It begins in October 1979 when, over two consecutive nights, I went to a concert by ex-Genesis guitarist Steve Hackett in Bradford and then, the following evening, saw Supertramp playing at Wembley Arena in London.
Endless renewal is the perpetual motor of rock and roll. Always has been, always will. Musical genres come and go, bands change direction, reinvent themselves for better or worse.
The young man in the sweatshirt and grubby blue jeans stands out amidst the genteel splendour of the opera house, an ugly intrusion like a foul weed in a bed of delicate perennials.
This is one of those random events that leave a smear of residue, a small fluff ball of memory that clings to the fabric of life when so much else is washed away.
If this was a proper rock n roll story, it would have turned out to be the night of my life, the band playing a dazzling set that reached ever-higher pinnacles of exhilaration and brilliance. But it wasn’t.