My daughter is a rock star

In my second year at University, I decided I wanted to drop out and go to Paris to live in a garret and Be A Penniless Writer. Fortunately, I was talked out of it.


My daughter, however, has done just that – or rather, she’s dropped out to become a singer in a rock n’ roll band, or near enough. Psychedelic rock, to be precise.


She begged me to go to her first concert, held in a brewery on a nearby commercial estate. Now, I know that doesn’t sound very cool but it’s a darn sight cooler than the cellar of a fruit warehouse, which is where The Beatles started off.




I was reluctant. After all, the place would be full of students (it’s near the campus) and I am a middle-aged housewife so I would stick out like a baguette in a greasy spoon café…but she is my daughter and I had to go. So I went...


I got off at the wrong tram stop somewhere near the Halls of Residence. It was 9pm, eerily quiet and deserted. None of the streets had the right name so I decided to follow my instinct, which under normal circumstances is not a good idea but for once it served me well. Half an hour later, I stumbled (literally – I was wearing silly pointy boots in order to look young and trendy - ha!) upon the Brasserie Mandrin where students were milling about looking suitably laid-back/angst-ridden/moody/drunk. Oh yes...it took me back a bit…until my daughter emerged to rescue me from the impending time warp and, beer in hand, I slunk into a corner and hoped no-one would notice me.


The beer was wonderful. Mandrin is a Real Ale and at the brewery, everything is done by hand. I was drinking hemp-flavoured beer but I could have chosen walnut, fir, honey, liquorice or mountain herbs. I am going to do a bit more research and will post an article about the brasserie once I’ve sobered up…


Back to the concert and my daughter began to sing in that sultry bluesy voice of hers. She wrote most of the songs with her friend. Unfortunately, a couple of the band members had had too much to drink and were suddenly under the impression that they could sing too. While they were shouting raucously into the microphone, the guitarist decided he was a punk rocker and started pogo-ing into the audience, knocking a few beers over in the process. It was a bit of a shambles to be honest.


Still, I got to relive a part of my youth and as I hobbled happily back to the tram stop humming Hey Joe, I realised that I had, in fact, fulfilled a part of my dream too: I may not live in Paris and I don’t live in a garret…but I am a Penniless Writer. Cool!