"The Stage Actually Collapsed": Parliamentarians Share Their Best Gig And Festival Memories

Glastonbury 2017, Radiohead (Credit: Guy Bell / Alamy Stock Photo)

Mark Garnier
Conservative MP for Wyre Forest

Best night out ever? In my mid-20s, a mate of mine’s uncle was Paul Simon’s manager. My chum was helping on his Graceland tour. By coincidence, the first night of my first ever visit to New York coincided with them playing Madison Square Garden. Not only did we have front-of-house seats but Chevy Chase (who had joined in on the You Can Call Me Al video) also made a cameo appearance on stage. After the show, we joined the band for drinks, then shared their bus back to their hotel, which was near where I was staying. What a way to debut in New York City: Paul Simon, Chevy Chase, and Hugh Masekela’s band all in one go!

Andy McDonald
Labour MP for Middlesbrough and Thornaby East

As a youth, I was keyboard player and lead singer in a band that played across the North East. We were scheduled to play a working men’s club in Sunderland – but on turning up at our drummer’s flat en route, he was nowhere to be found. One of our roadies volunteered to step in and we rehearsed the intro to our opening number – Thin Lizzy’s Dancing in the Moonlight – on the way to the gig in the back of the van, making sure the stand-in drummer had his vital staccato snare gunshot intro under his belt.

We went on stage and started the number, and it sounded like he was building a shed. With sweat pouring down my brow and a tambourine hastily thrown under my foot, I banged out a beat until the nightmare 45-minute set was over. As I went off for a lie down, my guitarist girlfriend took over on drums for the second set and was brilliant. We survived and made our escape. It still haunts me.

Alex Sobel
Labour MP for Leeds Central and Headingley

I’ve been a regular at Leeds Festival from the start. My favourite thing about festivals is surprises. At Leeds Fest in 2007 there was a rumour going round that a band in the Carling New Bands Tent called ‘Hook for Hands’ was actually the Kaiser Chiefs, whose Ruby got to number one earlier that year.

I duly went to the tent, which was absolutely rammed. Indeed, the Chiefs came on wearing Parva T-shirts – the name of their previous band. They played a blistering seven-song set with Ricky Wilson doing his usual schtick of climbing over the stage and the furniture around it. I didn’t personally know the band then, but 10 years later Simon Rix the bassist moved onto my street and I’m firm friends with them now.

My next concert is the 20th anniversary of the Kaisers’ album Employment at Temple Newsam, where Leeds Festival was first held – so a full circle!

Lord Brennan
Labour peer

On the cusp of Neil Young’s appearance at Glastonbury, I am tempted to write about the last time I witnessed him play live. It was September 1974 when my older sisters and I saw Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, each playing a solo performance within their band set. The support acts were The Band and Joni Mitchell!

But my most memorable gig was Bob Marley and The Wailers on 19 June 1976, in the open air at Ninian Park, Cardiff. That year brought the hottest, driest summer on record, but this was the rogue day that the heavens opened – and a torrent of rain descended.

My teenage friends Sean Cahill, Tina Kelly and I were soaked to the skin standing for hours in a desultory crowd watching a series of mid-table support acts. Press pictures from the afternoon, which emerged decades later, show a tiny gathering of scruffy and bedraggled South Walian kids standing stoically in the relentless rain.

The show was a Daily Mirror Pop Club promotion, which failed to sell when the headline act Stephen Stills pulled out. He was replaced at the last minute by Bob Marley whose No Woman, No Cry had snuck into the top 10 the previous year, but who was still a long way from the superstar status he later acquired.

As evening fell, the crowd filled out, courtesy of a diverse influx from much further afield than South Wales. The air filled with the pungent, perfumed aroma of exotic herbs. When Bob and the band played, the rain seemed to disappear, and we were transported into a world of hypnotic Jamaican rhythms and potent political defiance.
“Get up, stand up – stand up for your right,” sang the great man for the encore – and we vowed we would!

Ian Lavery
Labour MP for Blyth and Ashington

Growing up a huge 2 Tone fan, one of the standout moments of my youth was travelling from Ashington to Newcastle to see The Specials live at the legendary Mayfair. A group of us took the United bus, buzzing with excitement and cheap cider. The Specials were our heroes, and with The Swinging Cats supporting, we knew we were in for something unforgettable.

The venue was packed to the rafters, pulsing with energy. As soon as the bands hit the stage, the crowd came alive. The music was blistering, and we were completely swept up in the moment. It was everything we’d hoped for – until things started to shift.

Our group – just a bunch of schoolmates out for a good time – caught the attention of a group of skinheads from Byker. If you knew Newcastle in the early 80s, you knew this wasn’t good news. Tension simmered. We could feel it building in the crowd. The next day, the local papers reported violence at the gig. We knew exactly what they were talking about.

Thankfully, we avoided the worst of it. The chaos peaked during the encore when the crowd surged forward to Skinhead Moonstomp. In the madness, people stormed the stage – and it actually collapsed. It was wild, unreal. But strangely, that moment of sheer bedlam seemed to bring things to a close.

Over 40 years later, that night still stands out as one of the most unforgettable experiences of my life. We came for the music, and despite the madness we left with a story none of us ever forgot.

Ed Davey
Liberal Democrat leader and MP for Kingston and Surbiton

I first got into The Pretenders when I was in my mid-teens at school. But it was in my last year of university that they brought out Don’t Get Me Wrong. Hearing them play it live at Glastonbury with my best mate a few years back gave me that sense of nostalgia that only music from your youth really can. I have to say, there were quite a few folk about my age bopping along who seemed to have the same feeling.

Josh Fenton-Glynn
Labour MP for Calder Valley

Radiohead at Glastonbury ‘97 was the kind of performance that captures your mood and defines the time you’re living in. I was 13, and my mum had bravely taken me and my brother to Glastonbury, back when it was still free for kids. It was our first festival, and oh God, was it wet.

When Radiohead played their headlining gig on the Saturday night, the rain finally stopped – or seemed to – and the music sounded like a defiant rebuke to the wet days that had gone before. The band were at the height of their popular appeal, OK Computer had just been released off the back of The Bends, and they sounded amazing. Thom Yorke’s vocals were powerful but vulnerable – him at his best. Like all great live music, it wasn’t perfect – indeed, they have gone on to complain the technical problems made it “hell”. But in some ways that added to it – like the band were part of the same struggle as us. As the crowd sang along to High and Dry, I had goosebumps. Others had tears in their eyes.

At 13, I saw what Q magazine called the best gig of all time. I’ve been to some brilliant gigs since, particularly at the Piece Hall in Halifax. But that one will take a lot to beat.

Dawn Butler
Labour MP for Brent East

I went to see my friend Beverley Knight – a phenomenal singer and actress – perform at Kew Gardens. I was the only one stood singing and dancing to her songs – everyone else was sat down, enjoying the show in a very civil manner. How uncouth of me!

After the show, I waited to meet her backstage. A woman who was waiting to get an autograph looked at me like I was trying to cut in line – she thought I was a crazed fan! Beverley and I ended up talking for so long we almost got locked inside. We were trying to find our way out – it was dark and a bit scary.

Beverley was carrying her own bags – I said, “excuse me, you’re the star!” and carried them for her. 

As we emerged from the gardens, we ended up walking past the same woman from earlier. There I was: chasing after Beverley while carrying her heavy bags, looking like – you guessed it – a crazed fan. Her look said it all: “Yup, that’s definitely what she is.”

Lord Glasman
Labour peer

It was the spring of 1977, and I was 15 going on 16. With O-Levels looming, my heart was full of a nameless longing and despair. Or, as Bob Dylan sang, “a restless hungry feeling that don’t mean no one no good”. I was at a big comprehensive school in Camden Town and I saw punks on the street as I bunked off treble physics. I liked The Clash but punk sounded like heavy metal to me – deep in my heart, it was never mine, however much I wanted it to be. Then, by chance, I heard an album by Bob Marley and the Wailers – Burnin’ – and I was smitten.

The Rainbow Theatre was on my way home from school, and I saw that Bob Marley was coming. I leapt off the bus and bought a ticket with my dinner money – £2.50, if I remember right. Before going to the gig, I told my mum I was going to study with a friend.

The Rainbow was a beautiful venue: red padded seats and a great stage. I had never seen such a pall of smoke hanging in the air – it smelt different. I also seemed to be the only white person there. I was, as I later understood, a (White Man) in Hammersmith Palais. I then saw other white people – Johnny Rotten, Glen Matlock, Malcom McLaren and Joe Strummer. Punk and reggae had an alliance, it seemed.

An hour and a half late, the announcer boomed: “This I wanna tell you is a Trenchtown experience. All the way from Trenchtown, Jamaica – Bob Marley and the Wailers!” There was a surge towards the stage and an enormous cloud of smoke went up from the audience. It was a moment of rapture, of release, and when Marley sang: “This morning I woke up in a curfew. Oh Jah I was a prisoner too”, it just reminded me of being at school. I’d never heard bass and drums like this. No Woman, No Cry filled the hall, and we all sang along. I was all alone, but I felt One Love. It was an experience I will never forget. It felt very important, but I couldn’t say why.

When I got home at midnight, my mum was still up. She asked where I’d been. I said I went to see Bob Marley. She stared at the kitchen table in despair. My mum could see that ‘rebel music’ had captured my soul.

Julia Lopez
Conservative MP for Hornchurch and Upminster

My first concert memory was from Michael Jackson’s 1996 HIStory tour. I was 12 and my older sister had arranged a minibus to take a bunch of us down to Wembley. I’d never been to a gig before, and I started with a massive one. I was only tiny but from the vantage point I had, so was Michael Jackson! All I can remember is him popping out of a rocket – he was at that stage in his career where his showmanship was being lost to his messiah complex. We waited what seemed like hours and I had to sit on the floor in case I passed out. A kind stranger threw me on their shoulders so I could see the stage.

I much prefer an intimate gig indoors than a massive stadium show. Music can bring me to tears, like listening to The Temptations sing Just My Imagination at the Hammersmith Apollo – utterly blissful.

One of the most meaningful nights for me was seeing Art Garfunkel in Oxford with my mum, dad and husband. We’d planned a surprise weekend away to celebrate Dad’s 70th. Over lunch, we shared the news that I was pregnant with our daughter. The final surprise was tickets to the gig that night. It was especially poignant as Dad had given Mum the Bridge Over Troubled Water LP for her 19th birthday, so Simon and Garfunkel had always been part of the soundtrack to my childhood.

Until the general election, I had the immense privilege of serving as minister for the music industry. It was an honour to support a sector that has given me – and so many others – such incredible, life-affirming memories.

Sarah Champion
Labour MP for Rotherham

My first ever gig was the Boomtown Rats in a tent in Peterborough in the mid-80s. It was pouring with rain, the Rats were drowning, and the crowd was trying to discreetly leave. I, of course, thought it was the most amazing experience and stayed to the bitter end.

Baroness Coffey
Conservative peer

Friday 25 August 2017 is a date forever etched in my mind: it was the night I saw Muse at Leeds Festival.

My friend Louise Mensch – who I had known from university before we both became MPs – was married to the manager of Muse. One day in Parliament, Louise asked me if I was interested in helping show around someone she knew. That person turned out to be Matt Bellamy. We gave him the tour, arranged for him to be in a special box in the Chamber and had an impromptu lunch on the Terrace.

In my then-constituency of Suffolk Coastal, I had been invited early on to Latitude Festival, put together by the amazing Melvin Benn. Melvin, who also organises Reading and Leeds festivals, is a brilliant businessman and a genuinely good soul. While our politics are far apart, we respected each other and were united in our love of music.

Fast-forward to 2017: a difficult general election result for us. While Louise had long left Parliament, I was still in touch with her and Peter, Muse’s manager. Peter offered me a ticket for the night Muse was playing at the festival. My good friend Nigel Adams and his wife were regulars at Leeds Festival, so I accepted.

The stars started aligning when we arrived. I happened to see Melvin, and saw the band backstage. I had expected to join the throng at some point to dance along to the wide range of hits (Plug In Baby is my favourite). However, thanks to Melvin, we saw the concert from the side of the stage. Being that close to the band was so exciting. Dancing away, we were told that ‘access all areas’ really did mean that – so we went into the special access area right in front of the stage. Wow. We danced and sang and had the night of our lives. Exhilarated if not exhausted, it was a magical, unforgettable musical moment.

Baroness Bonham-Carter
Liberal Democrat peer

My first job was working in New York for Lorne Michaels, creator of Saturday Night Live. (Soon, I am excited to say, there is to be a British version, thanks to Sky.)

My favourite gig memory is going to the Blues Brothers’ bar in downtown Manhattan, owned by John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd. It was very small – literally a bar – but they were performers, and oh, did they perform. The songs but also the moves – I can’t remember if they did the ‘Twist’, the ‘Swim’, or the ‘Mashed Potato’ – probably all of them. And yes, Dan played the harmonica.

It was a big experience that I don’t think I fully appreciated at the time. The one I did appreciate at the time, however, was David Bowie’s last appearance as Ziggy at the Hammersmith Odeon – much less intimate but equally memorable.

Paul Kohler
Liberal Democrat MP for Wimbledon

Gotham City Swing Band, Middlesbrough Rock Garden, October 1978.

After his acrimonious split from the Sex Pistols in the January, rumours quickly mounted through ‘78 as to what Johnny Rotten would do next. By October, when the music press was at fever pitch, the rock critic at the Middlesbrough Evening Gazette (admittedly not an organ known for its new wave credentials or exclusives) announced to his loyal readership of northern punks that the Gotham City Swing Band was so outlandish a name, it could only be Johnny playing an undercover gig in his new persona of John Lydon.

The Rock Garden sold more tickets that night than they had ever done – enough to pay for a line of the hardest, meanest bouncers I’d ever seen guarding the entire front of the stage. Oh, how glad I was for that, as the punks of Middlesbrough feasted their eyes not on Mr Lydon, but Paul Kohler, in the guise of Paul Passion, lead singer of the Gotham City Swing Band.

All hell broke out, with bottles and cans raining down on us throughout a set that ended with an encore in which half the audience was still baying for our blood – a fitting rehearsal for the Chamber, methinks!

Patrick Hurley
Labour MP for Southport

Dodgy wiring. That’s the most memorable gig I’ve been to. No, that’s not the name of the local covers band I went to see; sadly, that’s been lost to history. It was the dodgy wiring of the keyboard set-up – that’s what sticks in the mind.

The first 10 seconds of The Final Countdown really need that keyboard riff. Y’know, the one you’ve got an earworm of right now. But the wiring’s dodgy, and the sound keeps cutting out, and the band aren’t confident enough to just plough on, so they keep repeating it, and repeating it, and repeating it, trying to get it right.

Their “stop, stop, stop, lads, we need to sort this” could barely be heard over the audible groans from the pub-goers, who by now were just wanting to down their Carlings and Strongbows in relative peace. “Just one more try, lads!” The drinkers upped and left, singing: “We’re leaving together, but still, it’s farewell.”

Diane Abbott
Labour MP for Hackney North and Stoke Newington

My favourite festival is Notting Hill Carnival. I attend most years. One I remember took place the summer I was first elected. I was marching to the wonderful steel band music, all dressed up in a Native American costume. Some people were totally shocked to see a British parliamentarian on the streets of Notting Hill. I do not wear costumes anymore, but I am still a regular at Carnival.

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