First Timer

Living in the country without access to a car is just inconvenient. And hitching isn’t an option when you have long hair. Unless, of course, you’re a girl, in which case it’s just ill-advised. This left Neil Elliott somewhat stranded. Fifteen-years old and in the middle of nowhere with somewhere to go. Two fields from the sea but without a boat – this isn’t “Dawson’s Creek”. And buses don’t come on Sundays. His folks were down the road in Cooley at the Vintage Festival, an annual event where they try to get a record number of tractors running at the same time. The current record was 500 but it was expected that the day’s turnout could more than double that. This prospect had excited his father that morning as he left Neil with instructions as to what he needed done around the farm. Punishment for showing no interest in farm machinery is having to use it. Neil feigned compliance with this demand as he lay in bed with a distracted face. Knowing that his father would be furious if he didn’t do his chores, Neil wondered how angry he’d be if he knew what he was actually planning to do.

It was eight am by the time his parents left. Tractors were already chugging along the narrow road. They were from different eras and in different colours but none of this interested Neil. All he used to get for Christmas were toy JCBs and combine harvesters, with the odd model cow thrown in for good measure. He finally took a stand at the age of seven and thrust his shiny green Massey-Ferguson at the Christmas tree. His parents were understandably appalled and sent him to his room where his father delivered a stern lecture about appreciating gifts when “those kids in Ethiopia would be lucky to get a carrot for Christmas”. Neil sensed this was an exaggeration but knew not to incense his father any further. He stared at the floor while nodding his head and avoiding eye contact, in case this was interpreted as an act of defiance. Neil was initially threatened with missing out on the Christmas dinner. In the end, he was only denied turkey stuffing. This news came as a blessing as Neil couldn’t stand the stuff, preferring to supplement his turkey with an army of cranberries. Delicious. He realised there are advantages to not telling people what your preferences are: they can’t use them against you when you step out of line.

Neil rose as soon as his parents’ jeep rolled down the drive. It was an old banged up Land Rover that his father had been planning to replace since the ‘70s. Having studied brochures, visited showrooms, taken test drives and discussed extras, his father would inevitably pull out at the crucial moment, often with the line, “No, they just don’t make them like they used to”. He would then splash out up to 50 grand on a new bailer or cow shed. This frustrated Neil to no end. It was nine o’clock by the time he had his shower – a five minute ritual he forced himself to complete at least once a week, though on this occasion he neglected to wash his hair in favour of a greasy look that seemed to be favoured by rock stars at the time.

It was, after all, 1993 and Nirvana’s In Utero was still in the album charts. Neil loved their debut album Bleach but dismissed their breakthrough Nevermind as a ‘sell-out’. He wouldn’t admit it but Neil loved that album for three weeks, right until he overheard Tom 'Fred' Prendergast singing ‘Lithium’ in the boy’s bog at his school, the Bush. Most Fred’s probably wanted to change their name after the Fred West scandal; Prendergast chose to adopt it. He liked to tug on Neil’s hair in Maths class leading to the odd expletive that their teacher Ten Seconds – named after the length of time it usually took him to comprehend anything – interpreted as “inappropriate language in the classroom”, thereby sending him to the principle’s office to explain his actions. Of course, he couldn’t tell the truth as he’d be labelled a snitch and every prick in his year would deal out blows at every opportunity. Plus, no one wants to be friends with a snitch so he wouldn’t be going anywhere today.

Neil couldn’t afford to get a taxi into town. There was no such thing as pocket money in his house. There was money but only if his parents deemed the object worthy of the expense. He neglected to tell them anything about this trip so paying his taxi fare was obviously out of the question. Though he knew it wasn’t a matter of ‘telling’ them anything; he’d be asking permission and knew that he stood no chance of swinging their vote in his favour. So he didn’t bother. Neil is a single child so there was no older sibling to give him a lift. Neighbours are few and far between and they’re either at the tractor convention or not exactly friendly. Walking would take too long so there really was only one option: his bike.

He used to cycle with his old neighbours, the Fitzwilliams, but they moved a year or so ago. All eight of them used to head out together; the five kids, two parents and Neil. He wasn’t a fifth Beatle, he was a sixth Fitzwilliam. He liked the fact that their father, Frank, let him lead the way. It was a faith his own father never showed in him. There was another reason Neil went on those journeys though and ‘it’ had a girl’s name: Niamh. She had chocolate brown hair that was always tied back and eyes that looked like they were staring at you, until you realised you were staring at them. “What?” she would ask. She was innocent about her beauty, naïve even. And that’s what made Neil like her more than the other pretty girls at his school. He never said anything though; he just hoped she felt the same way and that she’d notice he did too. He was on the verge of 14 when the Fitzwilliams left. He knew his neighbourhood would never be the same again. Now it really was just farmers and the elderly. But more important still, there was no one left to look at.

Cycling for eight miles against the wind isn’t the best way to travel. Neil peddled so fast that his legs were stiff by the time he made it to the meeting point. Most boys have gangs for friends; Neil just had the one. And thankfully, he was waiting for him. Wearing cords and a green lumberjack shirt, Ben was effectively Neil’s alter-ego. He met him through his cousin Maurice who he hung around with in town the previous summer. He was fed up of his parents asking him why he wasn’t visiting his friends or having them over. He resisted screaming, “Because I don’t have any!” as sympathy from your parents in regards your social life is worse than not having one at all. So he started making an effort with Maurice; first after mass when they would play some football or his Sega Mega Drive, which he was only allowed to use once his bedroom was spotless, and it never really was. Lots of football then. Maurice was at a school in town and Neil encouraged him to head in one Saturday afternoon to meet up with some school friends. Neil’s plan worked as within two weeks of meeting Ben White, they were trading copies of Ten and Dirt and pretty much inseparable. Maurice was pushed out of the picture as he had no interest in rock music – Michael Jackson’s Dangerous was actually his favourite album – and preferred to play football on his farm. Not everyone’s idea of fun is spending Saturday afternoons aimlessly wandering around town and getting kicked out of shopping centres and coffee shops for not buying anything before eventually ending up in the park. And with little more than the odd grunt and giggle in the way of conversation. For Neil and Ben, it made the weekdays worth getting through; for Maurice it was a waste of time. So he was gone.

Ben shook his head and handed Neil his bus ticket as he tied his bike to a lamppost. “That doesn’t look safe Neil” he said.
“Neither is our chance of making that bus.” The two boys ran after the Anchor Tours 60-seater. It hauled up and the moustachioed driver flung the door open and folded his arms. “What’s this we have? More little rock heads running late” he pronounced. The boys looked at one another; neither of them wanted to get on first. Ben thrust Neil forward and on he went. As they navigated their way down the narrow aisle, they overheard the driver shout, “I hope you brought empty bottles; there’ll be no more fuckin’ stops!” The bus was now at full throttle and the boys got thrown from side to side in search for a seat. Ben thought he found one but soon realised he was sitting on a girl’s handbag, and her on the lap of her boyfriend. He jumped up having met all 4 eyes from a distance of 10 inches. There was only one option: a tight squeeze in the backseat. A few lads shuffled to one side and let them have the left hand corner. “A bit of luck” they thought until they saw what was under their feet: a sticky substance they could only assume was spilt Coke, they hoped.

The bus had all sorts on board. There were their fellow long-haired lads, only older than them so they were disowned like an innocent younger brother. Then there were the oldies. The kind who hadn’t bought a record since the seventies and never even owned a tape player never mind making their way to CDs. The group that caught the attention of Ben and Neil was, of course, the girls. They came in packs of threes and fours, with their knees on seats and leaning over to talk to those behind and in front. They were at the age where they had already had their first sexual experience and their first drinking binge and they looked down their nose at anyone who hadn’t. It wasn’t cool being young at that age; everyone wanted to be eighteen or over and as they couldn’t change their birth certificate or the date they were conceived they chose instead to act as they expected they would if they were above the legal drinking age. One particular set of these girls sat in front of the boys and seemed to be laughing at something, possibly at them Neil thought as one girl kept glancing at him. She had big blue eyes, pale skin, red lips and wore a red beret. She looked directly at Neil and his eyes darted from side to side to find what fixed her attention. “Who are you?” she asked.
“Huh?” replied Neil, as if her question went beyond the simple matter of asking his name and into deeper philosophical territory that he hadn’t yet considered.
“Where do I know you from?” Neil shrugged. “What’s your name?”
“Neil” he finally said. She turned and giggled to her friends, as if at an in-joke. Ben shook his head and said, “Maybe women really are from Venus.”
“What?” asked Neil, still somewhat unsure of what had happened. “They make no fuckin’ sense” Ben added. The girl turned back around and squeezed her head through the gap in the seats. “You’re funny, you are. Young too!” She swung back around to her friends and roared, “Neil Young is on the fuckin’ bus!”

Neil wasn’t even a fan of his namesake. His father loved Harvest and Comes A Time, the big seventies country/folk albums, but always denied he named his son after him maintaining he had an uncle by that name, though no one in the family ever met him, heard of him or saw his grave. His father could be contrary like that; he’d never admit to doing something so hip and frivolous as to name his first son after a rock star. Neil was, instead, intent on seeing Pearl Jam, a Seattle band with a Californian singer and, here they were, Neil thought, on our little pond. Their debut album, Ten, had sold millions of albums and their follow-up, Versus, was heading in the same direction. Neil, rather controversially, preferred the new album, as it was further away from the classic rock sound of their debut. He’d been saving up for Slane for six months. He must’ve skipped seventy lunches to pay for it; living on a diet of apples he took from home to eat during the day. His mother wondered what got into him when he cleaned his dinner plate every night, even when the Sunday roast was dished out three days in a row to use it up. There was nothing in the world that was going to stop him from going. He knew the punishment for not telling his parents would no doubt lead to more farm work but it didn’t matter; at least he’d have the memory of hearing ‘Glorified G’ played aloud right in front of his eyes – that’d make any cow milking or sheep shearing seem like nothing; he was convinced of it.

The bus got stuck in traffic as concert goers brushed up along side of it. They were close. The sun was beating down and Neil was glad he didn’t bring a coat, something his mother would’ve insisted on. People started getting restless as the bus was at a standstill and before long they were hopping off in their droves. Neil and Ben didn’t hesitate; they knew the older lads knew what they were doing – one even said he saw David Bowie in ’87: they were clearly in good hands. So off they got and began that long walk through Slane village and up the muddy hill; a walk that none of these people would be willing to do if it weren’t for what awaited them at the end of it. The journey took its toll on the two boys as they tried to stretch out their legs after a three hour trip where they could barely move them an inch in any direction. They passed by various shop stands, which were really just old school tables with the usual array of chocolate bars like Mars, Twix, Kit Kat and Marathon; none of the ones you really wanted and much warmer and softer than you’d like them to be but it’s not like there was a supermarket near by. Ben walked up to one and bought a couple of cans of 7UP. “What are you getting those for?” asked Neil.
“I can’t believe you haven’t asked me what I have in my bag yet” said Ben.
“Why would I? Your mum makes you ham bloody sandwiches everywhere you go!”
“That’s true. But that’s not all I have.” Ben now had the cheeky look of boys who go to grammar schools. Neil didn’t like it, so he didn’t respond in case he’d encourage it.
“I raided my parents drink cabinet you fuckin’ eejit!” Neil attempted to speak but all that came out was a ‘wh’ sound: he couldn’t decide on ‘what’ or ‘why’. Ben held his bag open for Neil who peered in. “Martini? You brought Martini?”
“Yeah, it’s supposed to be nice with 7UP.”
“I know”, said Neil, “My mum drinks it all the time.”
“Yeah, well I got some whisky as well but my bet is that you’ll never drink it.”
“Hand me the fuckin’ thing” said Neil. He coolly took a swig of the Jameson as if he was drinking out of a water flask on one of his childhood picnics. It stung: he spat it out. Ben jumped up and down laughing. “You see! You can’t handle it. Now, would you like a nice wee sip of Martini then Mrs Elliott?” Neil gave in and snatched the Martini bottle and a can of 7UP. They continued to walk up the hill and take it in turns as to who took the drink. By the time they reached the top where their tickets were checked, the bottle was empty and tossed into a ditch. They were already pissed.

Everyone remembers their first concert; not everyone remembers the first time they got drunk. Well, not the important parts at least. For Neil, both were firsts. The most alcohol he’d ever consumed before this was a sip of Guinness his mother gave him when he was fourteen. It was obviously an attempt to put him off the stuff, and it worked. But the wonderful art of mixing alcohol with kid-friendly fizzy drinks gets rid of that problem. Neil felt the dizzy glee of 10% Martini hit. He was rambling around the hilly field of Slane, taking in the stage and crowd, and struggling to keep up with Ben, who didn’t even finish his naggin of vodka. There were chip vans and t-shirt stands but the only place that Neil wanted to be was lying down. He found a free patch of grass and fell to the ground. Ben turned around, wondering what the sound was. “I knew it, you’re a light weight”, he said, before leaning down and sitting next to him with his legs crossed. Neil was flat out and Ben realised he’d be down for a while, so he pulled out his bottle and got stuck in. It was already half four and Pearl Jam were due on stage at five. Ben knew this was the reason Neil went to all the effort to get here so he waited five minutes then tried to get his attention. First he shouted in his ear, then boxed him in the stomach – perhaps not the best advised course of action for a first-time drunk – , then he wrote him a note and left it in his pocket. It read: “Neil, you saved for six months to lie in a field and sleep while your favourite band are on stage. I’ll meet you by the chip van afterwards. You waste of space.” Ben went to find a good place in the mosh pit while his best friend lay out-for-the-count by himself. Some would say that was a selfish act; others would say it just made sense. Either way, Neil wasn’t waking up any time soon.

“Neil, is that you?” asked a girl with dark hair and a pierced nose. He finally woke with grass in his hair and mud on his face. His mouth felt like it was clouded with cotton wool buds. He yawned and focused in on the girl. Was it her? Even with make-up on her face, a cigarette in her hand and a young man on her arm, Niamh was unmistakable. “You’re the same girl”, he mumbled, before realising his thoughts were being spoken. “What? Are you drunk?” she asked.
“No…I don’t know.” He smiled and nodded his head. “Yes”.
“Then you missed Pearl Jam” she said, as her ‘friend’ announced that he “needed a leek”. Niamh sat down with Neil and curled up with her arms around her knees.
“You mean, I missed their entire set?”
“Yeah. What’d you take?” she asked, like only a hard drug could explain what he’d just sacrificed.
“Mar…poitin. My friend Ben got it.”
“Fuck, must’ve been strong stuff.”
“Was it good?” he asked, hoping the answer would be a negative.
“Shit. You were better off.”
“Really?” he quizzed, raising his head.
“God no, it fuckin’ rocked but I didn’t want to make you feel bad.”
“Right”, he said before a brief silence.
“So, you’re in Dublin now?” he asked, half-heartedly.
“Same old Neil. Even pissed at a rock concert you don’t feel liberated enough to ask what’s really on your mind.”
“What?”
“You know.” She put her arm around him and whispered in his ear.
“You were my first crush Neil and I have the feeling I was yours. It’s just a shame you were never able to tell me.” Neil felt uncomfortable but still spoke.
“I wanted to”, he said.
“Thanks” she said.
“For what?”
“I just wanted to know that my first love was requited. Apparently that goes a long way to forming you as an adult!”
“So we’ll be ok, then?” he asked.
“Yeah, I think we’ll be just fine”, she said with a knowing smile. Her boyfriend came back and stood over her. There was no way he was going to sit; it was time for her to go. She kissed him on his cheek and said, “It was good knowing you Neil.”
“You too”, he said and she was off.

The opening bars of ‘Hey Hey My My’ cracked like a shotgun in the distance. Neil pushed his way through the middle-aged crowd to a healthy position centre stage but a good bit back. The further he got, the younger the crowd was. Most of them had their t-shirts tied around their waists and sweat dripped from their long greasy hair right down their backs. Neil was intimidated by them but spurred on by how loud the music was. He thought Neil Young was supposed to be an acoustic troubadour like Bob Dylan; the noise here was more akin to AC/DC or Led Zeppelin, and for a 15-year old boy, that could only be a good thing. There were some quiet songs punctuating the set but this allowed Neil to gain ground as the crowd stopped moving. He got about as close as he could by the time ‘Powderfinger’ came to life with that opening line – “Look out mama, there’s a white boat coming up the river” – that pulls you into the story of a young man on a farm within earshot of the water. Neil could identify; he was now wrapped up in the moment and any thought of Ben or missing Pearl Jam was lodged in the part of his mind marked ‘doesn’t matter’. He was on the crest of a wave and right then, that feeling became a physical one as the big long hair behind him grabbed his lower legs and flung him into the air. It took a while before there were enough hands to keep him balanced but once he was the force was unstoppable. He floated over the crowd, staring into the sky in the mid-way point between fear and ecstasy. He’d never been touched by so many hands in so many places in all his life but the thrust of his movement was losing momentum: any moment now he’d be in a heap on the ground. Just as he was tipping downwards he heard his name being shouted, not Neil, but “Elliott!” He poked his head upwards but it was going down first; all he could see now were khaki combats and blue jeans: he was in free fall. Neil made the mistake of keeping his feet aloft in fear of smacking someone in the head with them. This is something that the experienced crowd surfer always avoids, knowing that they’ll go down head first if their feet are in the air. But this was another first for Neil so down he went. His head met the comparably comfortable cushion of a pair of boots but his ass wasn’t quite so lucky, smacking hard against the tough terrain. It felt broken but he thought this impossible. He rubbed it with his hands before realising that caressing your ass in public might send out the wrong signals. It was just then that he got a punch right where he didn’t want it. He turned around expecting to get another one from some 6-foot inbred bogger who’d proceed to bury him in the muck or take him home as a souvenir. He was never happier to see green flannel: it was Ben. The pair came as close to hugging one another as boys of that age consider appropriate. It was a beautiful moment.

Neil Young’s backing band took their bows and left the stage. Neil feared the show was over or that Young would finish with another slow number. The crowd quieted down as he began to speak. “Why not end the show with the band that started it. Please welcome onto the stage Pearl Jam.” Neil now knew he’d have his Pearl Jam moment to get him through feeding pigs at six in the morning. ‘Rockin’ in the Free World’ burst into life and didn’t let up until Young wielded his guitar like a chainsaw against the massive amplifiers. A crescendo of feedback and symbol bashing brought Neil’s first concert to a close. “It was worth it”, he said. Ben just nodded his head. The sky was night time blue as the boys crept back down the hill, an inch at a time, with one wrong step on some Doc Martin heel likely to receive a stare back daring him to make the same mistake twice. They must’ve passed a hundred buses from every little town in Ireland before they saw their Anchor Tours one with the moustache having a fag outside. Ben was out like a light by the time it pulled off while Neil was wide awake and wondering what he had in store when he got home. He was prepared for any punishment as his thoughts turned to Niamh and what might’ve happened between them. “It already did”, he thought to himself. A few hours later they were in street lit, deserted Dundalk in the dead period between people going to and coming out of clubs. He shook Ben and after the odd inaudible grunt he opened his eyes halfway and asked, “Why is everyone getting off? Are we changing bus?”
“We’re here” said Neil. It took Ben a few seconds to register this last statement. Neil grabbed his bag and gave him a hand. They were the last off. Ben’s car was waiting with the lights on. His mother got out and looked suspiciously at him. He tried his best to walk straight and show more signs of tiredness than drunkenness. Neil was on his own. He untied his bike – slightly offended that no one made any attempt to rob it – and took off. The cold was almost unbearable but there were no cars on the road bar the odd taxi; it was just that time of night. He was home in half the time, suggesting that his motivation for making a rock concert wasn’t as great as his will to cover up in cotton sheets and a big duvet. He expected his mother to be up but there were no lights on. He’d even prepared his speech to her on the cycle home. It all seemed very justified in his head where she also seemed quite understanding. He creaked open the unlocked back door and slipped up the stairs. There was a silhouette on the landing. “Oh fuck” he thought. Neil stopped short but couldn’t make out which parent it was until he spoke.
“So, have you been converted?”
“Huh?” Neil responded, not knowing how much the old man knew, but sure that he hadn’t changed religion or sexuality while he was away.
“Are you now a fan of Mr Young?”
“How did you know?” asked Neil.
“Your mother cleans your room, not you. She found your ticket months ago. Why do you think she started packing you sandwiches for lunch?”
“Why didn’t you say something then?” Neil asked, rather self-righteously.
“Why didn’t you, more like?”
“Well, I…”
“It doesn’t matter now, does it? The important thing is that you’re home in one piece and now appreciate where you got your name from.”
“You said it was your uncle…”
“Ah, that was only to please your mother. So, are you a fan then?” Neil thought about this.
“Yeah, I am” he said, realising the words were true as he said them.
“That’s my boy! Just as well I have all his records then.”
“Thanks Dad” said Neil, with more sincerity than he expected.
“Enough of that. Get off to bed now; you’ve only got a few hours before the pigs have to be fed.” Neil sighed silently.
“I’m having you on; you lie in. It won’t be long before Monday mornings are on your calendar again. In fact, it won’t be long before summer is just the hottest season for you.” Neil nodded, still slightly uncomfortable with such a frank exchange with his father. He knew in time that summers would change their meaning and that, although they wouldn’t mean harvest season for him, his father was happy enough if he was just listening to Harvest during them. He knew he would; another little world had opened up to him and for the first time since he was born, his father was a part of it.