Last night I had something akin to a religious experience. And my wife was nowhere to be seen!
The crowd was made up of baldies, grey-haired folks and a few youngsters - in their twenties - who'd gone along with their dads. The band was grizzled and worn-looking. The music ...
Sublime. Triumphant. Beautiful.
Thin Lizzy blew my world apart last night, and I'm still reeling. See, I've always been a huge, huge Lizzy fan, even though Lynott died when I was about seventeen and I never managed to see them in concert. Their music has always resonated with me, a perfect blend of powerhouse guitar work, sensitive and thoughtful lyrics and Lynott's soulful voice making them probably my favourite band of all time. They made some dud records, sure, but most bands do. The difference is when lizzy did good, they did VERY good.
So, did I enjoy the gig?
I came.
The support band Stiff Kittens were very good, extremely professional and tight, but we were all there to see Lizzy. And when John Sykes and Scott Gorham appeared on stage, slung their guitars and burst into opener Jailbreak, there wasn't a face in the place not smiling. This was nostalgia, but not tacky. It was ... fucking brilliant. Don't believe a Word, Waiting for an Alibi, Coldsweat, The Sun Goes Down (and yes, that's where I got the title for my first Night Shade collection), Cowboy Song, Massacre, Suicide, Bad Reputation, Are You Ready ... and then two encores, closing with Emerald and Black Rose.
I haven't enjoyed a gig that much in years. And as those classic songs tumbled over each other, I realised that even though the sun went down on Lynott almost two decades ago, he's still the God of rock and roll.
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