To be honest, I've never been much of a one for concerts.
As a teenager, I didn't spend all my holiday job money getting spaced at Glastonbury or taking a slingshot to Wembley so I could propel my knickers onto Jason Donovan's forehead. It just wasn't my thing.
Don't get me wrong, I have always loved music and I could not have got through my formative years without the aid of Paul Weller, Oasis, Blur, Depeche Mode, et al. They were vital companions in those long hours of moping, mooning and moaning about the harsh futility of Life.
In my later teens, I went to see quite a few crappy small bands in various pubs and indie clubs, and more recently I've seen a lot of obscure but good acts in decent local venues. But I just never really liked one band enough to make the effort when it came to shelling out big money to squeeze up against 40,000 other people in an arena environment. This might have been a more appealing prospect had I lived within stone-flinging distance of civilisation, but as coming from Devon meant a five-day camel ride to anywhere which boasted anything bigger than a village hall, I just couldn't muster the energy.
So moving to the South East several years ago has actually been rather a treat. Suddenly I didn't have to take a long weekend off work to see someone play in London. Suddenly I could go and see bands after work, without taking a whole packet of Pro Plus in anticipation of a 20-hour day just to make the round trip.
I can't say I've swarmed all over this opportunity like a tramp on chips. But the proximity of the rather excellent O2 has put a few impossible-to-resist temptations in my way and this week, I was more glad than ever that I no longer live down among the farmers.
Elbow were playing two dates in Greenwich and as soon as I saw the tickets going on sale six months ago, I knew I had to be there. Just that morning I'd announced a rather essential economy drive, but my future security went out the window when that email alert came through. My flexible friend was made to flex one last time before being cast aside with contempt. I was going, and that was that.
And by George, I'm glad I was reckless and irresponsible with my money that day. I don't have very much experience of massive concerts, but I had thought that nothing could surpass seeing Stevie Wonder singing live on stage. Sorry Stevo, but Guy Garvey and pals have just elbowed you rudely into the wings (geddit?).
As usual, the wait for the main band to come on stage seemed interminable, but once they arrived, I never wanted them to shuffle off again. Echoing the new album, they opened the concert in thunderous style with The Birds and it became apparent immediately that this was going to be something special. I've always loved Guy's voice, but just listening to the recordings, it is very easy to underestimate it and simply view it as a rather workaday instrument. Not true, friends, not true at all. His voice just soared, hitting every note and revealing this dark horse to be one of the forerunners when it comes to the great voices of his generation.
Not only that, but he is also a surprisingly charismatic showman. You wouldn't think it to look at him, being no Robbie Williams (thank the Lord), but Guy had 20,000 people eating out of his hand. Funny, warm and engaging, his down to earth approach was a charming balance to the majestic beauty of the songs.
They did all my favourites - Mirrorball, The Bones of You, Weather to Fly and Station Approach among them, along with the essential bone-shaking rendition of Grounds for Divorce. And of course there was never going to be any other finale than the sublime One Day Like This, which seemed to sweep the entire audience up in a tsunami of good will and joy.
Because last Monday's concert was just that - a momentously joyful occasion. Clearly delighted by the adoration of their fans, the band gave it everything and the result felt like an evening among friends. (Of course, I had the standard issue couple of wankers sitting behind me, kicking seats and laughing like hyenas on crack, but even they were flummoxed into silence once Elbow got to work on them.)
It turned out that Guy's mum was in the audience that night and it occurred to me how wonderful it must be for any parent to see their child achieve something so amazing; to send 20,000 strangers away into the London night with an almost post-coital afterglow, believing that they had indeed, to quote Weather to Fly, had 'the time of their lives...'
I seriously considered going back again the next night, because I just didn't want the magical feeling of being surrounded by that music to ever end. But I'll see them again as soon as I can, and as many times as I can, until they stop doing what they do. Which will be a sad day for all concerned. Because nights like that make you realise that, whatever else might be going on that makes Life seem hard and tiring and possibly not worth it, music reminds you that being alive can be immeasurably wonderful too.
One day like this a year would see me right, for Life.
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