Youth And Old Manhood

As you will observe from the title of these articles, in September 2006 I turned thirty. This was, of course, a significant age to have reached, and one could argue that I have reached a level of maturity one would expect when you factor in my years of marriage, length of time as a homeowner and recent inauguration into the world of parenthood. I couldn't honestly say that I feel old, because - despite the jibes of my wife - I am not. True, there are a few lines around the eyes, and my red hair has a few strands of grey, but I think they make me look rather good. Plus, despite my expanding waistline, I'm still of a good weight for my height. So all told, I feel mature in myself, but definitely still youthful.

At least I did until this very evening. I began writing this at 7.30 from the tearoom of Stowe Landscape Gardens, which astute readers will know to be probably my most favourite place in the admittedly small part of the world that I've seen. My wife and I joined the National Trust, which owns Stowe Gardens, last year after a fateful visit to the gardens the September before. After our third visit we decided that this was going to be a place that we would likely be visiting time after time, especially after our daughter was born when family picnics begin to beckon. I have fallen for Stowe's intricate formalism and rich history in a major way.

But even if I am smitten with Stowe, why was I sat there two and a half hours after the park officially closed? And why is it that I am beginning to question whether I could class myself as still being considered youthful? Earlier today I finished reading the Spring edition of the National Trust magazine, which is sent to we members as part of our subscription. Now, I'll admit that I found it an interesting read and certainly enjoyed finding more about some of the properties that I may suggest we visit in the future. But I was rather taken aback at how obviously geared up to the over fifties the National Trust is from the adverts for senior pursuits and those coaching holidays around Europe.

Back to the tearoom. The reason I was there was to listen to a talk given by a gentleman called Arthur Davidson, who is a National Trust volunteer, guide, keen photographer. and evident Stowe enthusiast. I'm here to find out more about the Gardens and its rich history, the temples and the design. My wife, knowing how important Stowe has become to me, suggested I go along to the talk, even though my natural inclination would be not to bother. I questioned my youthful credentials because, with the exception of two young female volunteers, I was the youngest person in the tearooms by about thirty years. You know how old people get wary of groups of teenagers? Well, I felt like that at the talk, only it was me that felt disconnected and out of place. Furthermore, it made me think that I am getting too old for my age, that I shouldn't have been there, that I should be at home playing a mature console wartime shoot ‘em up, saying 'like' and 'innit' a lot, and generally doing something more befitting of a person of thirty.

But then, why the hell shouldn't I have been there? I'm interested in history, I paid my entry ticket the same as everyone else and surely they should think it's commendable that someone so comparatively young is taking an avid interest in history these days. Once I'd got over this feeling of being uncomfortably out of time and place, I had a great time, and I found myself soaking up facts and stories - from the figurative symbolism of the Elysian Fields, through the Palladian Bridge which was once screened off on one side so as to prevent nearby villagers from seeing the rich folk crossing in their carriages, on past temples and formally-structured views back to the starting point, the majestic Temple of Concorde and Victory, seven of whose columns were disgracefully removed by Stowe School for their chapel in the 1920s but which thankfully have been replaced - frantically trying to store them in my head so as not to forget them, before bombarding my wife with said facts when I walked through the door of our house an hour and a half after Arthur's talk started and pleasantly went on well past its supposed hour length.

Fast forward to the following evening, an evening of a very different nature and one perhaps more expected of someone of my age. My wife and I went to the Carling Academy in Birmingham to watch Kings Of Leon in concert, supported by an excellent band called The Stills.

A few years ago, you wouldn't have caught me at a rock concert. I fell in love with guitar-based music quite late, and even when I did it was of the often perceived inaccessible angle worked by bands like Sonic Youth or guitarists like Robert Fripp. Back in those very opinionated days, the idea of listening to straight-up rock would have been abhorrent to me, and if you'd have said that I'd have spent a sweaty evening enjoying the peculiar country rock hybrid that Kings Of Leon have made their own, I'd have scoffed. Back then, you'd have found me at the back of Colchester's Art Centre watching ‘arty’ bands like Labradford noodle around marvellously on stage whilst stroking my chin and nodding knowingly.

Kings Of Leon were as tight a band as they ever have been, delivering songs in a form identical to those on their three excellent albums. It was almost mechanistic or mechanical how precise and perfect they were. The last band I saw that were so honed was Wire back in 2000. The last gig we went to before last night was Dirty Pretty Things, Carl Barat's post-Libertines group (I exclude Razorlight at the NEC as this was a polished stadium concert, not a gig). They were exciting in a very different way - rough around the edges, Arcadian and loose.

Did I feel more suited to this environment? Less uncomfortable, certainly, more like I belonged there. But with my tidy haircut and Joy Division T-shirt, I actually felt a little too old, and certainly too sensible to be amongst teenagers getting drunk and dancing wildly to the assembled Followills up on stage. Despite this feeling once again of being out of time and place like the night before, seeing people older than me made me feel slightly better. They just happened to be there chaperoning their teenage children.

The Sunday after Thursday’s Kings Of Leon gig, and after some obligations to friends whereupon we reflected in a very middle class manner on our lot as parents, my wife and I found ourselves watching Dirty Pretty Things again at Shepherd’s Bush Empire. There was a palpable sense of expectation on media-courted junkie / Kate Moss beau / former Libertine Pete Doherty putting in an appearance after he and Carl were reunited on stage earlier in the week. They were all over the place and from my lofty perch at the back of the very top tier of seating it was thrilling but quite scary to see the pit of people in front of the stage expanding and contracting like some giant amorphous creature as people crushed their way to the front and back out again.

Did I feel any more comfortable here? Not exactly. At this gig I definitely felt too old. When The Libertines first hit the music scene rock music was fairly anathema to my wife and I, and consequently I've always considered them to be a part of a youth music movement which I am far too old for. And judging by the omnipresent teenagers hanging onto every word sung by Barat, my perception is not far wrong. It wasn’t that I found myself not enjoying the music – far from it – but I just didn’t understand the idolatry of the fans and I craved the steadfast commitment to structure that Kings Of Leon showed earlier in the week. Also, sitting in the top tier meant that we felt like we were somehow disconnected from the concert taking place way below us, as if this is where slightly older fans were to be seated to be away from the kids on the floor. Certainly throughout the often painful duration of the support slot from Hot Club de Paris, I found myself ruminating on the actual building in which we were seated, with its early twentieth century gilded balconies and statues, more interested in the story of this building rather than the joyful noise both bands were dispensing within it.

Which brings us neatly back to history again.

One shouldn't feel age-restricted in taking an interest in history, and if that's true then it's truer still when it comes to music and art in general. These things should be regarded as accessible to absolutely everyone, and society shouldn't make us feel that one is accessible only to more mature individuals and the other only to younger people. However, while I think everyone should take an interest in both history and music or whatever it is that fires your imagination, there is simply no excuse for bad taste, which I specifically direct at the women joining the train home at Birmingham International from that Thursday's Davids Essex and Cassidy extravaganza at the NEC. You should be ashamed.