Clare and I went to see the Foo Fighters at Wembley last night. It was at very short notice: we were given the tickets by a friend of Clare (thanks Beth!). I wasn’t what you might call a hardcore fan, but I thought they’d be fun. As it happened, the gig was utterly mind-blowing and I’ve become an instant convert to the Church of Grohl.
I’ll be writing about it all in a bit more detail once I manage to regain my health, recover my composure and process the events. In the meantime, I’ll share this with you:
We’d originally asked my brother to come along, but for various reasons he couldn’t make it. While watching the first support (The Futureheads), I fired off a random mischievous text to Brother Younger that went:
“Fuck! Led Zep are support!”
As wind-up strategies go it was far from plausible. Clare discouraged me from sending it – saying that Rob would never buy such an outrageous lie – but I went ahead and sent it anyway. Rob, after all, has long been obsessed with the works of Messrs Plant, Page, Bonham and Jones for as long as I care to remember. If he even thought for a half a second that he might be missing out on a Led Zep reunion gig then it would have been worth it.
As it happened, Rob’s reply was predictably swift and pithy:
“Bollocks,” it read.
Oh well, I thought, back to the music. After the rather lame Futureheads, the mighty Supergrass played a storming set and then the Foo Fighters spent over two-hours methodically turning me into a evangelical Foo Fighters fan. Then came the encore.
The encore with the special guests.
The ones you might have heard about in the news.
Jimmy Page and John Paul Jones.
“Bollocks,” I said. “Rob’ll never believe me now.”