Tom Dunne: Springsteen, the mosh pit, and a difference of opinion with my wife
Bruce Springsteen at Croke Park, Dublin. Picture: Collins
I had assumed my attendance as one half of a married couple at the gig of a man who needs no further mention in the press was a Dunne deal, so to speak. I was wrong. I should have suspected something at the Bob Dylan gig in 3Arena, but I missed the signs.
Looks like Mrs Dunne was not lost in quiet contemplation after all. Turn outs she hadn’t closed her eyes to better appreciate just how far Bob’s songs have travelled to be the utterly unrecognisable things they are now. No. She was actually asleep.
So, the “You needn’t think I’m going with you to see ” came as quite the bombshell. Bob was her taking one for the team, she explained. “I am teamed out now. One of your friends might go with you,” she suggested.
This in the week that I’d sat through Keane as my part of the “team player takes bullet” scenario. And don’t get me wrong: Lovely man, great voice – but two songs in 90 minutes! Thought that was my gig!
It’s incredible how a couple can have children and spend their lives together and still need separate turntables. Problem was I didn’t really have a “friend” to go with. Like me, they’re all married too. One or two offered to let me be their third wheel, but a man has some pride.
As luck would have it though, a very, very good friend was coming over from England for the gig. He is a die-hard fan, and I knew that even if he had company, he’d be happy with one more nerd in the group. I was not wrong.
“It will be like old times” he said, delighted. “Yes,” I said, “and hopefully I’ll be able to get us some nice seats, within easy reach of food and alcohol!” Strangely though, this great news did not get the reaction I expected.
“No!” he said suddenly. “I need to be on the pitch. I need to be in the mosh pit.” This took a while to register. “Mosh pit?” I asked nervously.
“It really just means near the front,” he told me, “You queue up to get a pass, then you’re in, best place to see the gig.” I was a bit stunned. I thought our mosh pit days were gone but I knew what he meant.
I watched half an early Elvis Costello gig once whilst seated, the other half smashing against the barrier. Two different gigs really.
“I can probably get us those passes too,” I suggested. He was quiet for a minute. “No. I’d rather queue. There are some mates with me. It’s part of the deal, part of the day out, looking forward to it.” I was speechless. “I’ll see you on the pitch about five.” I told him, realising we were not in VIP catering anymore.
I’m not sure his friends were happy to see me join their ranks. Two of them were centurions, fans who have seen him upwards of 100 times. One of them had seen him over 140 times. I’ve seen him about five times, but crucially, I wasn’t at Slane in 1985 and Slane is the ground zero event.
In truth though we were stage right about 30 feet, max, from the action. When I now see shots taken from the back of the stadium with the gig in full swing, and rammed, I still find it hard to accept just how close to the front I was.
And was it better? Where do I begin? We were shoulder to shoulder, but not uncomfortably so, you could watch the actual artist and not the screens. We were watching the actual show. And to say we were “amongst friends” would be a huge understatement. It felt like church.
They knew every song, every possible set variation, what was likely to happen next and – within minutes - how this gig stood against others. It rocked. From the off, this was a good one.
I don’t know at what point I transitioned from looking at my watch to feeling time was irrelevant, but when it happened it felt like an out of body experience. It felt like an oddly religious experience, uplifting and communal.
When the Big Man sang ‘Rainy Night in Soho’ it was all too much for me. I found myself taking in everything: time passing, the darkening sky, the friends around me, this wonderful, special, unforgettable evening. Mrs Dunne got it wrong this time.
