Love can ask many things of a man and what I did for love the other night took the biscuit. I sacrificed the last vestiges of my rock ‘n’ roll integrity and took Sophie along to the Abba revival show at the Nile Hilton.
To prepare for the sacrificial alter, I turn up the N’ Orleans Madi Gras king, Dr John on my home stereo, probably the antithesis of a British Abba cover band, and tried to forget what I was about to do.
I once wore a badge in my post-punk youth that read; “We are the people our parents warned us about. And now I was face to face with Dancing Queen, almost 30 years later.
Had I become my parents?
Even though dancing queens are illegal in Egypt they turned up in droves on Thursday evening.
Hundreds were packed into the ballroom. The tables were so close together the complimentary Heineken beer cart could barely negotiate its way round. This confirmed my suspicions. It wasn’t rock ‘n’ roll; it was theatre, a show. Who had ever heard of free beer at a gig?
A friend arrived from Alexandria, believe it or not, but someone else had her ticket and they were caught in the Cairo traffic snarl.
I went to the door to meet Marilyn who was a little concerned, because she didn’t have a ticket and was confronted with five imposing doormen.
I lived in New York for five years, so the Nile Hilton heavies were hardly going to stop someone used to dealing with the velvet rope in the East Village. Marilyn was seated at our table enjoying her free beer in no time.
With dinner taking its time and Sophie locked in a gossip knot with Marilyn, I did the rock ‘n’ roll thing and went to the Rendezvous casino bar to philosophize.
The real Abba, who evolved out of the Swedish folk tradition, did I believe, ushered in the era of English as a second language. I am sure those inane lyrics taught English to millions across Europe and it could only be non-native English speakers that would come up with such literal sugary lyrics, void of irony.
Struth: that is blasphemy. It was time to get back to the table. Thoughts such as these would lead to trouble in the marriage.
Back at the table I caught a glimpse of a flash of blue sequins. It was Abba. I grabbed my camera and darted back stage. The girls were hamming it up for me. Not walking, but posing like Egyptians, they were very excited and eager to know who was in the crowd.
The crowd were eager too and they rushed the dance floor and didn’t leave it. The songs do have universal appeal and apart from the usual expatriate suspects, the evening attracted many Egyptians, Japanese, Scandinavians and one Palestinian I knew of.
I salvaged a little rock ‘n’ roll cool, I thought, when I had to ask what the second song of the night was. It was Mamma Mia. Sophie rolled her eyes.
Two roving reporters turned up late in the evening. Andrew England of London’s Financial Times and a Dutch correspondent, Eduard Padberg. I think they had found the beer cart and were on the hunt for a story. I am sure it was a story they were looking for.
In the Hebrew language I think Abba means father. Anyway, it is in the Old Testament and when the real Swedish foursome won Eurovision all those years ago I think I remember the name eliciting a few tuts from the whispering classes.
But the Europeans don’t care too much for religion any more, but they do still love the Eurovision and its most famous alumni. It was a mad night. The crowd really loved the show. It may have been mimed, but that didn’t matter too much. Abba are an excuse to dress up and dance like no one is watching.
Of course I am too cool to dance and anyway, Sophie is with child and I am soon to be Abba myself.
