I’d said ‘it’s okay, let it go, it’s not meant to be’ to this night too many times for my sister’s liking. But my sister, half in love with the band and Mr. Martin as she is, wouldn’t have any of it, so she persevered. So we found a way. From the first strains of A Head Full of Dreams, she would have had every right to holler ‘I told you so, I told you so, how dare you’ at my face. Followed by ‘how could you have thought we could miss this.’ But the music was weaving a spell. The lights, the heat that slithered and settled in the air, the beams of neon pulsating to the beat. The night was magic, from the first tick of the minute hand to 8 p.m. At one point, Chris took a moment to thank everyone who was there, including the people who flew in and endured the stress and the hassle and the traffic, both land and air. ‘And our mother,’ my sister and I muttered with a laugh. It’s always hard to explain urges like this, the need to feel music this way. But in those two hours there was no need to explain. ‘Sing! Go low, jump high,’ were all we were asked to do. And at one point we might have overdid the jump a little, because the sky and the stars seemed so close.