Like reheating a souffle, ageing acts can’t rise to the occasion...

ON those long winter nights of lockdown at the start of 2021 you made whatever fun you could. Pubs were closed, meals out were a memory and live music a curio of a past life.

We had, by February, gained such familiarity with the questions and answers in Trivial Pursuit that the game was a bogey. We had watched all we deemed watchable on Netflix and Amazon Prime.

And so, for hours sometimes, my partner and I would gaze idly at music channels replaying the sounds of our youth.

Blondie’s Debbie Harry – who awakened something in ten-year-old boys at my school – back in her pomp; 10cc back when their singles charted; Genesis back when even Phil Collins had hair; Abba back in the days before cool kids could safely fess up to enjoying their songs.

The music formed a comfort blanket for the two souls on the sofa, hunkering down lest Covid should spy them and infiltrate their cocoon – and, with the soundtrack of our yesteryears on loop, we rode it out together.

But times have changed. Live music is back and, here in the cocoon, I am experiencing growing discomfort.

‘Do you fancy going to see 10cc at the Royal Concert Hall next April? It could be fun.’

‘What?’ I splutter. ‘Are they still together? Are there any original members left? (One, it turns out.) Do we know more than a couple of their songs?’

No doubt sensing the rising panic in my voice, she let it go. ‘How about Blondie, then?’ she inquired the following night. ‘They’re playing at the Hydro next year. You love Blondie.’

I do. Or I did. The truth is I love who Blondie were – the sultry bottled-blonde beauty adorning the cover of Smash Hits circa 1980; the male bandmembers oh so hip and knowing it in their skinny ties and shades.

It is true. I loved being young and hearing the new one from Blondie on the wireless.

Pensioners

But can one possibly love who they are? A 76-year-old frontwoman still gamely belting out Heart of Glass, flanked by fellow pensioners in varying stages of decrepitude?

‘You cannot reheat a souffle,’ remarked Paul McCartney once, when asked if the Beatles would ever get back together. Wise words.

‘Blondie… yes, um, let me think about it,’ I say and grope for a change of subject.

Last night Genesis played Glasgow. Same time, same place tonight.

Tickets are £68 and upwards to see a band whose frail drummer can no longer hold his sticks.

Indeed, poor Phil Collins isn’t even feeling powerful enough to stand. He croons to audiences from a swivel chair.

Back in the mid-70s Genesis concerts were a sight to see. Then-frontman Peter Gabriel pranced around the stage dressed as a giant flower. They were youthful madcaps, musical virtuosos brimming with theatrical craziness. I’d have been there like a shot.

There is something admirable, certainly, about returning to the stage even as your body prohibits much of what you are supposed to be doing up there, but there’s something pitiable too.

I’d rather not bear witness to it, still less pay significant sums for the privilege.

Weeks after the death of their drummer Charlie Watts at 80, and more than 40 years after their new songs stopped mattering very much, the Rolling Stones are on tour in North America.

‘Worked five years,’ observed Charlie wryly of the band in the late 80s, ‘and spent 20 years hanging around.’ There was another 30 years of hanging around still to go.

‘How about Bill Bailey, then? You were laughing at him on TV just the other night.’

Having taken the hint on rock bands, my partner was now exploring the ranks of comedians coming Glasgow’s way.

She was right of course. Bill Bailey is a funny man.

But her proposal begs an awkward question. If we can derive such innocent pleasure from watching this funny man on our home screen for nothing, do we really want to pay £40 plus to sit in an arena and watch him on another screen?

That, after all, is what we would be doing. All live performances in these vast auditoriums are beamed onto giant screens these days to help us decipher what is happening on stage from our seats 200 yards away.

Are the chairs comfier in the Hydro than at home? Is the drink cheaper? The parking free?

Sooner or later, of course, I am going to have to say yes. Lockdown is over, live acts are back and, so we are told, the economy needs us to go out and see them.

Heroes

The problem is I am struggling to think of anyone who is truly worth the night out.

Those long evenings in front of the TV have convinced me my heroes’ finest hours were many, many moons ago.

Either they are too old to be returning to the well for one last hurrah or I am too old to be in the audience watching them. I suspect it is both.

The one exception, perhaps, is Abba. Yet, in their wisdom, it is not they who will be touring the arenas next year but the four ageless holograms they have sent in their place.

I’d pay proper money to see the real deal, resplendent in their 70s, reheating the souffle as I know they could.

Make it happen, guys. Please? I’m running out of options here.