‘Social distancing in a mosh pit? Not going to happen.’

The main set has finished and we’re all bellowing for an encore when I notice the ecstatic, sweaty Moob Monster bearing down on me. He’s a large, shirtless gentleman of the Welsh persuasion. Clearly, he fucking loves Motörhead.

“I fucking love Motörhead!” he confirms as he flings his arms around me. It’s like being engulfed in a giant marshmallow as every drop of sweat from his ample, glistening torso is transferred to my T-shirt. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my chum Ian sniggering to himself, little anticipating that he will be next to receive our new best mate’s exuberant affections.

Scenes we won’t be seeing again in a hurry 1: Exodus, O2 Academy, March 2020, days before the lockdown. Pic: Mike Evans

It’s sometime in the early noughties and we are, as you’ve probably guessed by now, at a Motörhead show at the Colston Hall. We’ve managed to secure a position in that valuable strip of real estate in front of the stage where a small proportion of lucky audience members are permitted to, you know, rock.

Scenes we won’t be seeing again in a hurry 2: Wayward Sons at the Louisiana, July 2017. Pic: Shona Cutt

Sadly, Motörhead are no longer with us. And it looks like being rather a long time before we’re permitted to, you know, rock again. The communal experience is central to the performing arts, but it’s this very attraction that places us at the back of the queue, behind the pubs and restaurants, when it comes to easing those covid-19 restrictions. And it seems reasonable, if depressing, to suppose that live music in packed local venues will be bringing up the rear long after the theatres and cinemas are re-opened, especially as it’s now government policy to view our fellow citizens as potential disease vectors rather than, say, comrades in rock. Social distancing in a mosh pit? Not going to happen.

Scenes we won’t be seeing again in a hurry 3: Anneke Van Giersbergen, The Exchange, April 2016. Pic: Mike Evans

One of my earliest gig-going memories is of attending one of those huge outdoor rock festivals at a time when you were still allowed to bring your own booze. As sundown boredom set in while we awaited the headliner, the inevitable torrent of bottles and cans started to rain down, making me feel like a hapless wuxia battlefield extra facing a legion of archers. A cocky bloke in front of me was leaping up to catch the missiles. Alas, one of these was a large, suspicious-looking plastic bag which exploded between his hands, showering him with its bountiful payload of fresh vomit. At that precise moment, the lights went down and the band came on.

Scenes we won’t be seeing again in a hurry 4: Jason Aalon Butler of Fever 333, SWX, November 2019. Pic: Phil Watson

Since then, I’ve been drenched in fluids, non-bodily and otherwise (not that one, and possibly not the other one too – though I can’t be certain), nearly knocked unconscious by a sneaky crowd surfer who doubled-back and caught me from behind, sent flying in a circle pit on multiple occasions, been on the receiving end of the pointy shoes worn by a lady stage diver, received a face full of  ‘jizz’ from Gwar (don’t ask) and bade abrupt farewell to countless pints of cider thanks to the sheer kinetic energy of mass frenzied headbanging.

Scenes we won’t be seeing again in a hurry 5: Twin Temple, The Thekla, January 2020. Pic: Phil Watson

And you know what? I’m really missing it. Not just the physical injuries and incipient deafness, but the camaraderie of being part of my tribe and the idiosyncrasies of Bristol’s diverse music venues. My taste is for metal and more metal, which means my experiences are a little more extreme than most, but even those whose preference is for the more sedate and musically correct will recognise the following: finding yourself literally stuck to the flagstone floor of the Fleece; the Thekla’s balcony that takes you closer to the stage than at any other venue with such a feature; those nights at the Louisiana when the sweat literally drips off the low ceiling; struggling to find a vantage point at the Academy when it’s sold out; fighting your way past out-of-towners who don’t realise that the Exchange is an inverted L-shaped venue; and watching well-nourished chaps struggling to navigate that narrow corridor leading to the gents at SWX.

Scenes we won’t be seeing again in a hurry 6: Skunk Anansie’s Skin gets up close and personal, O2 Academy, August 2019. Pic: Shona Cutt

We’re all being encouraged to think touchy-feely positive thoughts during lockdown for the sake of our mental ‘elf. And there are indeed plenty of upsides. It’s a joy, for example, to be woken by real birdsong rather than that traditional Bristol dawn chorus: the vomiting of the drunk, the shrieking of the fishwife, the monotonous muffled thunk-thunk-thunk of shit dance music and the roar of boy racers as they charge through 20 mph zones. And on the distant horizon? I’d be prepared to bet that when lockdown is finally lifted there’ll be a renewed appetite for loud, cathartic music and a reduced one for whiny bitch singer-songwritery types maundering about their imagined problems and ishoos. It’s even possible that we could emerge blinking into a post-woke world with a new perspective about shit that really matters (climate change) as opposed to self-indulgent bollocks that’s of no consequence (insert your own pet peeve here). But, hey, that’s a different column for another time.

Scenes we won’t be seeing again in a hurry 7: Behemoth at Motion, February 2019. Pic: Mike Evans

So what’s to be done? As a fully paid-up cynic, I’m no fan of Warm Fuzzy Feelgood Gestures as a Substitute for Meaningful Action. This isn’t a prescription, even though these things have a habit of becoming creepily coercive. If you want to give carers the clap each Thursday evening, stick a rainbow in your window and enjoy a virtual group hug during your Zoom cocktail party, knock yourself out. It’s just not for me. I’d prefer to think ahead to the (potentially) sunny uplands of the eventual post-lockdown world and explore the most effective route for getting there.

Scenes we won’t be seeing again in a hurry 7: Lazuli at the Fleece, November 2016, Pic: Mike Evans

Our favourite music venues and bands were already having a tough time before the virus struck. The former have long been suffering from the double whammy of rocketing rents and that great Bristol disease of creeping gentrification. The latter weathered those lauded, buccaneering, tech billionaire-enriching ‘disrupters’, who persuaded a generation that music is intrinsically valueless, by reversing the traditional business model to concentrate on live performance as a means of earning a crust. Now that rug has been pulled from underneath them.

Scenes we won’t be seeing again in a hurry 8: Lordi at the late lamented Bierkeller, November 2016. Pic: Mike Evans

The survivors are going to need our help. It’s payback time for all the pleasure they’ve given us over the years. Here’s my proposal. I don’t pretend that it will solve the problem, but it’ll be a start as well as a practical expression of solidarity.

Scenes we won’t be seeing again in a hurry 9: Halestorm, O2 Academy, September 2018. Pic: Mike Evans

If you’ve still got a job or are in receipt of furlough swag, grab yourself a big jam jar and put aside that cash you would otherwise be spending on live music right now. If and when your favourite band returns to town, buy a ticket. Get all your mates to buy tickets too. At the show, raid the merch stand and grab the latest CD, the back catalogue (on vinyl too, if available), and a T-shirt. Hell, buy a fucking hoodie if you really must.

Scenes we won’t be seeing again in a hurry 10: Marillion at the Colston Hall, April 2018. Pic: Mike Evans

Much of this cash will go straight back to keeping these acts on the road, though the venues generally take a cut too. And they need our support as well. If they serve drinkable beverages on tap (you know the venues I mean), buy an extra round or two. Consider this your civic duty.

Above all, hold your head high and declaim: “I came through it. I survived. And I’m ready to rock!”

Main pic of Ivar Nikolaisen of Kvelertak at the O2 Academy, January 2019, by Mike Evans.