“I remember the day the music died and left me wanting more”, sang Aled Phillips in what became one of my (and I usually never use personal pronouns in anything I write, but I feel like this is particularly personal) favourite songs of theirs. Today, those twelve words couldn’t be more true. And it’s a surreal kind of feeling, like some distant relative of mine has suddenly passed from an incurable illness, in the sense that even though it wasn’t a surprise at all, the loss still happened. I’ve taken a few days to finally write some sort of eulogy, and maybe this is what will finally make this whole thing real.
I’m not going to say I’ve always been the kind of person who hates funerals, because really, everyone does, but as I embarked on the first of the two buses that would take me to Cardiff the night before the band’s farewell show, it felt just like I was on my way to one. I even felt the need to wear one of the nicest dresses I own to the gig— and it was, indeed, black.
As me and my friends made our way to a comfortable spot at the back of the venue, it almost felt like everyone’s anticipation had formed a cloud and it was floating over the loud chatter that was audible, and that feeling only increased when the support band finished playing, making the next people to walk that stage a band everyone in the Great Hall was going to sing along to.
And for the first sixteen songs or so (well, until the encore), it felt just like a normal gig, at least to me ; just a nice reunion with a band I hadn’t seen in almost a year, but strangely, when the music kicked back in and the Welsh bunch burst into Peace, the atmosphere changed. Suddenly, everyone in the room was singing every word with even more passion that before, desperately trying to hold on to each note so it would last longer as the last song fatally came closer.
I won’t lie about what happened when it did : saying I was crying would be an understatement. Now, I’m really not the type of person who cries easily ,not at movies or songs, so really crying at a show is something that has only happened to me twice in my life, including that night. When I looked around me during Matters At All‘s second chorus, everyone I could see was in tears, with absolutely no exception. My friend Adam whose hand I was holding, the guy lazily dressed for Halloween behind me, some girl I thought I vaguely recognized from Twitter— everyone. It got to the point where most of the people’s voices I could hear were strangled by sobs. As one of the last few ‘goodnight‘s of the song kicked in, colourful confetti began to rain on everyone, and it contradicted beautifully with the fact everyone in the room looked like someone had just died.
I looked up to the band’s flowery backdrop one last time before I left the room, and suddenly, my head was like a flood of every memory I’d made thanks to them— from dancing in my room to their album ‘Dirt’ three years ago to meeting people I otherwise wouldn’t have met, to being angry and sad when they announced it was the end and I had to write an article about it on this very website.
It still doesn’t feel real at all, and I know I’ll probably reread this in a year and think it was a mess. I feel strangely at peace with their departure because I got to say goodbye, and I guess that’s what matters most.
So goodnight,Kids In Glass Houses,and thanks for the ride. It’s been a good one. x
“Stop wishing for the sunshine,start living in the rain.”