Many years ago I went to see George Benson at Wembley Arena. I was not a big Benson fan and had only picked up the tickets on the morning of the gig from an agency that was desperate to get shot of them. I was accompanied to the gig by a girl with whom I worked, of whom I was not particularly fond and with whom I didn't really want to be seen. As we arrived at the venue I realised that the concert was being held 'in the round' (i.e. a circular stage in the middle of the arena) and thought to myself that I hoped we wouldn't be too near the front, both so as not to be surrounded by great enthusiasts for Benson (I know how annoying it can be to be loving a gig and know that someone nearby is less thrilled), and to avoid being too visible. An usher showed us to our seats, and my heart sank progressively further as we got closer and closer to the stage. On and on we went, until finally, inevitably, we arrived at the front row. There we sat in the full glare of the spotlight, in view of thousands of people on either side of the arena, waiting for the concert to begin. I started to get a bad feeling about the way the evening was going.
The support act was Patti Austin. She's an excellent singer and a charismatic performer, and I was enjoying it fine. About halfway through her set, she initiated some audience participation. Now, I have issues with audience participation. I don't like singing along, I don't like being cajoled into action - that's just the way I am. If I go to a concert I just want to see the performers perform, I don't need to feel like I am somehow part of the event in order to enjoy myself. If anything it detracts from the entertainment. I'm not saying nobody should, from what I gather lots of people do appreciate this kind of involvement and fair play to them, but please don't oblige me to do it as well. Anyway, she asked everybody to clap along, and because I don't like clapping along I didn't. Which would have been fine if her bass player, on noticing me sitting with my arms folded, decided to stop playing, point at me, laugh and fold his arms as well. Already feeling hot from the glare of the stage lights, my temperature rose a couple of degrees further. However, I refused to submit to the pressure coming from the bassist and stayed with my arms folded, and soon enough he had to resume playing and the anti-clockwise rotating stage moved him away to my right.
Which would have been fine had the song not come to an end, the next one started and the rotation begun again - clockwise. Inexorably he returned, beat by dreadful beat, into my eyeline. I knew what was coming. I knew he wouldn't resist. And this time when he folded his arms, I'm ashamed to say I crumbled, making a feeble attempt at lightening the moment by clapping along in a comically bad way, as if I'd never done it before. It was excruciating.
By the time of the interval, my mind was in a blur of thinking both that it couldn't get any worse and that I was going to enjoy the rest of the gig any damn well way I pleased. So when George Benson finally came on and everyone around me stood up to dance, I didn't. Because I don't dance. Ever. It's just not something I do. And by now I was so fed up with the whole evening that I had no inclination to even stand up, and given that I was marooned on the front row I had no need. I could still see the stage fine by remaining seated, even though it did cross my mind that the way things had gone George Benson might stop the show and ask me what the hell I was doing. I felt a bit guilty that some of Benson's fans were probably having their evening mildly spoiled by my presence, seeing me (and, bless her, the girl alongside me who was stoically supporting me) sat there unmoved. I imagined that many of them would have loved to be, as I was, about ten feet from their hero. But they could take it up with Patti Austin's bass player - it was he who had put me in this mood. One of them, though, clearly wasn't willing to go down that route. Because halfway through a particularly upbeat number, she started poking me in the back. At first I thought someone had inadvertently bumped into me, but it happened over and over again - I could feel her reaching across from a couple of seats down in the row behind. I am so English, so reserved, and was so young - 24 at the time - that I just let her do it. I had a choice between making a scene, walking out (which would have felt like a defeat) or putting up with it. Nowadays I'd turn around and give her a piece of my mind, but back then I just sank lower in my seat, and waited for the torment to be over.
Eventually she gave up, and at some interminable point later the whole wretched concert came to an end. But to this day, even the mention of the name George Benson brings me out in goosebumps.
