Grøn Koncert


Jette has somehow persuaded me to go to my first live ‘pop’ music concert in fourteen years! Normally I approach large crowds with a sense of impending doom. Surprisingly I am looking forward to this concert after Jette painted for me a picture of lounging on rugs in the sun, drinking beer and watching Danish bands, she assures me that Danish crowds normally act relatively civilised.

On Friday night Peter and Lotte arrive, dump their gear and leave Jette and I to our bolognese and wine (they went to explore Aarhus and Peter returned with arms full of Wolfmother merchandise after I introduced him to this band).

Saturday morning we enjoy the first break in the rain for seven days. It comes out clear and hot. We lounge on the balcony, listen to music and swill a few lazy beers (the first opened at 11:30am) before walking to the bus. The local bus company has rostered busses to leave every five minutes for the concert venue, which is about twenty minutes away from the town centre.

The foot traffic increases as we near the people filled paddock, the first thing I see is a large crane ceaselessly raising and lowering a small ledge for bungy jumping over the concert. I jump up and down like a kid in a lolly shop but, despite my constant almost whiney asking, Jette refuses to entertain the idea of joining me. She wants to do the skydiving thing first. The Asian ‘can woman’ who wanders town gathering recyclable rubbish is enjoying an early Christmas behind the entrance queue, almost everyone has jettisoned a can or two before entering the holding pen. In the holding pen a man pats me down and checks my bags before trading my ticket for a green (drinking) wrist band and waving me through. The crowd is oppressive. Young kids, grey haired seniors and young things showing off their flesh all compete for a good viewing post. Lotte, Jette, Peter and I find a great spot halfway between the beer stall and the toilets, set out our rugs and soak up sun and beer.

The people watching is first class. Grøn Koncert is a charity event, all proceeds go to Cerebral Palsy. Nearby a circle of dirt smeared electric wheelchairs contain Cerebral Palsy sufferers. They are sitting in the sun and thoroughly enjoying the attention, music and bustle around them. Every now and then the master of ceremonies will call a name, prompting a wheelchair to buzz onto stage as the man continues saying something in rapid Danish, maybe a sufferer has a birthday or maybe he’s just introducing the people this show benefits. I watch as a wheelchair breaks free of the nearby circle and bounces off over the grass, destination unknown, wheels clawing for grip through muddier sections. A helper is clearing a path for him through prostrate concert goers, the silhouetted figure of the wheelchair makes me think of a Darlek from Dr Who navigating dead bodies in a war zone

Bands play all afternoon as the beer flows. Eventually an older performer takes the stage, looking completely at home with 30,000 pairs of eyes on him. Jette explains that he is the Danish equivalent of John Farnham and a much loved public figure in this country. That would explain the king tide of middle aged flesh threatening to overwhelm the stage. I am happy to stay where I am, snuggling with my girl on the rug. As the afternoon progresses, so to does the drunkenness of people picking their way past our camp. Peter takes my camera for a walk and returns with some great closeup stage shots. I take my camera out and watch people scaring themselves by jumping off that crane before I return to the snug rug.

As the day turns to night the music becomes more electronic and the collective pupil size of the crowd grows. We decide to pack up and move back to town for a quiet drink. We suffer a bus trip surrounded by drunk teens and find a quiet cafe which serves high grade Baileys Coffee. We make it to bed before midnight, I fall asleep with rosy cheeks wishing I had been as diligent as Jette was with the sunscreen.

On Monday night I am riding the ‘girl bike’ through belting rain to the rock climbing gym. Federico is in Italy but Arthur is still keen to have a climb with me. We rope up and quickly demolish the routes we struggled up last time we climbed. I want to fully trust the rope so asking Arthur to lock me off I climb a way to make some slack in the rope and fall. When the rope goes taught it lifts Arthur’s feet of the ground and forces him to run into the wall but he easily holds my fall. For some reason I cannot get into fully trusting the rope and my climbing suffers. When you don’t trust the rope fully you tend to grip the holds desperately and fatigue much more quickly. While chatting to Arthur I discover that he speaks Spanish as well as Danish and English. The poor guy will regret admitting this latent talent as I intend to maintain my Spanish with him as well as trying out new Danish phrases as we progress through the different colored routes.

We spend two full hours wearing ourselves out on various routes. Arthur finishes with a very convincing ascent of the red route. A route used to test if you are ready to lead climb, I finish by getting two-thirds of the way up the red route and loosing my sweaty grip on a weird potato shaped hold. I remove my harness to reveal two lines of sweat which resemble a failed bladder, get changed and leave Arthur to continue his training on the bouldering wall, the man is dedicated.

Today I have spent the whole day proofreading and writing, mainly proofreading. Why the hell do I continue to mess up capital letters? This is getting annoying. I don’t mind too much though, I know that any capitals I miss will be picked up by my trusty (and very good looking) second proofreader.

This is the same person who would tease me sometimes about my Random Usage of Capitals and weird sentence structure. It is lucky that I like her so much.

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