly, everyone else seems to be having a good time. So I feel likeI’ma lone voice of dissent in a sea of turbid tranquillity – I wish Iwason whatever they were. Perhaps they’ve just had a lot more to drink than I have, but at these prices, I’ve no idea how.
Maybe I’ve inadvertently stumbled upon a load of billionaires out on a bus trip, and they’ve accidentally parked the charabanc in Crystal Palace after mistaking it for some other Crystal Palace.
For billionaires, they do seem to have an eccentric if eclectic dress sense. Dare I say, exotic. There are an awful lot of leather caps. That said, it also seems as if they have been infiltrated byloads ofcovert school teachers – plain clothes, dear, very plain clothes. It’s a diverse mix, yet noticeable by a lack of diversity; a hom*ogeneous co*cktail. What looks like the population of “Pride” is blended with what at first glance seems like a party of outrageous undercover librarians. And of course, old gits like me.
Even though the place is heaving and bopping to the beat of that old bloke with the gramophone, time movesat a glacial pace. Rather than throw some shapes, Ijustwant to sit down – oh, my kingdom for a Zimmer frame. To think I could be at home watching “Fake or Fortune.”
Still, the crowd bopped, and consistently I was bumped, rocked, and shaken around like I was all at sea – but I was not moved. I’m too old for this lark. If one more person pushes past saying sorry…
Perhaps I needed another drink. But at these prices! I may have forgotten to mention this, but it’s seven pounds per can of lager and thirty-three squid for a bottle of wine! My God, I sound like Victor Meldrew.
So, as I rumbled and grumbled, Iruminated.There is nothingquite as embarrassing or pitiful as a load of middle-aged fifty-or-forty-somethings pretending they are half that age. And I do mean middle class. I even have a test for it: if you have more than three types of vinegar in your pantry, you are middle class. Mind you, if youactuallyhave a pantry,simplyignore step one.
I look down at my watch and think out loud that I don’t know how much more of this I can take. It’snowalmost half past nine, and the main act isalmosthalf an hour late. Mind you, they say a lady is never late, but I’m not waiting for a lady, I’m waiting for THE LADY.
I don’t know why, butas soon as the first few bars of “Nightclubbing” strike up, and Grace Jones takes to the stage, the tears are running down my face. Perhaps it’s me,perhapsit was always like this, but suddenly, and I know it’s a cliché, the atmosphere is electric.
Dressed in an Aztec-cum-gothic mask, she announces to the crowd, “Sorry for being a little late. What can I tell you? I’m here!” Who cares, for already, she has us in the palm of her hand. And soon I am moving to the groove. Yes, I’mactuallydancing, well as much as the arthritis, tight socks, sobriety and a chronic lack of rhythm permit.
She is brilliant, never a pastiche of herself, but something fresh. Anyone else would look ridiculous in such heels and a corset—but Grace has the grace in spades to carry it off. By now, tears of pure joy drench myfisog. So much so that when “Private Life” floods the audience, I am almost blinded by my waterworks. I so adore the track. The line “your sex life complications are not my fascination” always makes me smile – especially now, as I sing it at the top of my voice.
Time is running backwards, and with each second that plays, I am getting younger.By the timewe hear her demonic cymbal-thrashing version of “Demolition Man” and the haunting “My Jamaican Guy,” I am 17 again. I’m singing louder and strutting my stuff.Youth,being wasted on the young, I am savouring every second.
My life with Grace Jones is now flashing before me; it’s like remembering everywhere and every time I have ever listened to these iconic tracks and then having them all boiled down, condensed, and shot through my veins. If you could see through my eyes, it would be like the kaleidoscopic ending of “2001: A Space Odyssey.”By the timeshe sings “Love Is the Drug,” I am as high as a kite.
I remember coach and train journeys when she accompanied me, lovers lost, my yellow solar-powered sports “Walkman” – it was so expensive, but I had to have it – the same with my CD “Walkman” that stuttered if you moved – a major design flaw in a mobile device – but boy it was cool and that’s all that mattered. I even picture the day the Clarke twins and I stole the 45 of “Love Is the Drug” from the Sixth Form common room of the Stella Maris Convent, in my hometown Bideford.
Life is squeezed through the prism of time and diffracted by old memories. Ancient friendships, lost mates, and dear dead friends. Art college, then life as a photographer’s assistant; playing Grace at full volume on eye-wateringly expensive stereos I could never afford yet always coveted- paradoxically, now I can afford what I no longer want. Who cares. I have a smile like a teenage Cheshire Cat. I don’t feel young – I am young. Oh, to be young.
By now, the clock is flying backwards faster than the speedometer on a second-hand Cortina. Then I’m punched by “Pull Up to the Bumper” and pounded by “Slave to the Rhythm.” Such is my joy, I can hardly see. Yet, I feel like such a twerp, for years the eroticism and subliminal message of “Slave to the Rhythm” had been lost on me – not anymore.
As the 76-year-old – yes, I did say 76 – iconic former supermodel and revered performer effortlessly twirled a hoop around her waist for 15 minutes, the message was Crystal Palace clear, hypnotically conducting her brilliant band through an electrifying performance of the classic track.
She began the song by announcing, “Once I’ve started with this, there’s no stopping me,” adding sadly, “Sorry, there’s a curfew.” Curfew indeed, so we counteddownthe clock to 10:30 when I knew my voyage into the past would end.
For sixty glorious minutes, I drank from the very fountain of youth. Yet all too soon, it’s over and I’m sixty again. That’s some power and the power of Grace Jones. She made me feel both young and happy. Then again, perhaps it was the lager I keep goingonabout – if so, not bad for seven quid. Either way, I don’t begrudge a penny.
