"How dae you know wherr we waaant tae be?"
"Audience profilin' doll, audience profilin'."
Two women of a certain age are redirected away from the hall where Paul Weller is to play to a collection of soul boys and grown-up mods. We only know it's the Modfather because the audience-profiler-come-bouncer didn't stop us and we'd reached the merchandising stalls before realising we were at the wrong gig. This has me thinking that my new Henry Winkler-style satin bomber jacket isn’t as cutting-edge as I’d imagined.
I watched them build the SECC. It was a big, red box the last time I saw it, but that's changed. Sometime between me leaving home and now, they painted it grey and Norman Foster (see the account of our visit to Wembley) built the armadillo or "Clyde Auditorium" to give it its official title. This is my first time in it. It's rather nice; solid, in a corporate conference kind of way; I can see John Harvey Jones, Richard Branson or Alan Sugar addressing massed ranks of blokes in suits (actually, scratch JHJ, what with him being dead and all).
Surprisingly, it doesn't seem to be a sell-out; the credit crunch having an effect on sales, perhaps? With the falling pound, tours by American artists will only become more expensive (if they happen at all); I wonder how many will regret missing this one in years to come?
Those who are here have come from far and wide; there's an Italian girl beside us who has friends scattered throughout the hall in odd seats. Why they didn't get seats together, we'll never know.
The lights go down and Glasgow demonstrates that the Apollo spirit never died. Seats are abandoned and if half of the audience isn't crushed against the stage, reaching for their hero, then it isn't far short. The Apollo bouncers used to drag out a token fan or two for a beating, but they were only dealing with punks, rockers or mods; not menopausal women. No-one even thinks of trying to stop them.
"It's unbelievable" are David Cassidy's first spoken words a couple of songs into the set. The crowd screams as they are acknowledged, but Cassidy goes on, "unbelievable how quickly a guitar can go out of tune in my hands!"
A laugh and the bond between stage and floor is made. I've said it before and tonight merely confirms it; Cassidy, former teen idol, is the consummate showman. At no time is it better illustrated than when he launches into his obligatory Lennon/McCartney number. This time, it's You've Got to Hide Your Love Away which David makes a singalong. Not, as you'd expect, with roof-raising "Hey"s, though; tonight, conducted by the puppetmaster in the spotlight, Glasgow whispers the Beatles song in perfect harmony.
The quiet theme is continued by a somewhat unlikely cover; an only-slightly-lighter-than-Deep-Purple's arrangement of Hush. Arrangements are a bit of a theme, actually - we get "Dance Party" versions of two staples; I'll Meet You Halfway is OK, but Cherish doesn't need funking up.
David swaps places with his drummer and she delivers a fairly decent rendition of Brass In Pocket, but the night is really all about what the fans want to hear, as determined by an online vote.
Some Kind Of A Summer tops the poll (in no small part thanks to my own vote, I like to think) and the only curve ball is Mae which David plays acoustically, unaccompanied, authentically struggling with the chord changes since he hasn't played it in anger in years.
The lights go up, the amps go off and I get my wife back; back from her trip down memory lane; she's spent the last two hours, as she always does in the presence of her hero, 35 years ago. I'm pleased to say that, since tomorrow is our sixth anniversary, she never looks too disappointed when the 21st century reclaims her.
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