Small children can have some quite irrational fears. When I was a small child, I was no exception.
For example, when I was about four, I never liked to go upstairs without first turning on the landing light. This was not out of some belief that I might trip and fall in the darkness. No, it was because if I ventured upstairs in the dark, I might be attacked by Cuddles, the furry orange monkey created by Keith Harris.
See what I mean? Totally irrational, not to mention slightly loopy.
In a similar vein, I never liked to use cassette decks on the grounds that the tape might snarl and startle me. Personally, I blame this on my Dad for buying cheap cassettes from Boots.
Back in the day, I was also a big fan of The Kenny Everett Show on Radio 2 (what do you mean, "that explains something"? How dare you...). However, I never "got" the genius of his BBC television show until many years later (i.e. until I reached twenty-six).
One aspect of the show which I used to shield my eyes from were the Maurice Mimer segments; Cuddly Ken's homage to Marcel Marceau, complete with magic marker. Again, a totally irrational fear of a bizarrely-dressed scouser who could draw things that came alive.
Actually, maybe that one isn't completely irrational after all.
(Oh, and the significance of "Wachet Auf"? Well, this was the theme tune to said Maurice Mimer sketches, albeit in heavily-synthesised form.)
Sunday 29 April 2007
Monday 16 April 2007
Johnnie Taylor: What About My Love?
Less knowledgeable readers will only know this tune as being sampled on Lola’s Theme; for me, it brings back memories of the golden age of commercial radio.
Weekend radio in the Chester area during the mid nineties was fantastic for fans of soul and jazz. GWR and Capital had only just started their great conquest of the commercial sector, The Guardian was still only a newspaper and not a media empire, and there was still room in the world of commercial radio for those of us with less mainstream tastes.
It would all kick off at 10 pm on Friday when, on 100.4 FM, the immortal Greg Edwards would hit the airwaves of Jazz FM with his three-hour extravaganza of jazzy soul, funky disco and mellow ballads known as The Bridge.
Saturday was more or less barren – well, one had to have time to catch the football results – until seven o’clock in the evening, when Tony Blackburn’s Big Soul Night would start on Jazz FM. Don’t laugh. Seriously, in the early days this was a good programme. It was more-or-less eighties dominated, and it was my first introduction to acts such as The Limit, Windjammer, Freeez, and all of those other names from the UK jazz-funk scene.
Sunday, however, was the business end. The legendary Bury-born, Tottenham-supporting soul DJ known as Richard Searling would commence ceremonies on Jazz FM at 10 am for four hours, celebrating soul music old and new. The show would always end with the now-famous Cellar Full of Soul segment, which was my first introduction to the concept of northern soul.
Five hours and several reams of homework later, the radio would be back on, though tuned to 103.4 – this was (and still is) the home of Wrexham-based Marcher Sound. From seven until ten it would also be the home of Cestrian DJ Ray Rose, whose Sunday Night Experience promised “soul and R ‘n’ B for grown-ups”. He was spot on there. This is the show I remember with the most fondness, as it represents the soundtrack to my later teenage years.
Finally, back on Jazz FM at ten o’clock, the unmistakeable tones of Take 6 would herald the start of Fusion Flavours. This four-hour segment, hosted by Steve Quirke, was unashamedly smooth jazz-based, but nevertheless proved that smooth jazz could be a credible format in its own right, and was fit for more than accompanying the test card.
Most of this has, sadly, now gone, or has been shifted around the schedules so much as to have lost its original lustre. Consolidation and commercial orthodoxy has destroyed much of what made commercial radio – and local radio in particular – so good. Although we now have access to an unbelievably huge range of specialist radio channels via satellite television, DAB and the internet, somehow it just is not the same as anticipating tuning in to ones favourite programmes once per week.
I guess you can’t go back…
Weekend radio in the Chester area during the mid nineties was fantastic for fans of soul and jazz. GWR and Capital had only just started their great conquest of the commercial sector, The Guardian was still only a newspaper and not a media empire, and there was still room in the world of commercial radio for those of us with less mainstream tastes.
It would all kick off at 10 pm on Friday when, on 100.4 FM, the immortal Greg Edwards would hit the airwaves of Jazz FM with his three-hour extravaganza of jazzy soul, funky disco and mellow ballads known as The Bridge.
Saturday was more or less barren – well, one had to have time to catch the football results – until seven o’clock in the evening, when Tony Blackburn’s Big Soul Night would start on Jazz FM. Don’t laugh. Seriously, in the early days this was a good programme. It was more-or-less eighties dominated, and it was my first introduction to acts such as The Limit, Windjammer, Freeez, and all of those other names from the UK jazz-funk scene.
Sunday, however, was the business end. The legendary Bury-born, Tottenham-supporting soul DJ known as Richard Searling would commence ceremonies on Jazz FM at 10 am for four hours, celebrating soul music old and new. The show would always end with the now-famous Cellar Full of Soul segment, which was my first introduction to the concept of northern soul.
Five hours and several reams of homework later, the radio would be back on, though tuned to 103.4 – this was (and still is) the home of Wrexham-based Marcher Sound. From seven until ten it would also be the home of Cestrian DJ Ray Rose, whose Sunday Night Experience promised “soul and R ‘n’ B for grown-ups”. He was spot on there. This is the show I remember with the most fondness, as it represents the soundtrack to my later teenage years.
Finally, back on Jazz FM at ten o’clock, the unmistakeable tones of Take 6 would herald the start of Fusion Flavours. This four-hour segment, hosted by Steve Quirke, was unashamedly smooth jazz-based, but nevertheless proved that smooth jazz could be a credible format in its own right, and was fit for more than accompanying the test card.
Most of this has, sadly, now gone, or has been shifted around the schedules so much as to have lost its original lustre. Consolidation and commercial orthodoxy has destroyed much of what made commercial radio – and local radio in particular – so good. Although we now have access to an unbelievably huge range of specialist radio channels via satellite television, DAB and the internet, somehow it just is not the same as anticipating tuning in to ones favourite programmes once per week.
I guess you can’t go back…
Saturday 17 February 2007
Sade: Smooth Operator
I'm a bit of a fan of soul and jazz; looking back, I suspect that this is the song that started it all.My earliest memories of growing up in Flintshire in the early eighties involve an awful lot of rain. Leaden skies were the norm back then, it seems. That possibly explains why I feel quite comfortable and secure in dreary weather.
It was on one of those dismal, rainy afternoons in 1984 that I first heard this song. I was sat on the back seat of my parents' car, a rust-coloured Vauxhall Viva HC, constructed a short way up the road in Ellesmere Port. I recall being fascinated by this style of music that I had never encountered before. After all, up until that point, the sum total of my musical knowledge consisted of Neil Diamond, Showaddywaddy, and the theme tune to Postman Pat.
However, being a four-year-old, my listening skills were - quite understandably - not exactly up to scratch. It would be another seven years before I realised that Ms Adu was not singing about a "smooth umbrella".
Nevertheless, the seeds were firmly planted within my subconscious mind. Whilst it would be another ten years before they germinated, it is fair to say that, these days, my jazz and soul receptors are in full bloom.
Life has never sounded sweeter.
Saturday 13 January 2007
The Foundations: (Build Me Up) Buttercup
Two words: The. Bop.
Back in my student days - which, right at this moment, seem like the dim and distant past - I obtained a first class honours degree in educational studies with science education and qualified teacher status.
I chose, as my base for four years' concerted study, the University of Exeter. Because I was an education student, this meant studying and living on the smaller St Luke's campus on the Heavitree Road, as opposed to the sprawling expanse of the main campus on the north side of the city.
This made me a fully fledged, thoroughbred Lukie. There existed, at the time, a kind of good-natured social animosity between us Lukies and those students based on the main campus, whom we referred to as Jifs. If I remember correctly, the name 'Jif' is a reference to the main campus' resident night club, the Lemon Grove (or Lemmy, as it was almost universally known. No long-haired heavy metal jokes here, please).
Due to its slightly isolated location, its compact stature, and the slightly irreverent student body, St Luke's developed a social scene of its own. Central to the weekly calendar at St Luke's for many years was The Bop, possibly the most naff club evening ever devised. The music was cheesy, the surroundings cavernous and dull, and the fluorescent lighting had an uncanny tendency to pick out the odd fleck of soap powder on your otherwise impeccably clean shirt.
But we Lukies loved The Bop. It was ours. Who cared if it was several degrees less stylish than Dwayne Dibley? What mattered was that you were there with good company and that you enjoyed yourself.
Sadly, towards the end of my course, attendances at The Bop plummeted. This was not helped by the decision to move the event from its traditional Friday slot to Saturday evenings, thus overlapping with the Lemmy - which was also well frequented by Lukies.
More often than not, Buttercup would be the last song of the evening at The Bop. So, whenever I hear that song, I think back to the hundreds - if not thousands - of Lukies over the years who experienced this unique institution. Here's to you all.
Altogether now: "I would rather be a Lukie than a Jif; I would rather be a Lukie than a Jif..."
Back in my student days - which, right at this moment, seem like the dim and distant past - I obtained a first class honours degree in educational studies with science education and qualified teacher status.
I chose, as my base for four years' concerted study, the University of Exeter. Because I was an education student, this meant studying and living on the smaller St Luke's campus on the Heavitree Road, as opposed to the sprawling expanse of the main campus on the north side of the city.
This made me a fully fledged, thoroughbred Lukie. There existed, at the time, a kind of good-natured social animosity between us Lukies and those students based on the main campus, whom we referred to as Jifs. If I remember correctly, the name 'Jif' is a reference to the main campus' resident night club, the Lemon Grove (or Lemmy, as it was almost universally known. No long-haired heavy metal jokes here, please).
Due to its slightly isolated location, its compact stature, and the slightly irreverent student body, St Luke's developed a social scene of its own. Central to the weekly calendar at St Luke's for many years was The Bop, possibly the most naff club evening ever devised. The music was cheesy, the surroundings cavernous and dull, and the fluorescent lighting had an uncanny tendency to pick out the odd fleck of soap powder on your otherwise impeccably clean shirt.
But we Lukies loved The Bop. It was ours. Who cared if it was several degrees less stylish than Dwayne Dibley? What mattered was that you were there with good company and that you enjoyed yourself.
Sadly, towards the end of my course, attendances at The Bop plummeted. This was not helped by the decision to move the event from its traditional Friday slot to Saturday evenings, thus overlapping with the Lemmy - which was also well frequented by Lukies.
More often than not, Buttercup would be the last song of the evening at The Bop. So, whenever I hear that song, I think back to the hundreds - if not thousands - of Lukies over the years who experienced this unique institution. Here's to you all.
Altogether now: "I would rather be a Lukie than a Jif; I would rather be a Lukie than a Jif..."
Sunday 24 December 2006
Bryan Adams: (Everything I Do) I Do It For You
Billy Maher on Radio Merseyside just played Katherine Jenkins' version of this song, which brought to mind a particular memory.
Growing up in Wales, as I did, we were required to learn Welsh until the end of year nine (aged 14). In year nine, we were taught Welsh by one Mr Aneurin Roberts, who spent most of his timetable teaching PE. So, because he was not a full-time member of the Welsh department, he was not afforded one of the nice classrooms. Instead, he had to teach most of his Welsh lessons in a dishevelled mobile classroom.
For that year, every Wednesday after morning break we would file into the dank surroundings; I would take my seat next to Hayley Leigh. Hayley was a sweet girl; attractive, outgoing and kind. She was a lovely friend to have.
There was only one problem: in every Welsh lesson in year nine, Hayley would start singing Everything I Do, usually without warning. I absolutely hated that song. It was the number one selling single in the UK for sixteen consecutive weeks of 1991; I was thoroughly sick of it by week three.
The last time I saw Hayley was in 1997, a few days after we had started sixth form. The course that Hayley had wanted to take was cut at the last minute due to lack of student numbers. So Hayley - and another friend, Saskia - left to attend the further education college in the next town. My last contact with her was in a 'phone call on my seventeenth birthday, all those years ago in 1997.
So although I hate the song with a passion, hearing it makes me think fondly of Hayley, and makes me wish I had been better at keeping in touch with people.
Growing up in Wales, as I did, we were required to learn Welsh until the end of year nine (aged 14). In year nine, we were taught Welsh by one Mr Aneurin Roberts, who spent most of his timetable teaching PE. So, because he was not a full-time member of the Welsh department, he was not afforded one of the nice classrooms. Instead, he had to teach most of his Welsh lessons in a dishevelled mobile classroom.
For that year, every Wednesday after morning break we would file into the dank surroundings; I would take my seat next to Hayley Leigh. Hayley was a sweet girl; attractive, outgoing and kind. She was a lovely friend to have.
There was only one problem: in every Welsh lesson in year nine, Hayley would start singing Everything I Do, usually without warning. I absolutely hated that song. It was the number one selling single in the UK for sixteen consecutive weeks of 1991; I was thoroughly sick of it by week three.
The last time I saw Hayley was in 1997, a few days after we had started sixth form. The course that Hayley had wanted to take was cut at the last minute due to lack of student numbers. So Hayley - and another friend, Saskia - left to attend the further education college in the next town. My last contact with her was in a 'phone call on my seventeenth birthday, all those years ago in 1997.
So although I hate the song with a passion, hearing it makes me think fondly of Hayley, and makes me wish I had been better at keeping in touch with people.
Tuesday 12 December 2006
Jason Donovan: Too Many Broken Hearts
The first girl I ever fell in love with was Jenny Heywood. I was seven years old at the time.
Earlier that summer, our family had relocated to Sussex from north Wales. I was faced with the challenge of adjusting not only to a new village, but also a new school and new people. Not to mention the fact that the road signs were unilingual.
Jenny was in my class right through junior school. I took an instant shine to her; even then, I was able to recognise a very pretty girl when I saw one. However, like most seven-year-old boys, I was unable to adequately deal with all of these new feelings. I consequently kept most of them bottled up for years.
Jenny seemed to like me, though. One time, during one of Mrs Morice's lessons, she kissed me on the back of the neck. Just like that. Out of the blue. It had an impact on me; I can still remember the moment clear as day. Just as clear is the memory of how stunned and surprised I was. My face must have been a picture.
I recall that Jenny was a passionate supporter of animal welfare, and organised several petitions on such issues as the transportation of farm animals. I signed them; I doubt very much that I properly understood the issues, but I trusted Jenny and wanted to make her happy.
In our final year in junior school we fell out. I can't remember why, but I seem to recall I behaved pretty idiotically. We never made up. That summer, as we made the transition to secondary school, my Dad was transferred back north, and we returned to Wales.
I never saw her again.
So to the musical connection. During the late eighties, Neighbours-hysteria was hitting its peak. Jenny, like many girls at the time, had a crush on Jason Donovan. Even today, every time I hear Too Many Broken Hearts, I still spare a thought for the pretty girl with the hazelnut-coloured hair.
I wonder what she's up to now?
Earlier that summer, our family had relocated to Sussex from north Wales. I was faced with the challenge of adjusting not only to a new village, but also a new school and new people. Not to mention the fact that the road signs were unilingual.
Jenny was in my class right through junior school. I took an instant shine to her; even then, I was able to recognise a very pretty girl when I saw one. However, like most seven-year-old boys, I was unable to adequately deal with all of these new feelings. I consequently kept most of them bottled up for years.
Jenny seemed to like me, though. One time, during one of Mrs Morice's lessons, she kissed me on the back of the neck. Just like that. Out of the blue. It had an impact on me; I can still remember the moment clear as day. Just as clear is the memory of how stunned and surprised I was. My face must have been a picture.
I recall that Jenny was a passionate supporter of animal welfare, and organised several petitions on such issues as the transportation of farm animals. I signed them; I doubt very much that I properly understood the issues, but I trusted Jenny and wanted to make her happy.
In our final year in junior school we fell out. I can't remember why, but I seem to recall I behaved pretty idiotically. We never made up. That summer, as we made the transition to secondary school, my Dad was transferred back north, and we returned to Wales.
I never saw her again.
So to the musical connection. During the late eighties, Neighbours-hysteria was hitting its peak. Jenny, like many girls at the time, had a crush on Jason Donovan. Even today, every time I hear Too Many Broken Hearts, I still spare a thought for the pretty girl with the hazelnut-coloured hair.
I wonder what she's up to now?
Wednesday 6 December 2006
George Benson: Star Of A Story
The winter of 1996 was the last time I remember seeing really heavy snowfall.
I lived in Flintshire at the time, and can remember sitting up in my room one evening watching an enormous blizzard sweep across the farmland behind the house and envelop the village in a foot-and-a-half's depth of pristine whiteness.
It was also about the time that I started listening to jazz. The conduit was Jazz FM, a radio station that taught me that jazz was not just about tedious Dixieland bands and Frank Sinatra records. It also taught me that George Benson was actually one of the world's greatest guitarists and not, as might have been surmised from most of his output in the early eighties, a second-rate Luther Vandross wannabe.
I had bought a copy of Benson's 1980 album Give Me The Night, from which this track is taken, about a week before the snow hit. My abiding memory is of sitting and listening to this song as the snow banked up against the window.
It's funny how these little things seem to stick.
I lived in Flintshire at the time, and can remember sitting up in my room one evening watching an enormous blizzard sweep across the farmland behind the house and envelop the village in a foot-and-a-half's depth of pristine whiteness.
It was also about the time that I started listening to jazz. The conduit was Jazz FM, a radio station that taught me that jazz was not just about tedious Dixieland bands and Frank Sinatra records. It also taught me that George Benson was actually one of the world's greatest guitarists and not, as might have been surmised from most of his output in the early eighties, a second-rate Luther Vandross wannabe.
I had bought a copy of Benson's 1980 album Give Me The Night, from which this track is taken, about a week before the snow hit. My abiding memory is of sitting and listening to this song as the snow banked up against the window.
It's funny how these little things seem to stick.
Monday 4 December 2006
Snow Patrol: Chasing Cars
This song will forever remind me of two wonderful months, in which I learned an awful lot about myself and others.
In that time I was given a level of confidence that I never thought I would have. I was refreshed, renewed and renovated.
Although it all came to an end sooner than I wanted it to, I couldn't possibly be bitter or resentful. It was all too good for me to ever be ungrateful.
You gave me so much; thank you for everything.
In that time I was given a level of confidence that I never thought I would have. I was refreshed, renewed and renovated.
Although it all came to an end sooner than I wanted it to, I couldn't possibly be bitter or resentful. It was all too good for me to ever be ungrateful.
You gave me so much; thank you for everything.
Tuesday 21 November 2006
Julio Iglesias: Begin the Beguine
This one takes me back to some of my earliest memories.
Iglesias' disco version of the Cole Porter classic was a massive international hit in 1981. At about that time, my Dad had moved us out to Nigeria to spend a few years as expatriates. I was a little over one year old at the time.
We were based out in Enugu, erstwhile capital of Anambra State. Apparently we lived in several houses over the few years of our African adventure, but only one sticks in my mind. I forget exactly where it was.
One of my most vivid memories is of being take around Ogbete market in Enugu. I remember it as a vast, swirling mass of humanity, assaulting my toddler senses from all angles. My Mum and I would occasionally be given free stuff by the traders, such is the hospitality and generosity of the Nigerians. I remember one time being led through the market, munching happily on a paper cone filled with peanuts; I cannot have been more than two years old.
I also remember sitting out in the front porch one afternoon - with my Richard Scarry book - and being scared witless by a group of local children running around the corner and shouting their heads off.
My parents had a Julio Iglesias cassette; Begin the Beguine is the only song that sticks in my memory. Apparently, at the time I was also in to Don Williams and Neil Diamond, as well as being a fan of the Kenny Everett Show on Radio 2 which we would tape on our brief visits to the UK.
Still, it hasn't done me any harm .
Has it?
Iglesias' disco version of the Cole Porter classic was a massive international hit in 1981. At about that time, my Dad had moved us out to Nigeria to spend a few years as expatriates. I was a little over one year old at the time.
We were based out in Enugu, erstwhile capital of Anambra State. Apparently we lived in several houses over the few years of our African adventure, but only one sticks in my mind. I forget exactly where it was.
One of my most vivid memories is of being take around Ogbete market in Enugu. I remember it as a vast, swirling mass of humanity, assaulting my toddler senses from all angles. My Mum and I would occasionally be given free stuff by the traders, such is the hospitality and generosity of the Nigerians. I remember one time being led through the market, munching happily on a paper cone filled with peanuts; I cannot have been more than two years old.
I also remember sitting out in the front porch one afternoon - with my Richard Scarry book - and being scared witless by a group of local children running around the corner and shouting their heads off.
My parents had a Julio Iglesias cassette; Begin the Beguine is the only song that sticks in my memory. Apparently, at the time I was also in to Don Williams and Neil Diamond, as well as being a fan of the Kenny Everett Show on Radio 2 which we would tape on our brief visits to the UK.
Still, it hasn't done me any harm .
Has it?
Saturday 18 November 2006
Ronnie Laws: Every Generation
Making the adjustment to life at university was tough at first. I have never been the most outgoing of people to begin with, although I have improved with time. So, moving 250 miles across the country to an unfamiliar city filled with unfamiliar people was always going to be a challenge.
In short, I was homesick for the first half of my first term.
Gradually, as I began to make friends and settle in to the social scene in Exeter, I soon forgot about the whole homesickness thing. I came to view Exeter as my second home.
This presented its own problem: going home for Christmas. By that stage, I had become so used to uni life that part of me did not want to leave at all. On the one hand I was looking forward to returning to the familiarity of my family and homeland; on the other I was leaving behind my social circle, the only friends I had outside of my family.
I was torn.
At that time I had spent the best part of three years searching for a copy of the song Every Generation, which I had heard several times on Jazz FM (as was). The original album (also entitled Every Generation) had been out of print for some time. However, in November of 2000 - during my first term at Exeter - I found it. It was on one of HMV's budget compilations, which I purchased for the princely sum of £5.99.
It is a very reflective song, centred around the changes one experiences as one progresses through life. The lyrics immdediately struck a chord with me, given that I was embarking upon another stage of the great journey of life at the time.
I took the CD back to Flintshire with me over the Christmas break. As I reflected on the momentous changes I was going through, and all the fun and excitement that the next four years had in store, I'm not ashamed to say that I shed a tear or two that December when I listened to the song.
To this day I regard Every Generation as the signature tune of my life. It is also the direct inspiration for the title of my other blog.
In short, I was homesick for the first half of my first term.
Gradually, as I began to make friends and settle in to the social scene in Exeter, I soon forgot about the whole homesickness thing. I came to view Exeter as my second home.
This presented its own problem: going home for Christmas. By that stage, I had become so used to uni life that part of me did not want to leave at all. On the one hand I was looking forward to returning to the familiarity of my family and homeland; on the other I was leaving behind my social circle, the only friends I had outside of my family.
I was torn.
At that time I had spent the best part of three years searching for a copy of the song Every Generation, which I had heard several times on Jazz FM (as was). The original album (also entitled Every Generation) had been out of print for some time. However, in November of 2000 - during my first term at Exeter - I found it. It was on one of HMV's budget compilations, which I purchased for the princely sum of £5.99.
It is a very reflective song, centred around the changes one experiences as one progresses through life. The lyrics immdediately struck a chord with me, given that I was embarking upon another stage of the great journey of life at the time.
I took the CD back to Flintshire with me over the Christmas break. As I reflected on the momentous changes I was going through, and all the fun and excitement that the next four years had in store, I'm not ashamed to say that I shed a tear or two that December when I listened to the song.
To this day I regard Every Generation as the signature tune of my life. It is also the direct inspiration for the title of my other blog.
Welcome...
Welcome to The Tracks Of My Years*.
For all of us there are pieces of music that have some special significance to our lives, no matter how small.
My aim with this blog is to share with you a few songs that stick in my mind, along with their particular circumstances.
(* With apologies to Ken Bruce)
For all of us there are pieces of music that have some special significance to our lives, no matter how small.
My aim with this blog is to share with you a few songs that stick in my mind, along with their particular circumstances.
(* With apologies to Ken Bruce)
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