Those of you who, like me, are of what's euphemistically referred to as 'a certain age', being polite-speak for middle-aged, will recall the 1985 Live Aid concert. This was a phenomenal sixteen hour event staged in Wembley Stadium, London and John F Kennedy Stadium, Philadephia wherein performers donated their time to raise funds for starving children. It was broadcast live to at least 150 countries, quite a technological feat in those pre-Internet days. If you're interested, it was also the catalyst that I believe has Phil Collins in the Guinness Book of Records as being the only artist to perform on two separate continents on the same day - owing to the power of a Concord jet and time differences; he boarded such a plane after finishing his London gig, and then flew to Philadelphia to perform there, on technically the same day! Amazing, great piece of trivia, and I have no doubt it gave Phil a great chance to bore the shit out of people on two continents on the same day. Snide sarcasm aside, I still get a tear when I remember the finale of the British leg when Paul McCartney and Pete Townsend carried Bob Geldof onto the stage on their shoulders. I highly doubt they could do that now.
The point to this reminiscing is that last Friday I attended a concert that was actually a tribute to that amazing show. It did not go for sixteen hours, but rather was a series of highlights performed by some very talented people, who with the aid of wigs, accoutrements, and affected mannerisms, did actually give passable performances of the people they purported to be impersonating. I know I have just typed a very convoluted sentence, but it's what I do. I don't give a straight answer, and I very rarely type a brief declarative sentence when blogging. The guy playing Robert Plant in the Led Zeppelin segment wore a rather daggy blond wig and flares, but he definitely had a great set of pipes and proved a very convincing Plant. I sat in my second row seat in dread, knowing what was coming. It's like a trip to the dentist when you know the drill is imminent. You sweat and feel nauseous, and this is what I was doing. And as feared, they sang THAT song. It's the song I didn't mind at all when I first heard it, but then the oldies stations I tend to favour didn't realise they don't need to have 'Stairway to Heaven' on a loop at all. It's really not necessary, but so many station programmers didn't get that memo. However, the guy in the show was so good, I ended up enjoying watching them perform the song.
I'm ambivalent about that song, but only because I got so sick of the constant beating over the head with it over the years. There used to be these really feral bogans that lived behind us a while back - a real 'Housos' casting dream. The lady (hah!) of the house had a vocabulary that rarely extended beyond a bellowed adjective starting with 'F', and a bellowed noun starting with 'C'. Her spouse had a mullet that went down his back in some kind of Coolie plait, and favoured sweat-stained flannos, grease-stained King Gees, and dirty thongs. His vocabulary matched hers, but was delivered in muffled grunts. Between them they had produced a foul-mouthed pair of he-cubs, whom I'm sure are now currently on remand waiting trial for armed robbery. My point to getting you, the reader, to picture this foul family is that when it comes to a choice between hearing 'Stairway to Heaven' and watching that grotesque couple in sexual congress, I would honestly have to sit down and weigh up the options.
But yes, I enjoyed the show, and 'they' raised $900 for a local food charity, which was just wonderful. They finished the show with a rendition of 'Do They Know It's Christmas', which is also wonderful because had they performed the US offering of 'We Are The World', I would have fled the venue screaming, and burned rubber racing out the car park. But I am tired, and I might save my complaints about that cheese-fest inflicted upon us courtesy of Quincy Jones, Lionel Richie et al for my next blog post.
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