Grace Hussey reflects on what the Arctic Monkeys gig meant to her after years of lockdown.

The first band I saw live after the pandemic was Arctic Monkeys, held in Bellahouston Park on a rainy day in June 2023. I was anxious of the crowds as I showed up, conditioned by year’s worth of social distancing, now suddenly pressed up against a group of rowdy lads from Newcastle. Standing hand in hand with my two friends fresh off the train from Edinburgh, sweat slowly trickled down my temple. But anxieties were soon alleviated as The Mysterines opened the show. Fore-fronted by Lia Metcalfe, an absolute powerhouse of female rage, The Mysterines pumped energy into the overheating, anticipating crowd. Despite not previously being a listener, this Liverpool rock band successfully converted me.

Next up, The Hive, a Swedish rock band, famous for their sheer onstage presence. Seasoned to the music industry, forming in 1993, The Hive’s volume and intensity grabbed the crowds by the throat. I quickly forgot about how anxious I was to be standing in the centre of a crowd 35,000 strong. Foreman, Howlin' Pelle Almqvist, walked along the front of the masses, arms reaching out to his audience as he sang. Standing up on the edge of the barrier, he raised his arms, encouraging the cheers, egging on the audience to interact. Almqvist seemed unperturbed by the tens of photographers circling him as he walked, completely engrossed in the audience he was singing to. Feeding off the energy produced by these openers, a sense of camaraderie began growing in the crowd. Cups of water were carefully passed back from person to person and fainters were gently caught by people they had never met, proving that community could be regained after the pandemic: it just took the power of good live music.

As the sun began to set, Alex Turner finally walked on stage, flanked by the rest of the band. I felt surreal in that moment; a tiny Spotify icon had suddenly jumped out of my phone and straight onto the stage in front of me. The songs I listened to through old, wired earphones through cold months, through exam seasons, through walks in my hometown, were about to be played on the guitar right in front of me. Haloed by a sunset light on stage, the band lit up as they played. A decades long relationship with each fan as he played favourites from AM. The stage had become a beacon of light in the darkening evening, the mirror ball throwing light across our faces. It felt personal, as Alex Turner looked into the crowd, projected onto the screens either side of him.

As I sang along, I felt a collective understanding from the people standing around me; we all wanted to be understood, isn’t that the point of music? We had spent years listening to these lyrics, relating, only to now share that with tens of thousands of strangers. Next time Arctic Monkeys come to Scotland, I’ll be front and centre.

Published 24 November 2024