I have experienced the groupie feeling. Stopping short of throwing my bra up at the self-described “tiny sweaty swede” on stage, I smiled unknowingly and thought of Pamela des Barres and how her heart had raced at sharing her life with rock n’ roll stars. Admittedly, my life and Pamela’s could not be more dissimilar. However, as Kristian Matsson’s energetic guitar rifts hit me, I thought I might have at least swooned had he spoken to me.

But more seriously, I had gotten us tickets a few weeks ago, knowing that the guys visiting from Brum loved a live gig and that we, living in Krakow, were desperate for one. We drove up the 5 hours to Warsaw on a deathly hot Saturday. We handed over some money to the homeless man helping us towards a free parking spot. We checked the parking meter nevertheless, another toothless man cackling “nie płace, nie płace”. No payment on Saturdays.

We walked towards the old town, had an ice cream followed by steaming hot żurek – sour rye traditional Polish soup. Sweating profusely from the steaming soup, we downed the food with now lukewarm wheat beer.

As he bent his whole body into his music, he moved lightly around the stage, his presence alone filling the space.

The concert venue was small; a simple club. The place was only about half packed. The Tarantula Waltz started the ball with some 5 songs sung with the least introduction possible. This guy did not mess about and his songs were all interpreted as passionately as hot sex on a sticky day.

The crowd at the ready, we waited for the Tallest Man on Earth, watching as the crowd became denser. It was quieter than you would expect a concert venue to be. Even the roar of applause once Kristian walked on stage, could be described as enthusiastic yet polite. Still, the excitement was palpable as we stood waiting in anticipation. Then the first guitar notes drifted towards us. I welcomed them with shivers, like a feeling long awaited. As he bent his whole body into his music, he moved lightly around the stage, his presence alone filling the space. The sound reverberated through the club in such a way that it was impossible to escape it. Not that you would want to anyway. I moved through the crowd heading to the front. I was easily let through. So close to the stage, he seemed so accessible that had I leaned forward a tad, I probably could have started a casual chat. I stood surrounded by strangers all entranced by the live performance of “King of Spain” and fingers expertly hitting the notes. It might have been due to the heat wave but I swear I truly felt each of those guitar strums. The concert lasted an hour and a half. Short but undoubtedly satisfying, something like that melting ice cream we had earlier in the day. Enough to fill the hunger.


The Writer

I write stuff for fun, if it was for a living I would be homeless.

Find out more about me, Stefanie, here.


Adventure, yeah. I guess that’s what you call it when everybody comes back alive. Mercedes Lackey