It's 10pm on a Saturday night, and the sound of strings fill the Essex air. Hands are aloft, even the hardest heart can't help but crack the widest of smiles;
Blur are playing 'The Universal'.
Gigs like this don't come around often, if ever. To set the scene with any plausibility is a challenge in itself. In a small railway shed, part of a tiny railway museum in quite possibly the smallest village we've ever visited, hidden up miles of winding country lanes, the most important band of their generation are making their long awaited return. Instead of the tens, even hundreds of thousands they'll play to over the next few weeks, here the audience numbers 150. Imagine finding Radiohead playing the back room of your local boozer and you're still a good distance off.
Rewind two hours and it's the floppy haircut and vaguely shoegazing strains of debut single 'She's So High' that mark Blur's return proper. There's no awkwardness, no suggestion that this was an idea best left alone; from the off it's as if they never went away. Alex James is no longer "that bloke with a farm who writes those columns and makes cheese", Dave Rowntree is a drummer, not a politician, Damon Albarn shows absolutely no signs of trying to introduce us to some African two piece experimental bongo choir, and Graham Coxon is grinning. So, it should be noted, is everyone else.
What follows is a dream-like procession of tracks, each more brilliant than the last. 'Girls & Boys' into 'Tracy Jacks', 'There's No Other Way' followed by 'Jubilee' and then 'Badhead'. These aren't songs from a generation ago; they're familiar yet new. 'Beetlebum', 'Coffee & TV and 'Tender', with it's refrain now rescued from the soul destroying gospel choir of 2003 and placed firmly back into the hands of Coxon, all manage to make a tiny outbuilding feel as huge as Hyde Park.
To cherry pick from a set list like this is near impossible. Both 'Country House' and 'Charmless Man' are reclaimed without the need for 'I Love The Mid-Nineties' style nostalgia. Any thoughts of subverting them seem cast aside; this is clearly a Blur comfortable with their lot, not running away from their own success. 'Colin Zeal', 'Oily Water', 'Chemical World' and 'Sunday Sunday' form the heart of 'Modern Life Is Rubbish', large swathes of which get an outing ('Advert' and 'For Tomorrow' will follow). 'Parklife' may not bring forth Phil Daniels, but seeing Albarn try and remember the words is better entertainment anyway.
If there's ever been one moment that defines Blur as a band though, it's been that guitar solo. The one two thirds of the way through 'This Is A Low', where at the end of quite probably the biggest album of their lives, in the middle of a song essentially formed around the shipping forecast, Graham Coxon plays a part of such building, crashing genius that it provokes emotions that don't even have words to go alongside them. Imagine how amazing that could sound, double it and it's still nowhere near the euphoria of it's set closing appearance tonight. If there was no encore, there'd still be a hundred odd lucky souls stood with their mouths open somewhere in deepest Essex.
An encore there is, though. 'Popscene' and 'Song 2' send the crowd mad, 'Out Of Time' and the haunting 'Battery In Your Leg' (the only nods to the almost Coxon-less 'Think Tank') space them out. 'Essex Dogs' tops 'Sing' in a vote of hands, then with an eye on the clock we're finally at 'The Universal'. To avoid the obvious is impossible; "It really really really could happen". After years of crossed fingers, it seems it finally has.
mamma mia