So, it’s Saturday Night. I’m at a ruby wedding celebration in the function room of a rather nice local sports club. Usually, I’m irritated when the loud music starts too soon, when people are still trying to chat and break ice, but I knew just five of the seventy or so present (and one of those consisted of two people I only half-knew), and a few conversational attempts had pushed me towards feeling that I wasn’t going to improve on that, and looking at my watch. So when the band started up, I was quite relieved.
I listened. Classic line-up, two guitars, bass and drums. They started off with some Johnny Cash number, which didn’t augur well, but rapidly moved on to proper rock’n’roll. I knew every single song. They were pretty competent – good singers, a capable lead guitarist and a brilliant drummer. I was shifting towards critical mode – they’d got the vocal timing of the Evs’ ‘When Will I Be Loved?’ wrong, like everyone does, and attributed several Chuck Berry songs to the Beatles – when Caro dragged me onto the dance floor.
Astonishingly, it was ‘Move It’, and I went into dance mode. I turned into Embarrassing Uncle At The Wedding. People were gazing at me in amazement. “How does this man do this?” they were thinking, or “Why?” I couldn’t have cared less. I was dancing to real songs, rather than mere beats, however hypnotic. When the Shirelles sing ‘when the night meets the morning sun’, you think ‘ when the night (da da da) meets the mor(da da da)ning su-uh-ha-un’, don’t you? And dance accordingly. Well, I do, anyway.
At the end, I interrupted Linda and Alex, who were for some reason smooching on the dance floor, to say thanks. We hugged and kissed. “Thanks for the music”, I think I said. “It’s ours”, I think he said.