Limbo
It’s still light, but the big neon sign is already on, a homing beacon for live music fans, a Batsignal, spelling out the famous name, letter by letter.
“Barrowland”. The Barras. The Barrowlands.
When that pluralisation was added is unclear, but whatever you call it, it’s the best venue in the world. Or, at least according to the NME year end polls, it is, year on year, one of the ten best venues in the country. And I’m in the queue, ticket carefully nestled in my inside jacket pocket, quietly nervous. Thrumming. I’m nervous for two reasons. First, because I always feel that way when I see live music. That never goes away. Ever. Secondly, and more importantly, I’m 16 and I look it. I could probably pass for 14. The Barras security are notoriously strict. But I’ve been before. Got past them with a bit of chat, an assurance from someone older that they weren’t going to buy me drink, that I was only there to see the gig and I wasn’t going to act like an idiot.
The queue inches forward, fag smoke and perfume in my nostrils, an underlying sweet scent of cider and lipgloss, another, much less pleasant, one of old leather jackets, B.O. and improperly dried band t-shirts. The crowd is about 50/50 girls to guys. And, oh, the girls. At my school there are maybe 6–8 girls who like the same music as I do, but none of them look like this (I tell myself). These are city girls. Girls from Edinburgh, Glasgow girls. They look simultaneously like they are my peers and also that they have been sent from indie boy heaven, with their Juliana Hatfield t-shirts, and their Converse and their Kim Gordon sunglasses. Their hair is curly (wildly, naturally curly), or part shaved, or coloured green, blue, pink, with flowery hairslides in their partings. I fall in love at least six times in as many minutes.
It’s getting darker now, dusk settling over the East End. It’s not a pretty part of the city, but there’s a weird glamour that comes from that ubiquitous shining, blinking installation. Maybe it’s the same thing that draws people to Las Vegas, or the switching on of Christmas lights. An uncomplicated, tacky prettiness that reminds you of being a kid. Maybe, though, it’s this sign. Maybe it carries more weight and meaning to shy, nerdy indie boys who weigh 9 stone when soaking wet. The guarantee that nobody will call you a freak, or a hippie, or a mosher. The promise of a couple of hours of sonic communion with some like minded souls, to jump about with your mates and sing at the top of your voice. To sing these songs that are not the ones everyone else listens to. These are different. These are real.
Maybe it’s the chance to forget about school and being embarrassed to talk to girls and worrying you’ll say something that gets you mocked and your dead dad.
There’s maybe five folk in front of us now. My stomach is flipping over.
“Right folks, up yese come!”
We step up, and I feel a hand on my chest.
“What age are ye wee man?”
There’s no point in lying. Even if I lie, he’ll want to see some ID.
“I’m 16”, I say, hoping that my voice doesn’t break.
“Over 18s only pal”
“I’m no going to be drinking. I’m just here to see the band”
“Doesnae matter, over 18s only”
My mates have already gotten through and are waiting inside the door for me. Even though I could, I don’t point on that they’re the same age as me.
“I’m with them”, I gesture. It makes no difference.
“I cannae let ye in. Yer no old enough”. It’s not said unkindly, but I know that it’s not up for discussion. My mates start heading up the stairs.
My eyes are stinging, my face is hot and prickling.
Not old enough.
Do you want to tell that to the people who told me, not even three months ago, that I was the man of my house?
I’m old enough to be told by teachers that God’s will is for me to be strong for my mum and brother and sister, now that my dad isn’t here. That the burden is heavy, but I’m man enough to carry it.
I walk away, shame radiating off me. I sell the ticket to someone waiting outside, for face value and go home, although I have no memory of getting there.