The Lighter Shade of Impression (a)

Mirek Plodzik - Poland

Polish / English translation by Mac Gajda

I can still remember as it has just happened ['it seems as clear as yesterday'] that wet Friday afternoon as I got off from the train. I felt stressed, hypnotised, though still not in a sense that would come the following night when all of us felt tensed before all it started. Something magic was hanging in the air, something magic was about to be born.

Is it already tomorrow, somewhere here in the heart of Redhill, in Warwick Quadrant, where this unique gig is going to take place? Will it be the best I've heard so far? One would say it's difficult if possible to predict. But the answer is plain: Procol Harum's music is always the same, viz the best! Each of their performances is magnificent and cannot be worse than the previous one. It can only be different from the others.

Though you cannot compare size of Redhill with London, I easily got lost twice before I found my hotel and I missed my good pen friends, Richard from Histon and Evyatar from Jerusalem. Nevertheless, I can well remember the Friday night party at Lakers Toby Hotel, though I drank one pint Guinness too much. Or, perhaps it was five pints ['drank too much again ...']. I had a good talk with a Scottish fan when I tried to convince him that Procol's gig in 1992 in Warsaw was better than in Glasgow. Obviously, rubbish: firstly I've never been to Scotland, and secondly Procol always play the best.

Saturday morning sunshine ['the sun seeps through the window to see if we're still dead ...'] was certainly arranged by John and Diane, spiritual movers of the venue! Later, with Mac, another Polish fan living now in England [and translating this!] we get ourselves ready for the night in a local pub, enjoying a few pints. 'Don't drink too much bitter', he advises, 'you'll feel it later', which good advice I could only appreciate the following morning ['drank too much again ...']. I stay at lager therefore, having a few pints more later in the theatre, this including one offered me by my room mate, Umberto from Milan, for sharing the room.

It seems as clear as yesterday. Smiling Ken from Nyack, a lot of cigarette smoke at the entrance, hundreds of heads talking in language of Keith Reid and William Shakespeare, white wet beer foam inside glasses, colourful, smiling faces of balloons, great excitement and no hunger at the buffet. I feel quite embarrassed about my poor English when listening to Graham's friend from Stechford arranging late dinner with Sue, Keith Reid's sister ['Simple Sister'].
I don't think I can say anything about the gig. It has been described and reviewed to a smallest detail by Roland in 'Beyond the Pale', by Shine On and other great fans. Besides, Procol always play the best! All who missed the opportunity, should regret. Though in starting Broken Barricades the band sounded slightly out of tune, later everything was fantastic.

And the audience? This was below my expectations, winding up slowly, but never fully followed the band. Probably these few months we had to wait for this event, has paralysed us, turning to the faithful but rather passive observers.

Most important, however, I could finally listen to In Held 'Twas In I and A Whiter Shade of Pale, twice as long as usually, and, therefore, twice as good! What could I say about this pearl of rock music, yet not turning banal? As a teenager I hated it when on our parties my friends took my girlfriends dancing to its tunes. I still cannot dance ...

I can still remember crowds in the hall after the gig when we all wanted to get autographs from our idols. I drop thing from my hands, a Dictaphone, CD sleeve, a pen, a notebook ... will never laugh again at Inspector Clouseau and lieutenant Columbo. I can finally see on my eyes my Gods from the line up which I remember from Procol's Ninth, my first Procol's album I owned. We could only wish to have a spiritualistic chat with BJ, though we felt his soul all around us.

It was fantastic! That childish smile of Chris Copping, Gary behind his star's halo and sense of humour, Mick and Alan so modest, and joyful Matt 'Baby', and, last but not least, Franky shining brightly everywhere.

Fortunately, I made a number of snapshots as our memory is so fragile, and after years we will only remember glimpses of that event, buried in mist of the past ... It will be good then to take these photos and looking at them hundred times, to make sure that that July night wasn't a mirage but the gig that really happened.