I had a religious experience yesterday.
It’s a common metaphor. A playful exaggeration of what happens when something goes beyond a mere dopamine hit and passes into complete shamanic bliss.
If most of the people in the crowd there with me had said that, they wouldn’t have meant it literally. They’re atheists. Christians. Muslims. “Spiritual, but not religious”. Either they see no point in all this God-bothering, or their spiritual needs are well accounted for.
As for your correspondent? Well, loud, boisterious ecstasy is
exactly the type of old-time religion i’m after. Hundreds of sweating, screaming, beautiful humans,
swimming in the sea of each other, without a care in the world, freed, just for a moment, from the
stresses of their mundane daily life1 — and all led by a charismatic
preacher front man. What else could you call such a thing?
When you’re a shy bairn who follows a dead religion, you take what you can get.
Also… about halfway through the show, the band put up a big caption on the side screens saying “guest starring Harry Styles”2 (greeted with rapturous applause). They then proceeded to bring out Lewis “iwageddicannaustibeisumwunyuluuuuuuh” Capaldi instead (greeted with considerably less rapturous applause), and have him sing the absolute holy grail of 1975 concerts: “Antichrist”, a song from their very first EP which the band have steadfastly refused to ever play live. Masterful trolling.