Armed with wellies, ponchos and the expectation of expensive pints we battled queues for buses, felt our rib cages compress, balanced as many pints as possible as we navigated the muddy, slippery form of suction cushion the ground turned into hoping to stay upright. The skies overhead were filled with traffic carrying people to some hidden wonderland behind the castle so that they could ultimately sit in the rain as opposed to stand in it. Walking onto the castle grounds we were met with people who felt staying sober enough to be able to stand up would have been too much of a good use of their tickets. Walking out onto the ampitheatre shape surround, and never having been to a U2 concert I was blown away by the stage, as one of the lads put it, resembling the first stage in the construction of a sky scraper and this was even before the fire works, back ground graphics and detached floating stage segment. The music and the crusty men on stage, who each seem to have better physiques and more energy than I can ever hope to achieve were front and centre, turning out classic tunes like they were putting just the right amount of butter on a perfectly crisp piece of toast. I over reached there with that last sentence but it's staying in. Running from one song to another you realise the eclectic influences on their music from outright rock, to big band vibes and country 'n' western twangs and friendships with the late James Brown. I rank these men along the likes of Peter O'Toole and Richard Harris, somehow inspiring in the reckless fulfilment with which they seem to have filled their lives and what must be their complete bewilderment with what the hell this rehab fad is.
Bowie, you are next on my list.