Thanks to the large numbers of dads accompanying their daughters to Taylor Swift and Beyoncé shows, this demographic now even has its own name and identity: the Swiftie Dad, or Bey-Bey Dads.Īt Beyoncé’s Tottenham Hotspur stadium shows this week there have been a preponderance of bemused fathers lurking at the back while their daughters in Renaissance T-shirts went wild.
Four years and a lot of gigs later I’ve learned to let the girls pile in while I linger at the back with the old kids on the block.
I didn’t, though, for a personal reason I’ll explain in a minute.
On a personal level, however, it felt distinctly like God’s way of telling me that in future, I should wait outside in the car. I’d just found a perfect dad-spot (far enough back to not be in people’s way, close enough for the girls to see) when Mahalia began an impassioned attack on the music industry.Ĭheering along, I was at one with the crowd, up to the point where our idol explained that “IF I HAD A POUND FOR EVERY TIME A WHITE MIDDLE-AGED MAN TRIED TO TELL ME I’D NEVER MAKE IT AS I AM, I’D BE A F***ING BILLIONAIRE!”įor the record, I completely sympathised with Mahalia on this point. It wasn’t so much my age and gender (I was 50, the audience was almost entirely schoolgirls) as my height: I felt weirdly the wrong size, like a giant human version of a promotional packet of biscuits, always blocking someone’s view. Janey and I both liked her music but on entering the auditorium – medium- sized, north London – I felt a bit self-conscious.
I’d taken her and her friend Agnes to see Mahalia, a young black British R&B singer who, between songs, tells entertaining, outspoken anecdotes that are often about things she hates. The first time I took my teenage daughter to a pop concert, I experienced a moment of humiliation that made me think I might never do it again.
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