I’ve just come to realize that what I thought was my first time was – in fact – not my first time. I thought I knew the date and location and details of the event in question: how it got going, the ups and the downs, and the full sequence of each moment. But I was wrong! What I thought was my first gig was – in fact – not my first gig. Did you think I meant something else?
Please let me explain. For most of my adult life, whenever I was asked about my first gig, I would answer The Cranberries in New Jersey in 1995 on their No Need to Argue world tour. It made for a decent anecdote – often leading to conversations about 90s rock and about travel and how I was lucky enough to spend a few long summers staying with my sister in the US in the 90s. Additionally, The Cranberries were well known and were sufficiently cool to have been a good first band to see live. I mean, not Nirvana, but certainly not Cliff Richard, either.
Good anecdotes are important. After taking my daughter to watch the Village People (or at least the remaining member) when they played before the rugby 7s final in Singapore in 2018, I stressed to her the importance of remembering this was her first gig. If she forgets, I will remind her. Probably at her wedding, during my speech. The thinking is that as an anecdote, it’ll mean a good story and will lead to discussions about her life as a child in Asia and the fact that her first gig was the bloody Village People, which she was taken to by her stupid Dad. Great anecdote potential. You’re welcome, my child.
Anyway, back to my story. So, all throughout my adult life, whenever the topic of first concerts came up, I would regale those asking with my story of seeing The Cranberries in the US in 1995. As I moved around the world, the anecdote went with me; it was a tale I could recite instinctively without much thought.
However, that changed when I returned to live in Wales last year, and I realized my anecdote was incorrect. Not that I hadn’t seen The Cranberries in 1995, but that another gig had come before. I had been doing myself a huge disservice by forgetting about the real first gig and missing out on an even more comical and entertaining story.
While discussing old Welsh records with some school friends, one of them brought up Hogia Llandegai (The Boys from Llandegai) – a cult country/folk band well-known throughout the whole of Wales between the 60s and the 90s. Their stage show was a jovial mixture of slapstick sketches and sing-along numbers, interspersed by the occasional ballad. They had one song called Defaid William Morgan (William Morgan’s sheep) – about a flock of sheep that wandered the locale eating people’s produce and generally causing bother. A member of the band would dress up as a shepherd and make whistling noises as he pretended to chase down the sheep with his sheepdog.
Talking about this band took me back to the community hall of a local village in the mid-80s, where I remember watching them with my parents. Defaid William Morgan – I remember clearly – bringing me to tears of laughter.
One of my friends said, “First gig, eh?” and the penny dropped. I’d been living a lie for thirty-five years. My first concert wasn’t The Cranberries in the US in 1995, it was Hogia Llandegai at the Community Centre in Llannerch-y-medd in 1985. My mind was blown.
What was curious was that remembering this left me feeling disappointed. My original story was good, but seeing a comical cult Welsh folk band in Wales in the 80s would have made for a great anecdote. When sharing moments with folk from around the world over the years, it would have made for an interesting and engaging story. But here I was, having moved back to Wales and now living a few miles from Llannerch-y-medd and the anecdote really wouldn’t be impressing anyone. I squandered it without realization. So, do I remember my first time? I do, but I wish I could have remembered it sooner.
