PAUL FLYNN
Strange paternal feelings are an age-old problem
WORDS: CLIFF JOANNOU
I AM STANDING IN THE QUEUE for the bar at a busy gig. The xx, the brilliant South London trio who seem to have captured as much of the nervous mood of their generation as Massive Attack did mine in the early Nineties, are playing. They deal in small sounds that remind me of learning to gain confidence.
But recently they’ve become noisier in a beautiful, still way. The best pop music always tells you something about growing up. It is its special, bespoke skill.
A good two-thirds of the audience at the gig are half my age or younger. They don’t yet know bar etiquette and are too thirsty to be polite. It’s OK. I’ve been that person. I don’t care. A ravishingly beauty who I’d place at no more than 19 and wearing good clothes, gives me a sharp eye because she thinks I’ve pushed in, which I haven’t. “Oi,” she says, in a posh London accent, gorgeous face scrunching with disapproval in the bar’s half light. I usher her in front of me. She smells of expensive perfume and too much alcohol. She smiles. The next drink will be hers. And that should be the end of that.