I went to a gig on my own and cried

Because memories and music and love will do that to you sometimes

When I was a kid I used to hear Paul Heaton’s voice drifting like rich, soulful, northern gravy out of my brother’s bedroom. Dom was a postman, eight years older than me, fond of pubs and clubs and, in the mid-1980s, mad on The Housemartins.

When I hear that music now - Sheep, Bow Down, Step Outside, Happy Hour - I can still see the dust moats floating through the gap in his bedroom door. I can see the carpet tiles that lay unevenly on his floor, the Amstrad music system from which the music played, and the chest of drawers it sat upon.

I can still smell the wool of my jumper, the cigarette smoke that permeated the air, the dinner my mum was cooking downstairs.

Paul Heaton’s music is working-class British soul. Bittersweet vignettes of kitchen sink romances; wry warmth and aching sincerity shot through with politics, cynicism and humour, set against the backdrops of crumbling schools, smoky pubs and rainy bus stops.

In 1985 it felt like the soundtrack to Dom’s implausibly adult life: he had a job, a motorbike, a girlfriend and money in his pocket. I was only ten and happy just to watch it from the sidelines.

Last night I managed to get hold of a couple of tickets to watch Heaton at Hammersmith Apollo. Five minutes walk from the house I grew up in, fifteen minutes from where I live now. “I’ve been coming to Hammersmith to perform for forty years,” Heaton announced. “I remember playing the Clarendon on the roundabout in the eighties.” He was talking about my home town. I had a lump in my throat right from the start.

Dom was ill so couldn't join me. My kids seemed a bit surprised that I was happy to go alone. But I didn’t care, sometimes I love going to watch music on my own. You go deeper somehow; you get lost in it completely without the distraction of company. I’m gutted I wasted so many great gigs in my younger years by being pissed up. I just couldn’t feel them the way I do now.

Heaton and his band were sensational. He shuffles around the stage in his specs and anorak. Back in the eighties, I remember The Housemartins dressing in woolly sweaters like a bunch of trainee teachers. I loved the way that people so normal-looking could be so cool and clever. The radical sentiment in songs like Flag Day and The People Who Smiled Themselves To Death stirred my nascent left-wing instincts. His tender lyrics about love and relationships affirmed that being a football-loving lad from a working-class home didn’t preclude you from the deepest, more poetic feelings.

Heaton’s voice remains abundant with warmth, wit and pathos. His co-singer Rianne Downey adds extraordinary energy to an already glorious act. She’s a spectacular performer, with the presence of Beyonce and the charm of Dolly. She’ll no doubt be a superstar in her own right this time next year. But she may never again perform with a talent quite as unique as Paul Heaton.

Heaton weaves stories that remind everyone in the audience of lives caught between melancholy and joy. The heartbreaks, the glory, the anger and the love. Every number took me back to a moment, a feeling and a place that helped shape me. I guess it did the same for everyone else there too.

Between songs, he told us what made him happy: performing his music and making his wife and kids smile. Of course. It seems so obvious when you put it like that. Finding something you love to do and being with people you love to be with. That’s all any of us want or need.

Then I thought about Dom and the rest of the little family I grew up with around the corner. The ugly beauty of our lives back then. I thought about my wife and all the years we’ve loved each other. I thought about making my kids smile. I thought about how thankful I was to be able to wander to a gig on my own and drink in every moment of it with a full heart. To smile in my own company. To like myself in a way I was unable to ten years ago when I was still on the booze.

Then I started to cry. Not sobbing, just a few warm tears running down my happy face. I’m not entirely sure why it happened but I know I wasn’t sad. I just felt so grateful for all the stuff that has ever happened to me. All the good things and the bad just seemed like part of a bigger story that I felt privileged to have been a part of. There is so much to love in all of it.

Great artists can make you feel those feels. You might not even know or like Paul Heaton - that doesn't matter. There will be different people who do the same things for you. A night out on your own, clear-headed, open-hearted and still hungry for all of life’s beauty is just the fucking best. Try it out.

Pre-order my new book now. Out February 27th 2025.

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Some services, links and phone numbers to help you through the tough times

https://www.samaritans.org/ Tel 116 123

https://www.thecalmzone.net

@YoungMindsUK 0800 018 2138

@CharitySane 0300 304 7000

https://www.alcoholics-anonymous.org.uk/

https://cocaineanonymous.org.uk/

https://andysmanclub.co.uk/

https://www.nhs.uk/live-well/healthy-body/gambling-addiction/