It is Saturday afternoon, and I’m at the last ever Cornbury festival, where the band I’m in is playing. My wife, having made a tremendous fuss, has had her wristband upgraded to an artist’s pass on a lanyard, which means she can come and go from the backstage enclosure as and when she pleases. This was not my idea.
“I’m going to look for free wine,” she says.
“Don’t bother Bryan Adams,” I say.
“Bryan Adams isn’t even here,” she says.
“OK,” I say, “don’t bother Bryan Adams’s people.”
I drive my car up behind the main stage and unload the drums. Everywhere I look, there are large black equipment boxes, stacked as high as a man. They all say “BRYAN ADAMS” on them. Our stuff fits neatly on one wheeled riser.
Back in the artists’ enclosure, someone is having his hair cut by Bryan Adams’s hairdresser. I find my wife inside our dressing room tent, helping herself to a glass of white wine from a chilled bottle.
“Did you steal that from Bryan Adams?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “I found a caravan with all sorts.”
The accordion player walks in. “There’s a guy having his hair cut out there,” he says.
“I know,” I say.
“Why?” he says.
“If you knew you had the gig coming up, you would definitely wait,” I say.
“I’m hungry,” my wife says.
“You’d be like, why should I pay for a haircut when I’ve got that Bryan Adams thing next month?” I say.
“Is there food?” my wife asks.
An hour before our set, the band assembles. A minivan is parked outside the enclosure, waiting to drive us to the stage.
“Good luck,” my wife says.
“Don’t bother Ward Thomas,” I say. “Don’t bother Scouting For Girls.”
“I won’t,” she says.
At 3.30pm, the band gathers in a corner backstage, surrounded by Bryan Adams’s stuff. The stage manager comes over and sticks his thumb in the air. Legendary DJ Johnnie Walker introduces us. As we reach the line of microphones, we step from the cavernous shade of the stage roof into bright, hot sunshine. I look up, and two words quietly slip from my mouth. Those words are: holy shit.
I have never been good at estimating the size of a crowd based on a quick visual assessment. I’m not sure how you would even begin to gauge density in an outdoor setting, and my perception of depth is compromised by the rise of the hill in front me. So I will just say thousands. I have never seen anything like it, and it’s possible I never will again. People are cheering. People are waving their arms. I bend my head and watch my fingers.
It’s not until we are halfway through, when I take a few steps back before the start of a slow, sad song, that I have time to reflect. So this is what it’s like being Bryan Adams, I think.
“This song is about my great uncle,” our lead singer says, “who was killed at Passchendaele.”
“Whoohoo,” someone in the crowd shouts.
Afterwards, we pack up our stuff, sign some tea towels at the merchandise stall and reload our cars. Back at the dressing room tent, I find my wife talking to the father of the twin sisters who comprise the popular country music duo Ward Thomas. He runs a popular removals firm, which is also called Ward Thomas.
“You’re actually moving us!” my wife says. “In two weeks!”
“I apologise for any breakages in advance,” he says.
“Shut up!” my wife says.
“Is that a different bottle of wine?” I ask.
“I’m sharing it,” she says. “You were good.”
“Thank you,” I say. “It really was the most extraordinary thing to…”
“I do hope you’re going to be careful with my pictures!” my wife says to Mr Ward Thomas.
Three hours later, a fat moon is rising over London as I drive along the A40. In the back of the car is all my stuff, and the drums, and the drummer, who is asleep. My wife is in the passenger seat, also asleep. I look at the pink glow of the setting sun in my rearview mirror, and I think: thousands.
