Crowd drowning
Illustration by Tim Martin
In my youth, I got my highs watching bands play live in Oxford, London, or at the Reading Festival. Now, thirty-something years later, I am chasing an entirely different high: publishing a book. Here’s what they have in common.
I watched the Cranberries. The Sugarcubes (Björk’s band before she went solo). Sonic Youth. James. Pop Will Eat Itself. Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. Nirvana. PJ Harvey. Siouxsie and the Banshees. The list goes on. Many, many bands. Bands of differing styles all vying for my and my fellow revellers’ attention in a crowded market of three-minute-ish throwaway earworms.
My most memorable nights were at the Brixton Academy, watching the Wonderstuff and Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine. So what made those nights memorable?
👇🏻 Going down
If you have been to live gigs, you may have experienced—or tried—stage diving. The act of clambering on stage, dancing like an idiot, then wild-eyed and trusting, propelling yourself through the air onto the expectant arms of the crowd below. What you may not have experienced is crowd drowning.
An audience at a gig is a mass of heaving, jumping, sweating bodies surging forward and back, entranced by the music and antics of the band. The crowd moves like a tide. A pulsating, throbbing mass—shifting left, right, forwards and back. On these occasions, the undercurrent caught me. I slipped. The tidal surge dragged me down, arms aloft, but no one could grab me before I hit the seabed. Sucked down, unseen, and fearful, I sat beneath the bobbing heads and flying limbs. I was trapped by the seaweed of tangled legs. Usually, someone helps you up. Not this time.
Have a look at this Sheriff Fatman video from SiX DwArF. This is one of the gigs where it happened. The video will give you a sense of the atmosphere and how easy falling was.
👆🏻 Going up
The sloping floor of Brixton Academy was drenched in beer, with a fetid stench of sweat and history. After a few seconds of panic, a strange calm took over, and I realised I would not die. I heard the music (well, a weird mix of Charlie Brown’s teacher speaking underwater).
I could not stay on the floor for the remainder of the gig. Like Gloria Gaynor opined, I would survive. I struggled to reach the surface. I held my breath as I clawed my way up, then gulped in the clearer air as I broke the surface. I was alive. All was well with the world.
Not long after, it was over. Euphoric, we band of brothers and sisters drained out into the cool Brixton night, leaving nothing but faint memories in the walls and floors of the concert hall.
🤷🏼 What’s he going on about?
So why all this talk about sweaty gigs and stage dives? Because that’s exactly what writing my first book has felt like.
I have learned to write—and then written—a novel. I have struggled with self-editing and then self-publishing. The book is finished, and I have no idea whether it (or I) will sink or survive in the ocean of other published books.
I had an idea, bought my ticket and boarded the bus. I equipped myself with all the necessary gear: pens, notebooks, and writing apps. I reached the gig (the kitchen table) along with, I suspect, hundreds or thousands of others who knew what they hoped for—but had no idea if the gig would go well or if the singer would be ill and the guitarist had broken five of his six strings.
Still, we turn up. We jostle. We writhe. We chase the euphoria of writing The End—and the deep satisfaction it brings.
The music and videos (advice) played. Too many songs. Too much information. Too much to learn.
Hour upon hour of YouTube tutorials, endless books and articles on writing books, all jostling, prodding, cajoling, urging me on to reach the end. Day after day after day. I fell. I crowd-drowned and struggled until … a chink of light. A hand on the shoulder. A comforting word and a hug of kindness lifted me and encouraged me to go again.
Every day has been a school day, and I have spent the past 700+ days with a foggy head looking up through a sea of legs of those who have written The End.
For me, writing a book has involved iterations of developing a plot, drafting a story, and endless rounds of editing. Building a website, drawing pictures, and creating a newsletter. Every day is akin to crowd-drowning.
I have been to the gig with hundreds of others. I don’t know them. I don’t know their names and can’t remember their faces, but I know what they have felt and experienced.
My friends, it has been traumatising, but let me tell you, the music has been ace, and now I venture outside, sweat cooling, and my head is clearing.
Would I do it again? Would I spend two years doing something that others have done or are doing and doing it way better than me? Would I buy a ticket and join that audience as a complete unknown, crammed into a competitive market to write The End?
Yes, I would. In a heartbeat.
📢 What now?
I am two years older and no longer have a constant desire for new music. I have a set of trusty bands I listen to and love.
It’s the same for writing books. I have learned what I have learned. Now it’s time for practice and enjoyment. No more Unbearable. No more Sheriff Fatman. Now I will Always look on the bright side of life. De-dum, de-dum, de-dum de-dum de-dum.
As a new writer, working on the project alone, it has turned out as good as I could hope for. The main thing for me is this: Is it the story I wanted to tell?
The answer to that, my friends, is yes, and that’s what matters most. Not sales, not reviews–just that I told it.
The story is written in short snippets and episodes. It’s meant to reflect how fleeting memories are formed–fragmented, vivid, and emotional. We don’t remember everything about an event. We remember moments, and that’s what I wanted to capture in this story.
So here it is, I’ve written The End. The music is still ringing in my ears, and I can’t wait to see you at the gig.
My debut novel Now Them is available from Amazon.
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If you fancy reaching out or saying hi 👋🏻, why not contact me.