Be warned. This column starts off in a typically meandering way, but it culminates with some alarming news about Peter Andre and perhaps the most scandalous concert ticket pricing you have ever seen.
It might make you physically ill. It did me. Make sure you're sitting down, eh?
Cheers, Fred.
I have a vivid memory of being 16 years old – gangly, spotty, socially awkward, questionable hair and clothes – and going to the De Montfort Hall with two mates to see my first ever concert.
It was October, 1986; 28 years ago this month, in fact, which makes me feel ancient.
It was still light when we went in at 7pm. That time of year when the night air changes from warm to cold, a faint whiff of far-off garden bonfires wafting up Regent Road.
I smell this bonfire smell every year around this time. It always reminds me of this – walking up Regent Road to the De Mont, my first gig, so feverishly excited there was a chance I might wet myself.
The place was packed. I sang and cheered and caroused so heartily I was hoarse for three days. I remember cleaning my teeth that night and it felt like the top of my head had been lifted off and someone had stuffed cotton wool in that gap between my ears.
It was like that every autumn for the next three or four years. All the big bands stopped off at the De Mont on their autumn tours. I'm not sure why autumn was always a busy time for tours, only that, every year, it was.
During the next three or four years, I went to the De Montfort Hall a lot. I saw all sorts of bands there. It was always packed. I remember walking from the venue into the cold night air, deaf but happy, the glass entrance at the front of the De Mont dripping with condensation.
I thought of this as I had a look at this autumn's gig guide at the De Mont.
I know things are different today. I know things have changed; that medium sized-venues like the De Mont can only get these bands/artists on the way up or on their slide down. I know this because I hear the people who run the De Mont trot it out at depressingly regular intervals.
Nothing illustrates this change more than this autumn's De Mont line-up, though.
I clicked idly through. There wasn't one gig I wanted to see. The Bootleg Beatles, perhaps. Maybe the Counting Crows, at a push, if someone else was paying and, even then, not really.
Tickets for the Counting Crows are £34.50, plus £3 transaction fee. Don't ask me what the £3 transaction fee covers. I don't know.
It's £27.50 to see the Bootleg Beatles, who, as good as they are – I've seen them, they're all right – are a tribute band.
And £27.50 to see Joan Armatrading. Drop the pilot, indeed.
The one from Westlife, the one who looks like a young village butcher. Shane Filan. He's coming on a solo tour with some self-penned songs. Yeah, fancy that. Just £35 for that one.
And then, on October 22 – this Wednesday, no less – it's Peter Andre.
The interesting thing here is not that Peter Andre thinks he can fill a 2,000 venue like the De Mont – can he? Really? – but it's how much he's charging his fans for the dubious privilege of seeing him live.
This is how much the tickets are:
Flat floor seating:
Row A £75
Row B £65
Row C £55
Row D £45
Remaining seats £28.50
£75. To see Peter Andre. The man has one song. One bloody song. And that was nearly 20 years ago.
And then I switch on my telly, and there's Peter Andre shopping at Iceland, saying how he can't believe how cheap the fish fingers are.
You charlatan, Andre. As if you're shopping at Iceland when you're charging £75 a ticket for your underwhelming show.
Predictably, I was banging on about this in the office and a colleague with a secret soft spot for Peter Andre reckons his follow up song to Mysterious Girl, a charming little ditty called Flava, was just as good.
She's not going to the gig, you understand. She thinks £75 is ridiculous, too. Here are some lyrics from Flava:
If ya down, throw ya hands up in the air
The mack is back with the flava of da year
Party all night, party all night, party all night.
Cos I got the wack jam
So turn the party out.
He has the elusive "wack jam", then. Maybe, if you get the £75 front row tickets, he'll personally spoon the Wack Jam to you or rub it into flesh like Royal Jelly or something. I don't know.
So, £75 to see Peter Andre at the De Mont. As we're limping out of a recession, up to our ears in debt, wack Jam or no wack Jam.
You know what that is? It's madness. Absolute madness.
More music moaning: A mate e-mailed me the other day.
He'd been to a gig. He plays bass, my mate. A long, long time ago, I played bass, too. I was never that great as a bass player, it should be noted. I had a half-decent right hand, but really good bass players have a good left hand. That's the one that does all the work. That's where the magic is. I never had that.
Anyway, my mate likes much the same music as I do. Old rock. Except this time, he'd been to see Level 42 at the De Mont.
"You should have seen it," he said. "It was stupendous." He went on and on about Mark King's bass slapping and some bass and drum rhythm workout which had all the musos in the crowd cooing and nodding in thrall to Mark King and his bass, the one with the fret board that lit up.
Meh.
I wouldn't go and see Level 42 if they were playing at the pub at the end of my road and they were giving out free beer and Susanna Reid was behind the bar, winking at me and giving me free crisps.
I hate everything they stand for. I didn't like any of their songs, mainly because all of their songs were rubbish, but also because I didn't like any of the people at school who did like them.
I never liked all that Joseph and Emily business, Mark King's face or his bass guitar with the fretboard that lit up. Especially his fretboard that lit up. That tells you all you need to know, right there.
I never went a bundle on all that slap bass guitar stuff, either. It sounds like a tin of Quality Streets falling downstairs.
You'd have liked it, my mate insisted, as if he didn't know me at all.
Trust me, I said. I wouldn't.
fredleicester@leicestermercury.co.uk
