Touch Me

On Wednesday, I went with my good friend Vicky to see A-ha in concert. I realise that this is quite an admission, but you have to understand the context in which it arose. Vicky and I have known each other since we were four and have battled our way through many a moment of adolescent (and adult) angst together. Apart from a ridiculous obsession with the television series The Tripods when we were 13, our first loves were Morten and Mags from A-ha. Of course, way back when, our sensible parents would never have allowed us to go and see them perform live on our own, and there was no way in hell they’d have ever considered taking us. But we eventually forgave them. Vicky and I gradually grew up and out of our wish to wear leather bracelets along the entire lengths of our forearms and left the Norwegian ones behind for good. Or so we thought. It was only when I was suddenly given an A-ha DVD to subtitle a couple of years ago that I realised that the band were even still in existence. The discovery that Morten was still gorgeous was made even more eye-opening by the particularly tight pair of leather trousers he was wearing on the video. I stole a copy of the DVD from work and went straight round to Vicky’s flat with it and an obligatory bottle of wine. So when Vicky and I heard that they were coming to Wembley, we wondered if we dared, decided that we did, roped together a team of girlie friends and booked tickets.

To complete the teenage experience, we had a Hawaiian in Pizza Hut beforehand, mainly because it was the only eatery within walking distance of Wembley Central tube station. How can this godforsaken corner of North London be compatible with the UK’s largest sporting stadium when it is so bereft of facilities? At the moment, the entire area is still a building site, and even the Arena is closed for redevelopment.

The gig was in a giant tent-like structure alongside, which was so long and thin that we ended up about a mile from the stage, though thankfully we did have a giant screen above our heads on which appeared Morten in all his glory. The man is now 46 and seems to have discovered some secret to eternal youth, perhaps on one of his forays into the rainforest. Unfortunately he’d abandoned his leather trousers for a tatty pair of jeans that it looked like he’d been doing the decorating in. Apparently, he also has four children. Some of us wondered if he might like more. Mags is still rough and cheeky (though these days with a very dodgily shaped miniature beard). Pål, who never did look that great, now just looks worrying, with a bit of a comb-over thing going on, and hollowed-out, wrinkly eyes. We almost feared he was ill.

The audience was full of 30-something women, who were shocked to discover that the band had made 20 years (20 years!) of music, either individually or as a collective, since we’d last listened to our tapes of Hunting High And Low. Consequently we knew only five or six of the songs they played and the rest of the gig was fairly subdued. Maybe partly because we'd all suddenly realised how old we were. Still, it was a “nice” performance, even if we watched the majority of it on telly. A strong backing band of Swedes carried most of the music, though claims that there were tinges of Keane or Coldplay in their sound were perhaps a little extreme.

Here’s to the fulfilment of teenage dreams, and all that we have lived, learned, loved and lost since then. To redeem myself, tonight I’m going to see Simon Rattle conducting the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment. From the ridiculous to the sublime, I suspect.

REBECCA