I managed to get this photograph yesterday while we were driving through Prestwich. It’s a mural, created in 2019, of Victoria Wood, who was born in that town.
Heading North is of course a compulsion with me, too, though her full joke includes the punchline: “Even in Tesco, I head straight for the freezer cabinets on the back wall.”
Seeing it took me right back to the 80’s, laughing at this northern ballad of frisky Freda and the poor, beaten Barry. Give it a watch, those of you not from the north of England may have to give it a couple of goes to catch the lyrics. Google may help, too!
Maybe I should change my route.
In a recent post I mentioned the Heywood Stretch, a road along which I often take my dog for a walk. Sticking to the same route at least affords you the chance to observe any changes. Seasonally, I mean, rather than roadworks.
The other week I could see up ahead of me the turbines on the moors (the turbines that found their way into the first draft of a poem that I’ve posted). The moors were white, layered with days-old snow that never made it down to these lower reaches, apart from an ever so slight dusting of the fields that must have been spindrift on the wind.
Maybe I should widen my taste.
I’m sure that there’s lots of great new music out there just waiting for me to discover it. But when I want to pass a certain amount of time I always seem to return to the era I love the best, which basically runs from the mid-sixties to mid-seventies.
I was doing just this on another trip there when winter made the most of my complacency, ambushing me in a sudden brief snowstorm that had me blinking furiously to navigate a path through the fury that had engulfed me. It was only brief but it was freezing, and I couldn’t help but smile at the irony as Ray Davies was telling me to
Put on your slippers and sit by the fire
When I got back I followed his instructions mostly to the letter.
I warmed myself with a coffee as I sat listening to this box set that I’ve just managed to pick up on eBay for a fifth of the price it normally goes for.
Listening to the vocal harmonies of the group through headphones, you can really appreciate John Phillips’ gift for arrangement. And what voices Cass and Denny, in particular, had.
The very next day the dog and I worked the Stretch again. This time there was no snow and no biting wind, but still it seemed that winter was hanging on for dear life, defying spring’s rightful claim to the throne.
Later that night, deja vu: I’d had another delivery.
This time, I’d managed to get myself a book signed by a Door. Which I suppose is easier than a Door signed by a book.
“Look at this,” I said to my wife Jen. “This is by the drummer from The Doors.” I took her finger and placed it lightly on the signature. “Just think, this was touched by a hand that has rested on the shoulder of Jim Morrison while they shared a beer.”
She was distinctly unimpressed, whereas I was falling backwards through eras and decades.
And then I returned to the present.
Tonight, it felt so much better walking the dog. Everything was lighter. It felt like spring had had its coronation, it felt like new beginnings. And maybe there was the psychological aspect too, for we’d just heard the details about how our locked down country is set to open up again.
Good weather and freedom is in sight.
And for this walk I’d changed gear (a little). moving up to the 80’s to listen to The Police. As my journey neared its end, one of Sting’s solo songs came on, Desert Rose. Algerian singer Cheb Mami is on that, giving it a distinctive world music feel. And I’m not sure why but it just seemed appropriate for the moment, as the day settled down with the sun bidding me goodbye whilst also whispering that it won’t be for long.
So, how’s your Boxing Day going? Feeling lethargic and in need of some fresh air yet? Me too. But not just yet.
In the meanwhile, I thought I’d check in to share this photo with you all. Though it’s from 1905, I’m sure that those two children are Jools Holland and Paul McCartney!
And Cindy Lauper’s not looking her best, is she?
As I’ve previously posted shots of some of the wall murals and various art works that I’ve encountered on City Jackdaw, I just thought I’d do this quick post tonight of two of the latest additions.
An iconic Mancunian figure of the past, and a heroic figure of the present.
John Lennon would have been eighty today. Can you imagine that? The founder of The Beatles being an octogenarian. He’s now been dead for the same number of years that he lived, and there’s always a sadness in that. It’s hard to consider the life without the tragic end. But we must try.
The other morning I downloaded this and listened to it over a coffee in McDonald’s.
A two-parter, it features both Sean and Julian Lennon for the first time speaking publicly about their father. Sean also interviews his Godfather, Elton John, and also Lennon’s songwriting partner Paul McCartney.
Speaking to the latter, Sean mentioned how Love Me Do was written before The Beatles existed as the group we all know, and asked if there were other such early songs? Paul confirmed that there were, for example One After 909 and I Saw Her Standing There. Commenting that they were such strong songs that still stand today, Sean asked did they ever write any bad songs or did they always strike gold straight away?
When Paul replied that there were bad ones, the reaction was along the lines of Oh, thank Christ for that!
I guess that gives hope to we mere mortals, scribbling along in the sand.
Sean also asked about Paul’s first meeting with his father, which I guess every fan knows took place on the 6th July 1957, when John’s skiffle band The Quarry Men were performing at a church fete.
What I didn’t know was that Paul had seen John around a few times before this, but that he didn’t know him. A couple of times he’d caught Paul’s eye when on the same bus, when John would have been travelling to see his mother. Paul had thought that Lennon had looked cool, sporting the rebellious, Teddy Boy look of the time. Then another time he saw him in the queue at a chippy, thinking hey, that’s the guy from the bus. But at this point they’d still never spoke to each other.
That all changed when mutual friend Ivan Vaughan took Paul so see John playing at the fete, and the penny dropped that his friend’s friend was the same guy he’d been noticing around the neighbourhood.
This is artist Eric Cash’s conception of John and Paul’s introductory meeting in the church hall after the performance.
Sometimes in life it seems like the paths of certain individuals keep crossing. The universe has a way of bringing together people who are meant to meet.
Just this morning I saw this image posted, announcing the birth of a young son to Julia and Alfred Lennon.
Who could have had any idea at the time, when skimming the announcements in the local newspaper, the impact that that boy would have on the world?
I wonder about those other babies, too, for example the Looney daughter stated immediately below the Lennon son. What life did she go on to lead? Did she ever know the brief illustrious company that she once shared in her origin? Did she go on to impact the world in some other, less celebrated way?
Eighty years on, I was draining the last of my coffee as Sean finished the show with:
Here’s wishing a Happy Birthday to my Dad. People may grow old, but great music never does.
And that’s true. All art is nailed at the time in a form that lasts forever, untouched by shifting context and the changing mores.
John Lennon would have been eighty in a couple of days. I have a short post about that which I shall post then.
In the meantime, I’ve been sat up tonight seeking out some of his lesser known tracks which I’ve not listened to for a number of years.
And speaking of years, what a year this has been. What would John have made of it?
What do you make of it?
Sometimes it’s good to tune out and tune in, switch off and switch on, falling back into the groove of remembering simpler times.
I’m tuning out now and will tune in later.
Sleep easy, friends.
I think I need more sleep. I put ketchup in the bowl today instead of washing up liquid.
As we’d say around here, it’s been chucking it down all day. Which translates as ‘it’s been pouring with rain’.
And so, I spent the afternoon inside, watching the first of this two-part documentary:
It passed the time while confined to the house, and I love most of the artists that are covered in it.
Music illustrates our individuality. It’s as though you don’t pick the kind of music that you like, the music picks you. You can have the same background as me, we can share the same context and life experiences, but what turns you on can turn me off, and vice versa. Certain styles speaks to each of us differently. We react to that which moves us the most.
August is coming to a close. Summer is coming to a close. With the night closing in, I’ve started this new book.
Some time back I read and enjoyed Johnson’s short novella, Train Dreams, and thought I’d give his collection of short stories a try.
I have heard of a woman who claimed that she once fell in love with a man because he recommended this book to her. Again – individuality. He searched his memory of every book that he’d read before, and somehow struck the jackpot. Found the one for the one.
The pressure, though, of getting it right. I wouldn’t fancy my chances.
Anyway, that’s enough for now, I’m only one story in. The rain is still tapping on my window.
I’ve just caught myself listening to a Christmas album.
Has 2020 really been that bad?
What were the odds that that primary school kid would go on to compose music for films made by his classmate, Sergio Leone?