Abba in Glasgow


The news that Spandau Ballet (who I hadn’t realised were back together) have split up again reminded me of a photo from Q magazine in c. 1990 of bandleader Tony Hadley in the company of two female fans. It accompanied one of those deeply sardonic interviews conducted by Tom Hibbert, erstwhile Smash Hits snarkist extraordinaire. Hadley was flanked by two middle-aged women for whom the encounter clearly represented the highlight of their lives, the realisation of a decade-long dream, because the expressions on their faces were flushed with unadulterated joy. It was, however, not a flattering photo of any of the three subjects. Hadley’s face didn’t express any enjoyment whatsoever but was that of a man imprisoned in anguish. In front of him stood a pint glass which was distinctly half-empty; he looked like a man who’d just had explained to him that he was Tony Hadley and that the year was 1990.

Thinking of that photo put me in mind of a story about a young girl from Glasgow who was obsessed with Abba. As far back as anyone could remember (this was the late 1970s), her bedroom walls had been festooned with images of Anni-Frid, Benny, Bjorn, and Agnetha (her favourite). When the news broke in mid-1979 that her idols would be visiting her hometown, her screaming was so loud it brought people running in from the neighbouring close to find out what was wrong. In the weeks leading up to the concert she was uncontrollable, talking nonstop about which songs they would play (her favourite was, naturally, ‘Dancing Queen’) and what the girls would be wearing. She didn’t sleep for a full week before the day of the gig.

It finally came: November 13th 1979. The concert was everything that she had dreamed of. It wasn’t just Agnetha’s outfit that sparkled: the whole night, inside and outside the Apollo Theatre, was filled with glitter. They started with Voulez Vous (the title track of their latest album, which she’d loved so much she’d almost worn through) and included so many of her favourite songs she felt like she would burst with joy: I Have A Dream, S.O.S., Take A Chance On Me…. Between tracks she and her friends tried hard to catch their breath and remind each other what songs they’d already done so that they could capture every moment to relive later, but then the opening bars of the next song would sweep in and they’d be off, dancing and bawling their hearts out. Summer Nights City, Does Your Mother Know, and then, just when she was starting to feel scared that they’d miss it out for some reason and that The Way That Old Friends Do would be their very last song, that ecstatic piano riff that sent her soaring above the crowd like an angel, so high up in the rafters, having the time of her fucking life, that she then spent the whole of the final number (Waterloo) in floods of tears, her mates trying to console her at the same time as dancing for all they were worth…the last words Benny said from the stage were “We love you, Glasgow!”.

Abba, man. We love you. Unforgettable. They floated home, singing and screaming and bawling all the way.

She read all the reviews she could find in the local papers and added them to her collection. In the new year she was suddenly seventeen, just like in the song. Every time she and her friends met they couldn’t stop talking about the concert. Then, in summer, they heard that Abba had a new album coming out, in November, with a single due in July! She counted down the days again, imagining the lyrics and the songs and the photo on the sleeve. She had to wait to get the single as they were away with her gran in bloody Greenock, where there wasn’t even a record shop, but when she managed to get her hands on ‘The Winner Takes It All’ it broke her heart in the sweetest possible way, it made her suddenly feel like an adult. She loved the sorrowful tone, and the fact that at the most intensely tragic moment of the song the backing singers seemed to be singing (she argued about this with her friends) the refrain ‘BIG ONES, SMALL ONES’ felt like the funniest joke she’d ever been told.

She was ill in bed the day the album (‘Super Trouper’) was released. Bloody mumps. Nae bother, because as soon as school was finished for the day her best friend rushed into town, bought the LP and then got the bus to hers, fizzing with excitement. She ran up the stairs and, giggling and shaking like loons, they put the record on the turntable, sat back on her bed and awaited the worst horror of all.


3 thoughts on “Abba in Glasgow

  1. I don’t believe that story because even the most diehard Abba fan will tell you that every single Abba LP is shit, even ‘Arrival’, and it’s only their singles that are diamond.

    What actually happened is that young girl bought their singles, knew about the bad rep of their LPs, and after Abba’s Glaswegian ‘last hurrah’ became disenchanted with her clutch of their 7″s. So when her Scoatish brother asked if he could borrow them and sample them to some 303 and 808 rhythms she replied “Why, yes!”

    So he did, and made loads of copies of that recording on licorice, but then Agnetha said “Fuck you, you got att ta alla dessa skivor och lägg dem i en polisbil sedan köra dem i ett fält och sätta dem i brand”, so he did that and then he wrote a book about it but he only published 12 copies of the book and then I asked him if I could have one of those books and he said “yes.”


  2. My formative years were defined by ABBA’s music. A new single was an event because we knew that ABBA were musical perfectionists who wouldn’t release any old crap. In my eyes/ears ABBA’s albums ‘Arrival’ and ‘The Album’ were magical works of art that withstood multiple listenings, and still do.

    My first encounter with the ‘Super Trouper’ album was by accident. Their new Casio-watch inspired oeuvre emanated feebly via an audio cassette within a cheap cassette player on a supermarket shelf during the Christmas/New Year period.

    Save for ‘The Winner Takes It All’, what I heard that day was lifeless, generic, plastic detritus. A far departure from the ABBA I knew and loved. It was not ABBA.

    Part of me died that day and the depression elicited from hearing the torturous ‘track list’ in the aisles of a soulless supermarket somehow represented a gateway into the 1980s, which for me marked the end of a golden musical era.


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