At first, it was a little frustrating, because we couldn't find a good spot while the Smith Westerns played what sounded like the same song over and over for about an hour. We even contemplated going VIP, but being broke has a habit of putting a stop to that. Eventually, though, we figured it would only make sense to go on the floor and once we did, it was actually not that crowded and we could see, very well.
Right off, the atmosphere was set when the Monkeys hit the stage, Alex Turner looking like a greaser John Lennon, in his leather jacket, going right into the creepy Pretty Visitors. Sure, there was crowd surfing and moshing, but there were moments that this could have been a show in Berlin in 1962. It was all about attitude and letting the songs do the talking. The crowd was all into it and my body was holding up just fine as we cast the shadow of a snake pit on the wall. One song lead into another, each one better than the previous one. That Arctic Monkeys can play is never in doubt.
By the time they came back for encores, I said fuck it and ventured further into the crowd, winding up right up front. It was here that I'm pretty sure Alex Turner looked right at me, probably thinking "what the bloody hell is that old fart doing up front?" Once the show was over, I started feeling the aches in my legs, waist, back, feet, soul. . . I don't go to very many shows, because, frankly, there aren't that many bands I want to see that actually come down here. But every time I have a night like this, I can't wait for the next one. Maybe The Black Keys will be back again soon.