I didn’t think about the Bataclan until I got home tonight. We were at a gig at the Fleece in Bristol, perhaps 400/500 people in attendance, and all I thought was how bloody good the music was. Albert Hammond Jr, Stroke and son of the man who told us it never rained in southern California, and his fabulous band, played some of the best rock music currently available in this island. But what happened little more than a week ago; well, it could have been me.
In the eyes of islamic fascism, I was probably the biggest sinner on the planet tonight. Listening to music, drinking beer, with a woman who, strangely enough, wasn’t wearing a burqa to hide the fact that she was, perish the thought, a woman. But Albert Hammond Jr, peace be upon him, played a wonderful set.
We were no different from the innocents who gathered in Paris to see the Eagles of Death Metal. They went to be entertained by one of the better bands on the planet, so did we. No agenda beyond having a good time, hearing some of my favourite music. I love Albert Jr’s music as much as I love his dad’s music. I honestly can’t see anything sinful about music, but then I have a slightly different view of what sin actually is. I don’t see music as a sin, but – and call me old fashioned – I do regard beheadings as more than slightly offensive, far more offensive than, say, Born Slippy (no, not that one) from Albert’s new album. In fact, Born Slippy is a song of sheer beauty. The song of the year.
I was not looking around to see who was there tonight, wondering if anyone was wearing a suicide vest. It was not a conscious decision to not think about it; I just didn’t. The psychopathic murderers would have hated that. They want us to cower, to think about nothing else. They want us to think that Bataclan could happen anywhere, which it could, but music, oh sweet music, won the day tonight.
Thinking the worst, we would have been utterly helpless if a group of terrorists had run amok. We were not brave people; I’m certainly no more brave than anyone else, probably far less brave.
Perhaps it’s because I am older than I was. I’ve had a decent life to date and some of the things that used to faze me no longer do. I used to have a fear of flying. The older I got the less I care. And I feel the same about just about every other aspect of life.
The islamic fascists may defeat some of us because they can surprise and kill us. They can scare us too, but it won’t be enough. Anyway, their tiny victories of death and despair are not victories at all. They cannot cheer on the streets without us finding out who they are. But I can state publicly just how good Albert Hammond Jr was. That’s the real joy, that’s our victory, that’s our truth.
They can run, but they can’t hide. Not forever, they can’t. They’ll get some of us, but not all of us. But fuck it: I’m not giving up just for those bastards. I love real life too much to do that.
