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That’s Jackson’s water. OMFG. His lips are going to be on one of those bottles any second now.
    My chest is thundering. Behind the drum platform, another curtain pulls back to reveal a high staircase which leads right up to a higher platform running all along the top. I’m guessing this is where Jackson makes his entrance: I read in a
Lungs
magazine review of the Prague gig that he came down some steps at the start. I don’t think I’m ready for this. I don’t think I’m ready for what is about to happen.
    More waiting. I feel the mass around me expand a little every so often, so I have managed to wriggle my arms out of my fleece and it is now down as far as my waist. I’m apologizing all the time to the bodies next to me for touching them as I try to knot it around myself. I finally do it. I’m soaked through but at least I might now begin to cool down.
    As I finish tying the sleeves, the buzz around me grows louder. A roar comes up over us like a wave, and I start screaming, too, though I don’t know why. It just takes me over. Something’s happening but I’ve no idea what it is. I’m up on tiptoes, looking frantically around the stage for signs of something other than black curtains and mic stands and amps. And eventually I see a figure in the wings with a guitar.
    It’s Lenny Mortiro. Lead guitarist. He is the first on. The screams grow louder, like a million tiny bells, and the swelling mass tightens around me like a blood-pressure band. Lenny salutes us and strides over to his mic stand on the left-hand side. He’s wearing the trademark kilt and white shirt with the sleeves torn off to reveal arms full of tattoos. He has a pink Mohawk. In Berlin it was green — I saw it on YouTube. A spotlight beams down as he sips some water, fiddles with an amp, and starts cranking up a guitar riff so clean and perfect you could scratch your back with it.
    He is the Punk.
    At that moment, there’s another roar. I’m on tiptoes again, I can’t see anything. Then Pash Fredericks appears in a long black vicar dress with a white collar thing and grabs his bass guitar from the same side of the stage, raises a hand to us, and struts across to his microphone. He’s so tall, just as tall as I imagined. His hair is flattened and shiny and there’s a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He goes to the drum kit to snap the ring off a can of lager. He swigs it, flicks the ring pull toward us, then goes to his spotlit mic and starts plucking his strings.
    He is the Priest.
    The crowd roar covers me like a boiling hot blanket. I’ve never heard anything so loud. But when Pash’s guitar joins in with Lenny’s, they take it up a couple more levels. Lenny’s wheedling away on one side and Pash is plucking for all he’s worth. They’re plucking on guitar strings, but those guitar strings could be running through the center of my body. I can feel each one, feel the vibrations inside me. I can feel it all! A steady surge forward of the crammed-in mass takes me out of my heaven and it’s suddenly harder to breathe. I’m sweating buckets and I can feel beads of perspiration popping up all over my face. I raise a hand up to wipe my forehead and it gets pinned where it is. I can’t get it down at all. I look like I’m answering a question.
    Another roar from somewhere. Another figure appears, this time from the back of the stage. Where? Who? What?! It’s Jael Dennehy. Oh my sweet Lord Cobain on High, it’s Jael Dennehy and not only is he here, he is not wearing a shirt. He’s just as V-shaped and tanned as he is in all my pictures but just as shy as he seems in interviews. His upper body ripples and bumps in all the right places but his head is dipped and covered with a straggly mass of hair. The screams around me are unspeakable. He has white board shorts on, high-top Nikes, and a mask on the top of his head. He lifts up one extremely toned arm to acknowledge us, gets himself comfortable on his stool, and pulls his mask down