Excerpt from ‘Death is the Ultimate Orgasm’ by
Robin Wheeler, released worldwide on 31 October 2018:
In early
2006, the first band I was in fell apart. Not long after the last straw fell to
the studio floor, one of the singer’s friends, whom I had met on the live music
circuit, a guitarist, invited me to casually “jam with a few people” one Saturday
afternoon. I didn’t have my own drums yet, but there was a kit in the practice
room, and so I arrived on the day open and mildly enthused, if a little
cautious and jaded.
The new
singer turned out to be a fine songwriter with a handful or two of roughly
formed compositions to try out. The bass player, a woman ten years younger than
me, had a striking backing voice and a talent for song writing too. Unexpectedly,
I was part of a strong mix. Settled behind our instruments, we listened to one
piece on vocal and guitar and began to pick up our respective parts. Two or
three runs-through and we were already sounding like something, something
notable and exciting.
By the end of
the day, I knew that magic had happened in that room and that I was into a new
surge of creative and productive energy with a talented and committed bunch of
collaborators. The bass player had to have her scheduled wedding and go on
honeymoon, but she would be back, and so the other three of us played with two
sit-in musicians for a couple of months fleshing out the songs and developing
the sound. When our fourth element returned, she slotted straight in and we
took right off, playing our first show in the middle of that year and getting
signed after our third gig just two months later.
Immediately
we were opening for some of the country’s biggest bands, doing short and
thrilling sets in front of significant crowds and working hard behind the
scenes to be our best. My drumming leapt forward with my application of self to
the challenging opportunity and fuelled by my love of the music and the thrill
of a dream coming true. I was thirty eight years old going on nineteen, a grown
up entrepreneur of ten years, an author for six of those, and a kid all over
again. Being myself for a living had a new lease of life. Being in a band took
me to the next level, and manifestation had me in its rhythmic grip.
The rise of
our yet-to-be-named four-piece phenomenon happened heartily from a strong
communal base of friends loving the music and supporting the shows, and it
quickly reached the broader public too. The end of the year rushed up in a
heady haze of late nights in a range of venues across town and a soaring, melodic
indie-rock sound, festive in its sincerity and rapturous reception. Along for
the ride but taking a bit of a back seat was my writing, plus my corporate speaking and training, which had more
of a rock ‘n’ roll feel to them than ever.
Outside of
these activities was my personal enjoyment of music, wall-to-wall in the
unfolding of my ideal life. Woven into that, with the twenty fifth anniversary
of the release of Wham!’s first single, George Michael had surprised the world
with the announcement of a tour starting in Spain in September, covering Europe
for three months, and climaxing with four closing shows at Wembley Arena in
London the week before Christmas.
He had not
toured for eighteen years amidst alternating doubt and confidence about his
future typified by outspoken withdrawal from the industry and then comebacks
that surpassed his previous peaks. Here he was, playing live again, like never
before. I simply had to see him despite my frustrating isolation on the southern
tip of Africa.
My sister,
Heather, and her family were living in London, and so I looked into visiting
them while I attempted to buy tickets online for at least one of the special
shows. That pursuit proved seemingly futile as prized positions in the venue
were snapped up in no time while flights in peak season were prohibitively
expensive, plus my brother-in-law’s parents were scheduled to stay in the guest
bedroom for the holiday season.
I had been to
see Bruce Springsteen four years before, flying to London without a concert
ticket, haggling at the door on the night to buy one from a tout, ultimately
getting in to the show, and writing my book Hunting
Power (2003) about the life-affirming jaunt. And so, doing something
similar for George Michael did occur to me, but I was so absorbed in making
music of my own that the longing hovered on the outskirts of my rich
consciousness that was welling from within.
I did track
the tour dates, though, watching the set lists as they arose, but only from the
distance of resignation to my mixed fortunes. It seemed that the price to pay for
my fulfilment behind the drum kit was to sit out the George Michael experience,
for the time being anyway. Maybe he would tour again.
My dear
friend and musical brother, Paul, also living in London, had secured tickets
for the first of the four nights at Wembley, on the day that they went on sale,
much to my envy, but this too had faded in my mind as the summer months down
south wore on and the band and I beat our way around our gold mining metropolis
at breakneck speed.
On the Monday night of 11 December, though, I was sitting
quietly at home in my apartment, a long way away in thought from Wembley Arena,
when a text-message ping on my phone raised no suspicion at first but tugged at
my intuition as I made my way across the room to read it. It was from London
and, in Paul’s customary style, had a huge impact through minimal wording.
‘Here we go…’ it simply said.
In that
instant I was electrified into full engagement. My spirit was suddenly in the
cavernous room as the lights went down and the legend took the stage in the
city where both he and I were born. The possibility of my body being there too
burst out of the deep blue into my remote location, and I scrambled to see what
was happening online.
Unbelievably,
tickets had become available for the following night’s show, seemingly held
back and then released for sale at the last minute. And they were at the
original price! Luckily I hadn’t paid three times that on unofficial sites
during my investigation phase months before. Flights were also suddenly available,
those too at bottom-of-the-range fares. This was incredible. A gap was opening
up in the week of the events…
I spoke to Heather,
who said that her au pair was scheduled to go home to Poland for Christmas,
which freed up a room in the house form me. “Come!” she said in excitement.
“We’ll make it work.”
I slotted
straight into gear.
Concert tickets were not on sale for the later shows in the
week but I figured that they might be made available closer to the time. I was
right. As the days passed, they came up. Also, an extra date had been added on
the Sunday night, which was feasible for me since my final commitment for the
year with the band was on the Friday. I could fly on Saturday and land just in
time to make it. It was tight but attainable.
With George’s
recent album Patience playing on
repeat and the framed poster of the cover watching me from my wall, I monitored
the online sales and tried repeatedly to buy three tickets as soon as they went
up, with no luck. In the song “Flawless”, he kept singing that maybe he would
see me that night, repeating that it I had to go to the city. Maybe? Hopefully!
There was no point waiting and I was working on it.
I dropped my
online application to a single seat on the Sunday and one became available. I
made my move and secured it. I was in! Ten minutes later I slotted a second for
Heather, a couple of rows back, and twenty minutes after that I wrapped up a
third for her husband, Jason. We were
in. Next was my flight, which, without issue, joined the list of confirmation
emails. With that, my wind-down week took off in the most thrilling direction.
Adrenaline
and sleep deprivation had me on a high, enhanced by a year-end show that blew
the roof off the local venue where we had played our first gig six months
before. The next day I packed my winter clothes for a month away, locked my
apartment, tied up a phenomenal year with the tail of a comet, and was taken to
the airport by my loving and patient father (for whom, it would turn out, it
was the second last festive season on earth).
As I checked
in with him by my side, I noticed that the departure time was three hours later
than scheduled. Once I was through customs, I established that both the flights
on my airline that night were delayed, which meant a stretching of my
anticipation before getting off the ground and on my way.
While I
waited, the delay was extended and the later flight even cancelled. If I had
been on that one, I would have been shunted to the next night and not have made
it to London for the concert. This was turning out to be most intense.
Tired
beyond belief, I eventually boarded the plane in the early hours of the morning
and sat upright for half a day until we landed at lunchtime instead of before
breakfast. I took the tube from Heathrow to Wimbledon, met Heather at the
station, saw the kids quickly, put my bags in my new room, showered and
dressed, and set out for the show.
We drove
through the city streets, found parking at the venue, and queued to convert the
email print-outs of tickets to the real thing. As we received those, I looked
at the seating plan, which suggested that they were some of the finest in the
house. Could they actually be that good? I didn’t give it much thought but we
would soon see. The three of us made our way up the stairs and into the buzzing
arena, finding our respective spots not next to each other but close enough to
communicate.
I was right on
the railing of the first tier straight up from the phenomenal and by now famous
stage, with Heather beaming behind me and Jason smiling a few rows back. And,
yes, the seats were in prime position, clearly kept for VIPs and released at
the last minute. What a place to find myself. What a moment to be in. What a
culmination of effort, opportunity and seized good fortune. What a
manifestation.
I had been a
fan of George Michael since I was thirteen, if not of all the music then
certainly of his genius and career. I had travelled all the way through it with
him from the first song to the quarter century celebration. I had seen and
shared the ups and downs, been inspired and mentored, and felt concerned and
supportive through the twists and turns, as had millions around the world and
thousands in the room that night.
I had made it all the way from my bedroom in
early high school through my climactic week with the band to the city of my
birth, and there I was looking at the big black cloth draped like a velvet void
in the sizzling crowd over the soon-to-be well-lit centre spot. I was encrusted
by exhaustion, cresting on cumulative experience, and liberated by pure
presence. It was tough to tell pleasure from pain.
Immune to my
state but speaking straight to it, the lights went down and the stage lit up.
The people went crazy, my heart pounded, and the show began with an acoustic
song from George’s second solo record, Listen
Without Prejudice Vol 1, from 1990. It was the album’s closer, now opening
the historic evening, “Waiting (Reprise)”, sung from backstage.
There was still
no sign of the star but as the song ended the door in the middle of the
stunning stage opened and George Michael walked out into the frenzy of love.
“Good evening, London!” a most familiar voice said to us all as the next song
started, the one I had heard on repeat in my lounge only days before telling me
to go to the city. This time I was there, in the room, not maybe tonight, but
definitely, and about to hit an all-time high.
Song by magical
song I disappeared into that mystical night. My tensions fell off me like dry
mud, helped along by plastic cups of strong beer and increasingly uninhibited
and ecstatic dancing until I was clapping like carefree toddler under a
Christmas tree. Poignant moments punctuated the timeless proceedings leading
into colourful flares of escalating festivity with out-of-this-world visuals
and sublime sound increasing in volume and vitality until there was nothing
left but the totality of the occasion.
One of the
musical highlights ever for me, the break into the last verse of “Fastlove”,
came to pass and took me over the top. Two hours and a lifetime of music later,
just before the end of the show, George apologised self-deprecatingly for
playing it, adding that he simply had to, and then launched into the only
performance on the tour of “Last Christmas”, with snowy scenes on stage one week
ahead of that particular Christmas in the singular city.
By then I was
a bundle of bliss. I had never known such joy, love and communion. My whole
life had led me to transcendence.
Manifestations
exceed all expectations.
'Death is the Ultimate Orgasm' by Robin Wheeler out on 31 October 2018
I am feeling the lift that comes from an uplifting environment. It
reminds me of Thailand. That's why we go there, and why I come here on a
Thursday afternoon. Gentle buoyancy. Quiet happy hour, sweet scents from
hookahs, and well-chosen classic rock music. Cold beer, flashing car windows in
the setting sun, raucous bikes, and show-off modified cars roaring past more
than occasionally. 
