Camera Obscured

When Simon and I walked out of A Midsummer Night’s Dream last Wednesday, I became aware that I may be experiencing a gradual metamorphosis from Normal Person to Old Person. This was an unusual sensation: I put it gently to one side and hoped fervently that I had seen the back of it.

However, precisely a week later, the identical feeling reared its ugly head once more, enticing me with its practical views on getting enough rest and wearing enough layers.

Last night, Simon and I were at Koko in Camden to see a band called Camera Obscura, of whom we are fairly fond. Upon entering the venue, we found the railings around the sides of the theatre were crowded with merry punters, and since there was still some time to go before the band arrived onstage, we decided to find a quiet corner where we could sit and while away remaining minutes. To our great surprise, we located an inordinately comfortable black leather sofa area behind the bar, complete with flatscreen TVs to relay the onstage action back to us loungers. Brimming with undisguised smugness, we stationed ourselves in a sofa and watched the support acts on the screen, fully content that we would stand to see Camera Obscura in all their glory when they arrived on stage.

However, when the crucial moment occurred, somehow the full envelopment of the leather cushions prevented us from standing. The flatscreens gave us a prime view of the stage and, more persuasively, of the crowds vacuum-packed into the main audience area. In comparison, the uncrowded sofa zone was a calm utopia and despite being the antithesis of any self-respecting concert-goer, despite my best, most fervently-held intentions and the realisation that I was a stain on the face of modern music, a shameful example of all that is wrong with the youth of today, I was unable to lift myself into a vertical position for the vast majority of the gig.

Sadly, when I did stand, I realised my error – the feeling of watching a band live on stage, with your own eyes rather than through the screen of a television, is unquantifiably, indescribably different – and far superior. It was as though someone had cleaned my glasses – the heightened experience and the direct line of vision between me and the musicians meant that I had become an active part of the evening rather than a passive observer. Laziness overcame me last night, but I’ve learned my lesson and it won’t happen again. The metamorphosis into Old may have begun but I refuse to die without a fight.

Or maybe I’ll just have a cup of Horlicks and an early night.