Saturday, 13 August 2016

Random access memory #4

The Summer of 1978 seemed a strange, transitional time, musically as well as personally.  I’d just turned 15 and punk was rapidly becoming my main thing, but there was so much still at odds with it.   For instance, I was never going to hear it down the little fortnightly disco at the cricket pavilion (unless you counted the Boomtown Rats), yet I still went that Summer, and I still danced.  My friends and I went to see 'Grease'; we wore our Jam badges, we giggled at John Travolta.  It shouldn’t have been our kind of film but there’s no denying, we enjoyed it.  The boys we fancied rode Yamaha FS1Es and only the most daring of them had an ear pierced.   I’d ventured into what seemed like the dark, adult realm of Sex Pistols and safety pins,  but the residue of the pre-punk, blue eye-shadow, strawberry lipgloss, Starsky & Hutch fan still lingered in me and my world.  I owned a plastic belt with the Coca-Cola logo all over it and a razorblade necklace.

Anyway, there was this song.  I really liked it, but the thing was - it wasn’t punk, it was disco.   Disco seemed to be at the opposite end of the spectrum to punk then.  Discos - proper big discos in town, I mean, not our cut price cricket pavilion ones - were full of cliques of mean girls and the sort of blokes who'd beat up anyone in straight trousers.  But still I liked this song - it had a relentless bass-line and a nagging chorus with a lyric that was so not my thing;  we’re gonna boogie oogie oogie ‘til we just can’t boogie no more. 

Haha, do you remember it too?!

Well I’d forgotten all about it until I came across a UK singles chart list from July 1978 the other day and then got mildly obsessed with it and the memories it evoked: Boogie Oogie Oogie (the clue was in the lyric) by A Taste Of Honey.    That week in the charts, You’re the One That I Want was No 1,  and the Smurf Song was No. 2.    A few places down there was quite a diverse mix of artists, in fact it seems weird to think of it now as I wouldn't have remembered them being in the same timeframe: James Galway, Showaddywaddy, Lindisfarne, Boney M, Renaissance, ELO.   Then further down – in the 30s -  it got really quite cool and definitely up my street with Buzzcocks, Sham 69, Xray Spex and Steel Pulse.  With all that going on, Boogie Oogie Oogie was not a song I “should” have favoured at all.

But memories of it, like so many things, are inextricably linked to the personal landscapes they inhabit, and I can’t separate this song from a week in July 1978 spent in Sussex on a Geography field trip with my school year.   Like something from the (wonderful) Please Sir! film, it was that peculiar marriage of school life and away-from-home freedom.  It was a week of giggling fits (those truly painful ones, when your lungs feel as if they're going to burst through your ribcage), of  bags of Chipsticks smuggled in satchels for midnight feasting, of sneaking out of places we should have been and sneaking into places we shouldn’t, the covert smoking of Rothmans in the woods, ghost stories and glow-worms, packed lunches and sunburn, and seeing teachers drinking beer. Well, you know, I’m sure.   

Boogie Oogie Oogie always seemed to be playing on the little radio my schoolgirl friends and I took into our accommodation block, a long wooden chalet with greasy windows.  It was next door to one with German students, both male and female, who reportedly wandered around in it with no clothes on and weren’t embarrassed.  Oh, those liberal Europeans!

That month, I bought Buzzcocks Love You More.  I’d never have bought Boogie Oogie Oogie

What I didn’t realise at the time, though, was just how cool the two front women from A Taste Of Honey were.  The single peaked at No. 3 in the charts here, and while I remember hearing it all the time I don’t recall ever seeing any footage of them - I'm sure I’d have been so chuffed to see them play their guitars.   So, finding this performance below was quite a treat, even if it is nearly 40 years too late.  That smiling confidence, the fast funky bass, the bendy guitar solos (there’s a kind of Isley Brothers sound coming out of that Stratocaster).  Even if you don’t like the song, I promise you the way they play their instruments is a joy to watch.  

Plus they were right, lyrically - weren't they?!

If you're thinkin' you're too cool to boogie
Boy, oh boy, have I got news for you
Everybody here tonight must boogie
Let me tell ya, you are no exception to the rule.

Wednesday, 20 July 2016

The graveyard shift

Something dawned on me recently; it’s probably blindingly obvious to most people but for some reason it hadn’t been to me until that moment.   I was taking a short cut through the churchyard and casually observing the gravestones standing there, like a small crowd of quiet, still people, when it suddenly struck me that that's exactly what they are. 

A small crowd of quiet, still people:  neighbours, friends, strangers;  old, young and in-between; shopkeepers and factory workers; families grouped together  - like a gathering at a village fĂȘte.    Although I’m not religious, the significance of headstones suddenly registered in a whole new way, and I found it kind of comforting.  I saw the graveyard in a different light, like a place full of life rather than death.

The local graveyard

Then last month I was down at the City of London Cemetery again and the analogy really hit home.  It’s huge.  The 'population' of headstones is more like a large town than a gathering at a village fĂȘte - there are 150,000 graves there.

It’s the biggest of its kind in the UK – set in 200 acres of grounds (I can never picture quite what an acre actually is, but someone told me it’s roughly the size of a football pitch).  It also has 7 miles of roadway intersecting its vast parks and gardens, and 5 chapels.  You might imagine there are quite a few notable characters buried there but a little research didn’t produce many names – although I did find two of Jack the Ripper’s victims and Bobby Moore’s ashes.  The enormous variety of the memorials – the humble, weathered stones alongside some contrastingly new and really quite blingy structures, the assortment  of different traits, cultures, tastes and religions of the people beneath expressed in their monuments – well, they looked just the same to me as the shoppers I’d walked amid earlier on an East London street and the passengers on the platform at Liverpool St. Station.  I suppose it’s obvious when I put it like that.  Anyway, there’s definitely something about this correlation that I find uplifting: the inanimate representations of all those diverse human beings now mingling so peacefully in the cemetery.  If only we could always be so peaceful in life. 


I had to take a taxi to the station on the way to help clear my aunt and uncle’s house (both now buried in the above mentioned City of London Cemetery, in a serene, woodland area, unmarked by memorials but represented fittingly by the wildness of nature) and was chatting to the cab driver about the task ahead.  He’d had to do the same thing himself with an aunt’s belongings not long beforehand.  “She’d never married nor lived with anyone and had no other family,” he explained, “but she kept a lot of stuff!”   

It’s strange when you sift through someone’s most personal and intimate possessions, isn’t it?  In some ways you can feel like a voyeur, an imposter.  So Cab Driver and I talked about that, and how a lot is changing now, as so much of what we'll leave behind in the future – photos, music collections, documents, even contact details for friends - may only be accessible via our hard drives and phones… passwords permitting.  There's something to bear in mind!  Anyway, up in the attic amid his aunt’s general paraphernalia, he'd found an old suitcase.  It was closed tight, and for extra security bound crossways with thick string like a parcel.  Attached to it was a hand-written note:

  ‘Please destroy after my death.  Not to be opened’

“Ooh!  I wonder what was in it… did you ever find out?” I asked.  But Cab Driver was an honourable  man and had followed his aunt's instructions without even taking a sneaky peek.

So, what could have been in there?  Secret letters from a forbidden lover, perhaps?  That was my first and favourite thought.  Or perhaps documents relating to an illegitimate child?  Or even evidence from an unsolved crime?  Or maybe just a private collection of….. well…  what?!

I'm tempted to do the same myself, just to bring some old-fashioned mystique to the proceedings when the time comes. 

Saturday, 18 June 2016


I hope you’re all well!   My apologies to those whose  blogs I usually visit regularly and have neglected  but life has pulled me in other directions lately and I’m appreciating a little break from the online life.   Real life is quite enough, sometimes.

I never wanted this blog to be a place for too much sorrow or self-pity, so it’s with some reluctance that I mention today something that is undoubtedly sad (sorry).  At the same time I just need to put it out there.  I can’t quite believe it; less than five months after the distressing loss of my dear friend Andy, I’m trying to process the recent news about the death of another, Dale - one which came as a complete shock and has now left me feeling a little numb.  Oddly enough, both these lovely men were born in the same month of the same year, and were both artists, their work exciting, individual, often controversial, full of energy and spark.  Whilst very different characters, with each of them I had a quite extraordinary, low-maintenance, one-to-one connection and understanding,  never searched for but instead stumbled upon serendipitously, the kind which is really quite rare and therefore precious.    I even introduced them to each other once - isn't life strange?!  But I’ve never been one for lots of friends – having always favoured quality over quantity (!) - and I am so sad to have lost two such loved ones in so short a space of time. 

That said, both inspired me with their optimism and selflessness – both of them clearly wished to spare their friends the worry and pain of what they were going through - and it feels wrong to write here in anything other than a humbled tone.  The last email I had from Dale, just weeks before his death, was full of positive thoughts about the future and made no mention of the cancer which had already taken hold.  I was oblivious.

By way of lifting this a little, let me revisit something I wrote about Dale on this blog some while ago, although I never mentioned his name at the time.....  I'm sure he wouldn't mind.


My dear friend has a memorable way of describing himself, which is: “great at art, shit at life”. He can drink three bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon and still walk in a straight line, plus he has the energy of someone half his age, but he's the kind who forgets he's left a bath running and, on discovering the flood, decides to let it soak into the floor because he's “going out”. Somehow he gets through life relatively unscathed, surviving on creativity, charisma and an occasionally misplaced degree of optimism; I think he may also have superpowers.  I've never known anyone like him and his chaotic life has left me breathless at times.

Before he moved away to another town, we used to meet quite often for a natter about art.  Well: art, people, life, the universe and all its contents. I sat on his sagging sofa, surrounded by dozens of pieces of his striking (and frequently controversial) work, which filled every available space in his living-room-cum-studio. We drank wine in the afternoon out of chipped mugs, and I kept my coat on in Winter when he couldn't afford to feed the electricity meter for heating. I listened to tales of his latest unrequited love and money woes, stories you wouldn't believe... or wouldn't want to... yet he always rode through his problems with admirable positivity.  The wine (for there was always enough money for that kind of juice, if not the other) was often, almost ritualistically, accompanied by Maltesers, served in a ceramic dish. When the dodgy cassette player was actually working, he'd play secondhand tapes found in charity shops; it could be Henry Mancini one day and Happy Mondays the next.  Sometimes we went out - one time I took him to an exhibition of Syd Barrett's paintings at my old college (which was also Syd's); he was perfect company.  He's also the only person I've known who's left the house in odd shoes; perhaps the same could have been said of Syd...?!


Here is a tiny piece of collage art (only a few inches square) that he gave me several years ago:

I Didn't Mean For You To See Me Cry Miss Moneypenny

and a more recent 3D work entitled 'Angel':

(See some more of his work in this post too: Travels in East Anglia )

In loving memory of my two dear friends, 2016.  

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