Last night I went to London for a rock gig. Straight after work. Changed from my work shirt and trousers into something more appropriate for the occasion, got on the train and didn’t come home until the small hours.
If you knew anything about my family, you’d know that this kind of stuff happens pretty rarely. Forcefully woken up (only a few hours later) with a fuzzy head and ringing ears, I couldn’t help but smile at the sight of my nearly 3-year old daughter, so excited to greet me as if she hadn’t seen me for days. My 9-year old (who, as you can imagine, normally has trouble getting up in the mornings) jumped like a spring as soon as I woke him up, giving me a tight hug and shouting right into my (half deaf, half over sensitive) ears: “At last you are home!!”
At last?? I was only away for one evening.
Being the type of person that I am, this got me thinking. Is there anything abnormal in enjoying such activities? Considering I am a grown up adult (fast approaching middle age), mum of young kids, and that. Subsequently, why do I like it? And is there perhaps anything seriously wrong with me?
You know damn well by now what my answer to this will be, don’t you. If bands manage to fill up concert halls and stadiums with people (my age and older, for that matter) enjoying themselves as much as me, this just can’t be that out of the ordinary.
Rock gigs have always been my thing. When I was young (or shall I say, younger), I never missed an important concert in former communist Bulgaria. Metallica, Deep Purple, Whitesnake, Ritchie Blackmore’s Nights, Toto: this is what I was up to before moving to England… before becoming an adult. And, more importantly, a parent.
My vague feeling of guilt this morning crept up unexpectedly, as I was uploading a video from last night onto my Facebook timeline and choosing the best shots for my Instagram feed. When my son was little, I was told by a certain relative that once you have kids, you have to accept that you no longer have your own life. Really? I must be a bad mum, then, as I consistently refuse to accept this. I bloody have my own life, my own likes and interests (this blog being one of them) – which are mine and no one else’s. I don’t need to share this with my family. If any of my friends have common interests (which I am lucky to be the case), that’s a bonus – but I would still be happy enjoying my music regardless.
This is for me. My own piece of life. Excuse me that I have my own territory. Which is why I take all these photos:
Not for my Facebook or Instagram (although this is where they inevitably end up) – but for my own enjoyment. I am not a professional photographer and wouldn’t even try to be, but this is what keeps the memory of those precious moments. And they are special.
As trivial as it may sound, there is something indescribable about live music. The feeling of thousands of hearts pulsing together, sharing excitement and banging heads to the same rhythm. Shouting lyrics everyone here knows by heart, which may not be recognised by “other” people in the world outside the venue. A small chunk of music universe, like-minded (or like-hearted, which isn’t even a word) people, gathered for a very short space of time – before everyone goes home and takes away a piece of this evening with them.
As for my feelings of guilt: sod that. Being a mum doesn’t mean I will stop being who I am, sorry. And, while planning my next concert, here is another photo capturing special memories of my savoured (child-free) rock freedom: