I was 13 and there purely by accident because I happened to be staying at my dad’s that night and he was the local press photographer. Not exactly the rebellious rock-and-roll origin story you’d brag about in the playground. In fact, I told absolutely nobody. My carefully curated Punk Cred™ would have evaporated overnight.
From what I remember, the show was… fine. Competent. Polished. A bit self-indulgent. The sort of performance that probably felt transcendent if you loved Billy Joel, and like a very long piano lesson if you didn’t.
The real highlight came afterwards. While my dad was busy photographing the star dramatically pretending to play a pinball machine, I was in the bar chatting to the band’s American guitarist. He confided that he loved punk and only played this “stuff” because it paid well and came with travel perks. Even at 13, I recognised the purity of that sentiment: sell out, see the world, complain about it in the bar afterwards.
That night marked my third and final visit to Deeside Leisure Centre as a venue. A fitting farewell, really, because I also proudly refused the chance to see Adam & The Ants and Blondie around the same time. I declared myself “too punk rock” to attend. My sisters went instead.
Naturally, they had a brilliant time. I have spent the intervening decades perfecting the fine art of regret.
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