Last night I was lucky enough to see my favourite band, Biffy Clyro. They’re Scottish and still building a fanbase here in Australia, so I was extremely excited – it’s only their second tour here.
Of course, the first tour they ever had in Australia last year – well, I went a little overboard with my enthusiasm. No sooner than the tickets had gone on sale, had I created a dizzying itinerary of flights and hotel bookings around the country; intending to follow the band around in a manner that was sure to raise alarm bells. That’s when it hit me – I’d become one of those fans.
Don’t kid me, either – you know the type of fan I mean. For example, the Radiohead fans that flood the entire postcode region with their own drool after finally glimpsing Thom Yorke getting off a bus, after creepily stalking the band through at least five states and territories, leaving a wake of borderline illegal fanfic and vomituously twee fan singalongs outside venues in their wake. In most cases, a level of enthusiasm which they probably also directed at Hanson’s Westfield shopping centre tour ten years ago.
But that’s me. Just with Biffy Clyro, instead of Radiohead – although I’m not quite at the level of contributing to LiveJournal communities dedicated to the horniness of their singer’s beard, or anything. Yet.
The last Biffy Clyro tour was quite the odyssey for me, though. Being sad enough that I didn’t have any other mates into them at the time, I made a sad solo trek around the country shadowing the band’s itinerary. Adam would have come along, but we’ve got a bit of an agreement in our relationship when it comes to music, and it’s best summed up by noting that metal and rock does not generally sit alongside the worst early 90s happy hardcore you’ve ever heard without drugs. So when it comes to gigs, I turn to my mates instead of my boyfriend.
Except who would be stupid enough to follow some obscure Scottish band around the country? JUST ME.
There was definitely a high point on the last tour, though. After idly standing outside the Sydney venue hours before the doors opened, I noticed their singer, Simon Neil, wandering out through a door for a bite to eat. He noticed I was wearing a tshirt of the band, and realised with dread that he’d entered my event horizon.
“Thanks so much for coming to see us,” he smiled, and shook my hand. THIS IS IT, I thought. I MAY NEVER GET THIS CHANCE AGAIN. This was the leader of the band I’d been obsessing over for years. Say something important! Say something meaningful!
Instead, in a single constanant, I blurted out something along the lines of:
“OhMyGodSimonNeilIThinkYouAreGod I’mFollowingYouAllAroundTheContinent Isn’tAustraliaAwesome ILoveYou WhatSizeShoesDoYouWear YAAAAY!”
This incited little more than a terrified look and a hasty exit.
So I keep my distance nowadays, for the band’s sake and mine. But still – check them out if you like left-of-field rock, or think the Foo Fighters turned into a Sarah McLachlan tribute act with their last few albums. You won’t be sorry.
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I would of gone with you but It was Over 18′s Tell me how Rise Against went ok