I don’t think I’ll ever be past my Prine
There’s something tremendously depressing about getting older. The things you used to enjoy don’t seem as much fun as they used to be. Even those things you do still grudgingly enjoy now seem like too much hassle.
Going for a weekend without sleep? I did it more times than I can count, and had a bloody great time doing it.
If I was to try that now, I’d probably die.
Meeting up with friends whenever you feel like it? Well, I’ve spent the last three weeks trying to organise a play date with one of my oldest friends and we still haven’t managed to settle a definite time or place.
He has an excuse, he has a kid. Me? Ah, sometimes even going into town at night just feels like more hassle than it’s worth (with apologies to my friend, of course).
I got into the strange and increasingly terrible world of journalism through writing about music, and as the song goes, music has always been my first love.
But I’ve now reached the age where I give out about the younglings’ taste in tunes, although that’s mostly because so much of it is shite.
Listen up kiddies — Ed Sheeran is not good. He’s just a bad busker who, I am convinced, sold his soul in return for success, like a very beige Robert Johnson (definitely no relation to Boris Johnson, see left).
There’s still some great music being released, of course. I’ve spent the last 18 months devouring the likes of Future Islands and The xx — roughly two years after everyone else discovered them.
Similarly, I reckon Christine and her queens is the single greatest talent I’ve seen in the last 10 years, but I’m probably too old, too white and too straight to go to her upcoming show in the RDS in November.
But I can still rouse myself every now and then, and I’m counting down the minutes to John Prine (above) in the NCH on Monday night.
It’s probably an exaggeration, but not by much, to say that I love that man.
From the time my Da started playing him in the late 70s to the day I finally got to interview the great man, Prine has been an ever-present in my life.
I even got so excited the other day that I told someone this would be a pilgrimage, not a gig.
Nobody, and I mean nobody, should ever refer to a gig as a ‘pilgrimage’.
Yet that’s how much of an old fart I’ve become.
The guts of 40 years of some of the finest country music and most biting lyrics you will ever hear, Prine is a freakin’ legend and my now middle-aged bones are absurdly excited...
Honestly, the 20-year old me would be disgusted if he knew what he was going to turn into.