Live truths

I met a Distinguished Old Rock Critic at a party recently, and was delighted to find that the obvious acronym didn’t apply.

I met a Distinguished Old Rock Critic at a party recently, and was delighted to find that the obvious acronym didn’t apply. We chewed on this and that: CDs vs downloads, the blackboard-scraping quality of Chris Martin’s voice, and the unending need to hear the wonderful new music we know is out there somewhere but can’t seem to find. He is my senior by some years but the bug is still in his system, which I found encouraging. I met a Distinguished Old Rock Star recently, too, and he admitted he couldn’t give a monkey’s about any of it, and listened to as little as he could get away with.

Where the Rock Critic and I really saw eye to eye, though, was on the question of live music. We had both witnessed a fair amount, as you might expect, and neither of us saw much now. I told him of my tinnitus problem, and he told me of his can’t-be-bothered problem, both of which come to the same thing: precious time spent at home listening to records, which we might otherwise waste queuing for a glass of horrible wine in the O2 surrounded by people telling each other how wonderful live music is and that it’s the real deal.

This is the consensus that has gradually built up over the years, that recorded music, though often produced with extraordinary care and imagination, is somehow less ‘authentic’ than the live experience, where you actually see the musicians in the flesh, there up on the stage, playing instruments! Unless you’re at the O2, that is, where the musicians are so far away that you spend most of the evening watching the giant video screens to see what’s going on.