I really did. I almost died several times due to crushedness, mobbed by sweaty bodies punching one or both fists into the air in time with the pounding of the drums. The space of two bodies separated me from the metal barrier and the stern, bored security guards. Beer soaked bodies.

Green plastic bottles were thrown after every song out of sheer excitement. I gave up on keeping my hair perfectly so (as fly-away eighties as it did look, it was orchestrated laborously with the help of enough mousse and spray to make me flammable and a danger to others in the case of nearby cigarette-lighting). I gave up on my top, slipping from my shoulders. I gave up checking my phone. Grabbed onto my friends and jumped along, using my elbows to secure just about enough breathing space. Propped up the inebriated man in front of me from time to time, who swayed rapturously, a look of pleasurable delerium on his face, and made no effort of his own to stay on his feet.

They went off, after almost two hours. The crowd panicked. The band stayed off longer than normal, perhaps out of revenge for the beer some not very clever person sprayed over the electrical equipment. People stamped. Sang. Shuffled impatiently, flattening the plastic bottles under their feet with a terrible noise not unlike the dragging of nails down a blackboard. After what seemed like half an hour, they returned. Finished off with The Day They Caught The Train. I almost died of happiness, strobe lighting fragmenting faces and grins.

I have no voice left.