Nineteen years or so after "Sultans of Swing" was first played to the public, it still stopped the show. A screaming ovation - and only halfway through the two-and-a-half hour concert. And hanging his white towel on the humid air like a flag of surrender, Mark Knopfler accepted the appreciation with a humble grin.
Another stop on his mammoth European tour, the "Summum" at Grenoble, France (a town surrounded by the Alps in southeastern France) holds nearly 3500 people. All of the dates in France are in venues of about the same size. It's not Dire Straits playing to a crowd of millions. It's better: it's Mark Knopfler and friends, playing to the people.
The Summum wasn't quite filled to capacity - there was room for at least two or three more people in the pit - but the magic between Mark and the audience was more electric than Wembley Stadium, more intimate than a crowded bar, and the enthusiam generated could have raised the roof. It certainly seemed to have cleared the skies, because for the first time in a week, the sun was shining this morning.
My hands hurt from clapping. My arms ache from waving. My feet hurt from jumping. I can't whistle any more. And yes, it's all worthwhile.
Other "huge" names that I've seen - such as Joe Cocker a couple of years ago, and Eurythmics at the height of their career - performed as if they were behind glass, removed from the public, perfect but untouchable. Mark Knopfler has as "big" a name as anyone else, but the humanity and humbleness that emanated from the stage was every bit as touching as his haunting guitar.
"Romeo and Juliet", "Money for Nothing", "Calling Elvis"; all the old favourites, but some new ones too, such as "Rudiger" from his new album. Golden Heart is my prediction for the latest classic...restrained, moving, sad, powerful and pure Mark Knopfler. Mark - no headband, less hair but more grey, and wearing a soft check shirt which looked like he'd borrowed it from an old country or folk singer--was just so incredibly relaxed, at least after the first three numbers. He looked right at home, natural, the guitar as much a part of him as an arm or a leg, even when playing those blasting, searing, soul-tearing solos: the hopelessness of "Telegraph Road", the pain and longing of "Brothers in Arms", the happy hopefulness of "Going Home". Guitar strings sharp as glass. Fingernails catching the spotlight like the edges of diamonds. Dobro like a mirror in a searchlight.
Mark was happy. The band were happy. The audience was ecstatic!
And now, the morning after, the mist-covered mountains around this town are still echoing to the sound of his guitar...
