Drowners

The rain splashes onto the stage roof and cascades down the rigging, slowly drenching everyone as we watch, buzzing with excitement. The dark clouds hang ominously overhead as the final notes of the previous song slowly die away, and then are instantly swamped by the screams of the crowd. The lights of the spotlit stage glitter across the assembled masses, and neon beams flicker over our reverent faces in the heartbeat of silence, before the razorblade-cheekboned singer poises himself for the next anthem. With the rain sticking my sodden clothes to my skin and plastering my hair to my face, I watch while the catalytic drum solo rumbles across the arena, and sparks of recognition make everyone surge forward, anticipatory of the glam-rock riff that carves through the humid air as the lightning flashes overhead.

Earlier, when the sun still shone, my friends and I congregated in Piccadilly Gardens, drinking an assortment of lurid, rainbow-coloured alcopops and idly observing the teenage mothers neglect for their urchin children, who ran amok in the nearby fountains like a paedophilic paradise. The azure sky was scattered with murky clouds, and we watched them lazily, hoping that they wouldn't spoil the afternoon.

Then the idyll was broken as moist droplets appeared on our clothing and the rain began to fall. We scurried onto the next tram; squealing at the cold while the outside world turned dismal and bleak. Wedging ourselves between rush-hour commuters, we inappropriately began a rowdy conversation of past sexual conquests, to amuse ourselves and mock the dour workforce. As the tram made its way out of the city and into the suburbs, I remembered all the evenings when I'd got caught in the rain on the way to nights out in town. My friends and I would run for buses in ridiculously high-heeled shoes, hiding under handbags in a futile attempt to prevent our hair and mascara from being ruined, until we reached the insubstantial shelter of a bus stop. As the wind whipped through these futile structures, spraying the torrent against our numb flesh, curling and frizzing our needlessly straightened hair, we waited an age for a belated bus to arrive. Determined not to let something as insignificant as the weather ruin our night, and we'd hurry resolutely to the relative safety of the smoky nightclubs and warming amongst the sweaty pack of revellers.

Outside, suburban women struggled with umbrellas and shopping bags, and the businessmen returning home sighed, resigned, and held their damp newspapers over their heads, while we watched from relative safety. Water hammered the glass, leaving tracks through the dirt, reminiscent of being back at primary school; when rainy days used to mean being trapped indoors at playtimes, and grime-streaked windows acted as mocking barriers between us and the empty playground outside. Dinner ladies, glad of a respite from sticking plasters onto grazed knees and breaking up fights between screaming 7-year-olds, doled out paper and pots of crayons, and then retired to a corner to gossip. We were left to boredom and restlessness. The days would drag by until we were finally allowed to escape, and we'd return to our houses with our shoes soaking wet and muddy from jumping in puddles on the way home.

When the tram finally slunk into the station, we tumbled out of the carriages, bustling impatiently towards the concert venue through the drizzle that still saturated our attire and wrecked our make-up. As the queues gradually dispersed into the arena, we were finally granted admittance, pushing our way to the front of the congregation gathered round the stage.

After a much-needed venture to the bar, I located our clique's resident lust object, shoving back through the crowd until I reached him. Draped in a plastic smock from the exploitative vendors outside, he was protected from the torrential onslaught, and could be forgiven for such a fashion disaster, which made him resemble a toy wrapped in cellophane. Although, as was drolly commented by a friend who stood nearby, "You can't beat a man dressed in vinyl."

In the mass of bodies, I look about me to see if he's still near. He's stood directly behind me. I grin, and he catches my smile before shyly averting his gaze back to the band. As I turn back to watch the band and I know his positioning isn't pure accident, and the realisation of this inevitability makes my heart flutter a little. Then the charging riff catches me as the singer prowls across the stage, pounding the microphone against his taut thigh. The sustained note of the electric guitar hangs in the air, reverberating around the arena, wailing across the sleepy suburbs nearby as he fixes the microphone, draping his lean body around the stand. The weather has turned cold as evening unfolds, and I shiver as the pouting front-man begins those famous lines in a voice heavy with sincerity, that rises to the grey clouds overhead, and draws forth an extraordinary torrent, that spills over the packed bodies standing in rapture. We watch, while those famous songs ring in our ears, singing along with every word, as the rain falls around us and the steam rises from our closely huddled bodies.

"He writes the line wrote down my spine,
It says 'Oh! Do you believe in love there?'
Slow down, slow down, you're taking me over.
And so we drown, so we drown, stop taking me over . . ."

'The Drowners' lyrics by Suede, text by Janie Doll, painting by David Hancock "Drowners" acrylic on canvas, 6 ft x 4, 2003.