I’m 15 and my family have gone to Russell Brand’s Give It Up For Comic Relief. Jessie J is
playing and I adore her. We are in seats on the floor, and they are not raked –
but my mother and I aren’t ones for sitting and letting a good pop tune pass
without a dancing session. People are standing up all over the place so it’s
unsurprising that within minutes, the Foxes too are up and grooving.
… Which lasted literally seconds.
The balding man behind me (I might even go so far as to suggest he was not the
ticket purchaser of the group, but perhaps had been dragged along) reached up
to grab my shoulder, and yelled in my ear with explosive force, a much shorter,
less sweet and entirely explicit
version of “Would you mind sitting down please? I can’t see.” My cheeks burnt
and I parked my booty down immediately because frankly I hate getting into
trouble. Even my sweet, sweet Jessie wasn’t worth having my hearing destroyed
by the huge fridge-like man behind me (huge, square, shiny and utterly cold).
Cut to the Kaiser Chiefs (somehow my mother and I again…)
much more recently. It was at Sandown racecourse, so the crowd was a surreal
mix of all ages, including tipsy sixty-somethings fresh from the races,
muttering “The Kaiser who?” under their breaths. As the songs blasted on,
neither of us could stand firm against the neighbouring drunk couple who
insisted on consistently barging us along. Into other people, into each other,
onto the floor – as long as they were spending every ounce of effort subtly
shoving people around with an incredibly vicious use of elbows, they seemed
happy.
… Wait, no, they didn’t. If the pushing had been some part
of a Ricky-Wilson-fuelled frenzy (we’ve all been there), I would understand.
The fangirl gets to us all, Good Sir and Lady, but at least pretend you’re
loving the music, and I might appreciate your behaviour a little more. You are
simply moody and insecure in a crowd of people enjoying life, and your elbows
are the only way you can take that out on the surroundings. The bruise in my
back lasted a fair while, thanks.
Cut again, to Bestival, last weekend. My friends and I
shared a fair few moments of rolled eyes and disgruntled shrugs as various latecomers
strode through to the front with astonishing purpose, leaving behind their
worries (and quite often, the weakling of the friendship group). From the forty
year old with an empty wine bottle claiming to be “just looking for a mate” (is
your mate Charlie XCX, perchance? Because now that you’ve pushed us all out of
the way, you’ve certainly found her. She’s right in front of you) to a group of
hyped up Squirrel-like teens at Ella Eyre almost knocking out my front teeth
with their incessant jumping, we had our fair share of being unimpressed by the
crowd.
Finally, we come to the group of lads and gals, suddenly swarming
the barrier at Jungle after the set had started. They grew in number like
rabbits, and every ten seconds there would be another call of “MATE! Oli I can
see him – OI MATE, CHARLIE, MATE WE’RE HERE, COME THROUGH!” Everybody in the
surrounding area silently implored Charlie to please, please refrain from ‘coming through’, but he does (along with every
“lad” in the vicinity), and soon they’ve grown their empire to ten feet squared
directly in front of the stage. We are highly unamused. That was our space. We cared enough to be here. How dare you stand there, Charlie, Oli,
Jamie Jack Tarquin Hugo Bertie Rupert the lot of you, and enjoy the moment?
And it was this last scenario which made me wonder if,
perhaps, the real issue with crowd etiquette is not that we are now standing five feet further to the left. After
all, I could still see every molecule of human flesh on the stage. Sound
technology is, shockingly, decent nowadays – the woman right at the back,
thousands of people between her and the performers, can still hear every lyric.
Why are we so deeply concerned by those in the crowd around us?
There seem to be two separate issues that may be explanatory. Firstly, could it be that in some cases what we
detest is not the centimetres we have been scooted across, but instead the idea
that Charlie, Oli and their #crew are actually having more fun than us? With
their inside jokes, ever-expanding numbers, Hugo and Jack’s synchronised
knowledge of every lyric and drum beat, the moment when gal-pal Katie was up on
Jamie’s shoulders. It’s a huge group, they never stop smiling and maybe it’s
the fact they are oblivious to their
neighbours’ cynicism that makes us twitch.
Secondly (maybe stemming from the jealousy?) is the human
tick that we love to hate. The brutal
truth is that we relish in ganging up, having someone to talk about, something
to pick on. We love the feeling that
it’s us against them, without any real knowledge of “them” or what “they” actually
entail. As long as we’re not any part of it.
For now, I do not strive to somehow directly link Jungle’s
set at Bestival to immigration disputes, racism or war, but it is worth
considering if the way we treat those in the crowd around us could be
representative of so much more than the fact that we are two yards further from
the stage, with slight bruises on our legs, and Rupert’s drunk laugh ringing in
my ears.
… So where does all of this leave us, where gig etiquette is
concerned? My brief dip into the fan-girling world means I know what it’s like
to be utterly ruthless with those around you (because this could be my only
chance for Liam Payne to notice my face and realise we are meant to be)… But teen
hormones and 1D fanaticism aside, should some slack be cut for the person
beside you, who also wants to enjoy the moment? Maybe the couple from the
Kaiser Chiefs would have saved
everyone time if they had steered clear in the first place, but for the sake of
an hour or two, is it ever really worth finding a point to prove? A judgement
to make?
The plain fact is: I don’t know the woman with blonde
highlights, alone at Bestival, with the empty wine bottle. The moody couple at
the Kaiser Chiefs. That bloody Balding Fridge behind me at Jessie J. I don’t
know Oli or his mate Charlie, where they are from, what happened to them that
day, why it could be so important or just so utterly explainable why they had to be at the barrier for Jungle’s
set.
Another situation, and anybody might find themselves the
hyped group pushing through the crowd with their inside jokes and adrenaline
rush: in the cinema, in a club, at a festival, at a gig. You wouldn’t give that
feeling up for the world when you are part of it, so why are we so intolerant,
the one time it isn’t us? Are we
jealous? Or, worse, are we just innately hateful towards “them”?
Perhaps it is time to make a pact with ourselves. Just like
Squirrel-Teen #2 at Ella Eyre, if there’s a tense situation in the mob, dance
with them, not against them – even if it means I may need immediate dental
surgery.
Gig etiquette is a small scale issue, but it is one to
consider, even briefly. Frankly, it’s no wonder our species is such a bloody mess
if we cannot allow the complete strangers next to us in a crowd to enjoy the
moment.
