It was March 3, 1983. We were seated on velvet-covered chairs in the first tier and were looking at an empty stage.

It was the usual restlessness before a concert: people sat down, got up again, and looked around the concert hall expectantly.

I was 16 years old, wore carrot-shaped pants, a perm, sweatshirt, and was pretty excited.

The first concert visit is something like the first kiss: you don't forget it.

For me it was Chris de Burgh, Alte Oper Frankfurt.

Anke Schipp

Editor in the "Life" section of the Frankfurter Allgemeine Sonntagszeitung.

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1983, that was the year in which the star presented the forged Hitler diaries, the peace movement demonstrated against the NATO double resolution and Nena published her hit "99 Luftballons". The first yuppies were in America, but at my school they still wore Bundeswehr parkas and Palestinian scarves.

That evening in March, I came with my friends from the provinces. We were Chris de Burgh fans, albeit not excessive ones, perhaps because the Irish pop poet, as he was called at the time, was not really a good posterboy, even if Bravo reported about him regularly. We didn't rave about him because of his looks, rather because of the emotions he conveyed. Its melodies accompanied my tranquil teenage life in the country. I had them in my head when I ran the dog across the field or drank flavored vanilla tea with my friends at home. His world was whole, his melodies friendly, his melancholy just enough that one did not fall into melancholy. When I heard songs like "Don't Pay the Ferryman" on my clanking cassette deck, I had the stereotypes of Ireland in mind:lush meadows, romantic castles and rugged coasts.

Meeting again in Fulda

Almost four decades later, I'm rushing through the pedestrian zone in Fulda.

I am on the way to my idol from back then, slightly delayed, overhead line damage on the ICE route.

A lot has changed since then, I think as I follow the blue dot on Google Maps to find the museum courtyard, where the interview and in the evening a concert with Chris de Burgh are supposed to take place.

I am easily nervous.

Will I get melancholy after 38 years?

Will i get bored?

Will I find him stupid?

I only vaguely remember the moment when he came on stage at the Alte Oper. He was quite a long way off in terms of rank, but he will certainly have impressed me, if only because I was easy to impress at the time. I knew all the songs, and I guess I sang them along. Nevertheless, my friends and I stayed, I remember that, as if nailed to our chairs and applauded dutifully at the end of each piece. Chris de Burgh and ecstasy were somehow mutually exclusive.

I'm just in time for the interview in Fulda. The soundcheck is over, and Chris de Burgh is sitting in a small tent behind the stage at a beer table, ready for the interview. He stands up to greet me, and I briefly ask myself if he was that small back then: 1.68 meters according to Wikipedia, 1.65 meters according to Bravo. He looked taller on stage, but that's not a feat, on stage all musicians appear tall, larger than life. Phenotypically, he has changed less than me. De Burgh was then 34 years old, now he is 72, but still looks boyish in his dark blue down jacket, which he will wear later to the concert. His bushy eyebrows are traversed with gray threads, the hairstyle with the fringed, slightly too short bangs has become a little thinner over the past four decades.