Learn Your Parents’ Music

I grew up with a Mum that taught me about David Bowie, and Marc Bolan, and a Dad that played The Smiths in the shower as loud as the stereo would go. I spent a large portion of my childhood being physically forced to transcribe James lyrics so he could learn them for the Karaoke. There was never any question in our house about what real music was. 

I did buy the Number 1 single every week, and knew the lyrics to Take That, and The Spice Girls, because I had to fit in at school, but I always knew, at the back of my mind, that that wasn’t the real music.  The real music was what my parents played at full volume when they were getting ready to go out.  The smell of hairspray, and perfume; the twist of lipstick, and the creak of leather jackets, will always be married to The Style Council, always The Style Council, and Rod Stewart.

My parents didn’t forbid me anything musically, but neither did they need to tell me that modern music was trash, because they demonstrated by example. For my sixteenth birthday, I was given a Motown compilation, not because I needed educating, but because I needed more.

 The same applied to comedy.  I was recently discussing comedy with some work colleagues between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two, who sited ‘old comedy’ as The Fresh Prince of Bell Air.  When I mentioned Blackadder, Steptoe, Fools and Horses, The Young Ones, Pete and Dud, Rising Damp, I was met with a room full of blank faces.  Similarly, when I returned from Glastonbury in the Summer, full of excitement that I had just seen The Rolling Stones, I was greeted by a room that was silent for half a beat, and the dissection of Miley Cyrus and Rhianna singles then resumed.

These blank faces of the young people, particularly the teenagers, lead me to wonder what their parents are teaching them.  I wonder, when I see one of these “Directioners”, or “Beliebers”; a new generation of technologically fuelled obsessives, why their parents aren’t teaching them that there is more to life than One Direction.  Why is no-one in their life teaching them what real music is?  Because it sure as hell isn’t Justin Bieber.

Mania has always existed, from The Beatles to The Rolling Stones, right through to Take That.  Teenage girls have always been frighteningly obsessed by popstars.  For my Mum, before she fell irrevocably in love with Marc Bolan, it was The Bay City Rollers.  She sewed tartan into her jeans, and slashed her lip with a razor so she’d have a scar like Les McKeown.  Unfortunately, because she made the cut in the mirror, it ended up on the wrong side of her face.  However, whereas Beatlemania was on a certain level; girls screaming at airports and concerts, and then going home for their tea, happy and safe, the recent documentary about Directioners proved that this new generation of fans have taken things to a whole new level.  Aided by the internet, teenage fanatics can now devote their whole day, every day, to their chosen subject, and the hours spent online are proving extremely unhealthy.  The level of obsessiveness has already reached life-threatening depths.

Taste is very personal, and the kind of music, books, and comedy a person likes is what defines them, and what kind of person they choose to be.  These things are part of our identity, and how we signify to the world that were are angry, happy, goth, metalhead, pill-popping clubber, classically refined, jiver, swinger, crier, harmer, mod, rocker, romantic, new-wave, dubstep, rapper.  What we listen to is who we are, and there are no two people the same.  However, nowadays, that idea is already almost extinct.  The idea that no two people are the same is being rapidly extinguished by a generation of people who wear the same, listen to the same, watch the same, say the same, think the same, do the same.  Everything they do is the same, and the pictures they post of it on Instagram are the same.  What makes it dangerous is that they have no comprehension that there is an alternative.  For these young people, there is nothing else.

Whilst recently browsing Twitter, I saw the hashtag #10songsthatmakeyoucry.  Bored, I clicked on the hashtag, hopefully expecting perhaps REM, The Smiths, Radiohead, Elvis Costello, Johnny Cash, Jeff Buckley, Jonie Mitchell, maybe Adele.  After scrolling for a good ten minutes, I didn’t see a single song listed that wasn’t by One Direction, Rhiana, Beyonce, or Justin Bieber.  No exceptions.  That was it.  There were no other artists listed, just hundreds and hundreds of people listing the same handful of songs by those four artists, perhaps with a Lady Gaga thrown in.  Where is the autonomous thought?  Where is individuality? 

I’m from a generation which, like those before us, take immense pride in the individuality of our musical taste.  When I was eighteen, at sixth form college, when questioned on your taste in music, what you listened to absolutely had to be completely different from anybody else in the group.  If you mentioned an artist or song that was mentioned by somebody else, instead of solidarity, you’d be labelled generic, and mainstream.  Your musical taste had to be eclectic, individual, authentic.  You had to actually like music for specific reasons, not just because everybody else did.  What has happened to that world?  From what I’ve seen, it’s slipping away.

If I have children, I won’t forbid them any music, but I’ll make sure I educate them well enough that they can choose intelligently, and find music that brings them to life.  Music should make you feel  so many things, and I want my children to have the power to choose from anywhere in history, rather than the top 10.

I want to grab these teenagers by the shoulders, each and every one of them, and scream into their faces that Lady Gaga is not the most inspirational artist ever to have lived, and play them some David Bowie, or T-Rex.  I want them to lose their breath as Nina Simone ends Feeling Good.  I want their throat to catch, as Bowie’s does, I want them to feel their heart quicken as Marc Bolan takes a sharp intake of breath, and they hear his words; ‘Take me.’  I want them to know what’s out there.  There is so much out there.  I want them to hear Bowie cry ‘Oh no, Love, you’re not alone’ in Rock and Roll Suicide, and feel a far greater solidarity than the one they get from having the Twitter Username ‘1DirectionFan32545223’.

Please, know that there is so much out there.  Your life can be enriched.  You can be so moved by people who play instruments, write their heart and blood into the words, and sing their entire soul out into the microphone.  Listen to somebody singing their own words, and you won’t even call Justin Bieber music. 

Listen to Alex Turner, if you want to be modern.  Music sung and performed by the people that wrote and lived it is completely different to the plastic, mas-produced, computer-produced pulp and trash that floods the world as music nowadays.  Listen to Mick Jagger.  Listen to Bob Dylan.  For God’s sake, listen to David Bowie.

 

Summer is for Music and Dresses

When the weather is beautiful, all I want to do is put on a dress and listen to music.

Summer Playlist: 

1.  Two Door Cinema Club, Tourist History (Record)

1. Cigarettes In The Theatre
2. Come Back Home
3. Do You Want It All ?
4. This Is The Life
5. Something Good Can Work
6. I Can Talk
7. Undercover Martyn
8. What You Know
9. Eat That Up, It’s Good For You
10. You Are Not Stubborn

2. The Twang, Two Lovers (Track)
3. The Best of Fleetwood Mac (Record)

1. Rhiannon
2. Go Your Own Way
3. Don’t Stop
4. Gypsy
5. Everywhere
6. You Make Loving Fun
7. Big Love
8. As Long As You Follow
9. Say You Love Me
10. Dreams
11. Little Lies
12. Oh Diane
13. Sara
14. Tusk
15. Seven Wonders
16. Hold Me
17. No Questions Asked

4. Dirty Pretty Things, B.U.R.M.A  (Track)

5. The Very Best of The Velvet Underground (Record)

1. Sweet Jane
2. I’m Sticking With You
3. I’m Waiting For The Man
4. What Goes On
5. White Light/White Heat
6. All Tomorrow’s Parties
7. Pale Blue Eyes
8. Femme Fatale
9. Heroin
10. Here She Comes Now
11. Stephanie Says
12. Venus In Furs
13. Beginning To See The Light
14. I Heard Her Call My Name
15. Some Kinda Love
16. I Can’t Stand It
17. Sunday Morning
18. Rock & Roll

6. The Libertines, Boys in the Band (Track)

7.  Blondie

Sunday Girl (Track)

Rapture (Track)

8. Bombay Bicycle Club, Flaws (Album) 

1. Rinse Me Down
2. Many Ways
3. Dust On The Ground
4. Ivy & Gold
5. Leaving Blues
6. Fairytale Lullaby
7. Word By Word
8. Jewel
9. My God
10. Flaws
11. Swansea

9. The Emotions, Best of My Love (track)

10. Kasabian, Secret Alphabets (Track)

11. The Rolling Stones (Because it wouldn’t be summer without the Rolling Stones), Beast of Burden (Track).

12. Al Green

1. Tired of Being Alone (Track)

2. How Can You Mend a Broken Heart (Track)

The music you listen to in the summertime has to have a special quality.  It has to be light, and fresh, but deeply funky and soulful.  It’s the kind of music, as some of the tracks above have been for me, the kind of music that comes onto your i-pod when you have it on shuffle, lying on the sand of a beach, and it just feels perfect.  It’s about the music you’re listening to fitting the light around you perfectly; that golden-green light.  Summer music, more than any other, has to be music you love.

I had to restrain myself, because I didn’t want to stop compiling this list.  This is only a tiny selection of the music I’ll be listening to this summer.  Feel free to add to it.

Regrets, so painful, that I’ll carry forever.

In St Mark's Square, Venice, wearing an outfit that I didn't even like back then, let alone now.

Things that I regret:

• Not allowing moments to be special. My prom, leaving school, even being at school, birthdays, holidays, being part of big stage productions, I let it all flash past without taking any notice of it.
• Not taking more photographs. I wish I had pictures, to help remember the memories I try to look back on.
• Not properly bothering about what I wore, or how I looked.
• Being too afraid to take chances, and letting opportunities slip past.
• Not having enough confidence to feel comfortable physically.

I have a feeling, though, that it might not be my fault.  In the last ten years or so it has become Zeitgeist to celebrate the special moments, to photograph everything, to cherish moments with friends, to appreciate how special every day at high-school and college actually are, to revel in and enjoy wearing clothes every day, to have an identity.  It was only when I was about twenty that I discovered clothes, real music, photographs, memories, special moments.  Before that time, around 2002 I would say, it seemed that we just existed, getting from one moment to the next, just *being*, and not celebrating it.  I’m almost sure it has to do with background.  Nineties, northern, working class, being special just didn’t happen.  At school we all had identical pencil cases, shoes, coats, bags, hairstyles, no-one was different.  It was a very dreary, rainy, grey existence, where you didn’t have chance to appreciate something as being special.  I watch episodes of Glee or The OC now, and everything they do is a celebration; one long prom, and high-school is magical, just as it should be.  Looking back, I did have magic, in my small group of friends, we laughed and had moments, but never appreciated them.  I think I might have seven photographs of me, if that, for the whole time I was at school and college.  In one of them I’m wearing a Manchester United football top, lying on the grass in London.  I wish I could live then, as I am now.

Glee's American Dream

On the night of my prom I got ready in the bathroom at home.  It was the first time I’d ever had a proper up-do, and my dress was from Topshop (before Topshop was popular in Runcorn).  I heard the limo beep downstairs, panicked because I thought I had to be in it NOW, and ran downstairs.  My family were all waiting with cameras, but I wouldn’t stop, I ran straight past them, out of the house, and into the limousine, and my Grandad just managed to get a photo of me from behind that’s a bit blurry.  Everyone else has beautifully posed photographs, a treasured keepsake of their sixteen year-old self, to keep forever, and all I was bothered about was that I might keep the driver waiting.  In fact, they’d come early, specifically to give us chance to have photographs taken.

I’m not exactly cool now (far from it), but I wish I’d had the confidence that I have now to defy what I look like and at least *feel* cool, back then.

At primary school I was always a tomboy, never quite felt like a little girl. I’m on the front row, at the end on the left.

Everything was identical, nothing was allowed to be creative or pretty, it was black, ugly, and smelled slightly of sweat.  I’m at the front, crouching on the ground.

The person in the tracksuit is the teacher.  She wasn’t even a P.E teacher.  I liked her though, she once said that when I go on stage I ‘light up’.

 

 Even in rehearsals, doing what makes me what makes me most happy, I never allowed myself to feel like a real actor, never enjoyed the moment.

One exception to the rule, a moment always guaranteed to make me feel special and glow with pride, is taking the final bow at the end of the performance.

This was one of the first nights when I hadn't planned or expected it to be special, I'd just gone out to a local amateur dramatic awards evening, not expecting anything, and it turned into one of the most special nights of my life. Even though I hadn't thought much about my outfit, it felt right, and I felt confident in myself. As I walked casually onto the stage and was presented with the trophy and handed a bottle of champagne, I was grinning. It was a truly special moment, that I hadn't seen coming.

Maybe that’s the point, perhaps when you plan something so strictly, and build your expectations up, waiting for something perfect and significant, it somehow never manages to *feel* significant.

This was the night of my twenty-first birthday. It was one of the first occasions when I'd spent time thinking about my outfit, and really made an effort. Somehow, I managed to feel radiant.

The good thing is that I have, thankfully, learned.  I still haven’t got it perfected, but I’ve learned that that feeling of surety and inner-poise doesn’t come from how you look, or from careful planning, it comes from feeling confident and at ease in your own skin, and THAT is what I have learned.  I still look as awkward and freakish as ever I did, but I’ve managed to overcome it, and to feel good about myself, even though I know I don’t look how I’d like, or sound how I’d like, or anything how I’d like.

I try to stop myself regretting, and to only allow positive thoughts to develop, but I can’t help wishing I could have those times back, to live those days again, as myself as I am now. (If only to be thin again.) I’d listen to more music, wear better clothes, and cherish every single moment of the the youth that is so precious.  I feel sad and terrified that it’s slipping away, and at twenty-six next month, there isn’t much sand left in the hourglass.

My Favourite Things This Spring: London, Trousers, and Moments.

These are the things making me smile this Spring…

1. London 

One thing I love, and it isn’t a new thing, but something I’ve been obsessed by for years, is when Londoners put ‘The’ in front of a road name.  For example, someone from London doesn’t just say ‘King’s Road’ they say ‘The King’s Road’.  I love anything which is intrinsically and traditionally ‘London’.  I love the people, the streets, and buildings, and parks, I love London as a living entity, and so I love anything which makes you instantly aware of its own metropolitan authenticity. It’s like music to me, that intoxicating London lilt; ‘Where did you see him, Bill?’, ‘I saw him down The Tottenham Court Road’.

This picture was taken backstage at a production of Rocky Horror, at The King’s Road Theatre, in 1976.  It embodies the King’s Road atmosphere and reputation for punks, theatre and creativity.

I love this quote, which I found with the photograph; “Back again.  This time, the first ‘West-End’ production at The Comedy Theatre, re-staged by the original director, Jim Sharman. It was only towards the end of this run that we noticed a strange phenomenon; American tourists who seemed to think they were part of the show  started shouting out stuff, much to their own amusement …

We just thought they were twats.”

The photo is a beautifully typical snapshot of unseen London life, one of those moments that happens with people who aren’t beautiful, aren’t scripted, but are alive in a room together, somewhere down a dark street in London.  This brings me onto my second item…

2. Moments

I love the moments in life, the moments that aren’t planned and often only seen by one person, or a few, which are breathtakingly beautiful.  I was on the train today, it was early evening, about five o’clock.  I was listening to The Cure, looking out of the train window at fields which were green, shining with the rain that had been falling earlier in the day, in bright sunshine.  The carriage was quiet and empty, and it was a beautiful moment.  I think I may have written about this before, but just in case I haven’t… Last year, early in the summer, I was walking the Dog, and I turned onto the Heath, just as the sun was setting, and I looked out across the fields of horses, and boys playing football, and the empty Heath, just as For Lovers by Pete Doherty started playing in my earphones.  I feel like a pompous prig for saying this, but that moment almost made my cry.

I recently wrote in a poem;

What about the English air
steeped in home-cooked chip fat
in late-afternoon sun,
and that place in the Colosseum
where every wayfarer stands to have their photograph taken?
Moments of well-worn summer
like comfortable clothes
in the quietness of a moment alone,
an outfit that no-one will see,
a minute’s picture-idyll,
the light catching the natural arrangement of blonde hair,
like cotton against your legs
that only you will feel.

3. Trousers

Being short in height and somewhat rotund, it isn’t easy to find clothes which are flattering.  In my head I look like a Jack Wills model, in reality I look like a Julie Walters character.  However, I recently found a pair of trousers which I like.  I always believed that I could only get away with certain things, and that I couldn’t go near anything chic or stylish, but these trousers are chic.  They were from Zara, around £22, which is a bargain in my eyes.  I love them, and will wear them all summer.

(I’ll add a picture to this Blog when I don’t have a towel on my head).

Well-Worn Music II

Following on from yesterday’s post https://vikkilittlemore.wordpress.com/2011/04/07/well-worn-music/, I decided to accept my own challenge, and on the train journey home yesterday evening I hit the shuffle button and zipped my i-Pod away in my bag, so that I wouldn’t be tempted to hit skip.  To my utter delight I was treated to a wealth of songs that I haven’t heard for quite some time, and which I’d almost forgotten about.  In the short time it took to travel from Chester to Runcorn I was treated to a long-lost Oasis track that I haven’t heard for years, and which instantly transported me back to the 1990’s, Kings of Leon, Iggy Pop and The Stooges, songs which are there on my i-pod because I love them, but which I rarely listen to.

In the euphoria of this fresh music; invigorated, enlivened, it was only then that I realised how tired and bored I had become with listening to the same small selection of songs all the time.  As I mentioned last week, talking about Winter, you don’t realise how much something is weighing you down and depressing you; whether it be the cold, dark days of Winter, or the mess in the corner of your bedroom, you only realise that a weight has been lifted once it has gone.

So, I have well and truly learned my lesson and from now on I will put complete trust in my own music, and trust that there are no bad songs on my i-pod (which there aren’t), and from now on I will never fall back on the Top Rated Playlist. Ever!

 

Well-Worn Music

 

Do you ever sing really loudly, not caring whether anyone can hear you?  Sometimes the only thing that will lift my mood is filling my flat with my favourite music, loud, and singing at the top of my voice, even with the windows open, completely oblivious to whether or not my neighbours, people walking past down on the street under the window, or anyone else, can hear me.  What’s more, I know I can’t sing.  People often say that they are tone deaf.  I’m not.  I can hear perfectly well just how badly I sing, and it makes me sad, because whereas some people dream of flying high above the treetops like a bird, or ruling the world, or having mountains of gold to roll in, my dream, if I could choose any, would be to sing brilliantly, and play Sally Bowls in Cabaret.

The problem I find when it comes to music  is that I often feel my listening habits are stagnated.  Back in the days before i-tunes, when we actually played CD’s, I would always, without fail, put a CD in and immediately skip between the songs I liked.  I later developed a nagging worry that I was, quite rightly, skipping past many songs that I would probably love if I only gave them a chance, but I never did.  As technology progressed, so did I, and I moved on to creating CD’s of my favourite songs; disks filled exclusively with songs I loved and had listened to over and over again.  While it made me happy to hear these songs, I realise now that I was narrowing my musical taste, and limiting what I was exposing myself to, robbing myself of many opportunities of discovering new, equally loved, music.

Nowadays, I’m guilty of the same flaw.  The luxury of i-tunes has allowed me to create my ‘Top Rated’ playlist (a list of all the songs I love) and I find that I increasingly only listen to these songs.  The reason?  I don’t trust the other songs, the ones that I haven’t earmarked as somehow special, to make me feel happy in the way the others do.  When I put my headphones in, I want to know that I’m guaranteed of hearing a brilliant song.  Now, I know that I should have more faith in the other songs, because I know very well that my i-pod only contains music that I love, by artists who I consider ‘good’.  So, why can’t I have more confidence and just reach for the shuffle button?  It’s a gamble, but I must do it.

 

The Power of Songs to Make Us Cry

What is it about certain songs that touch one so deeply?  With some it’s the lyrics, others have such a beautiful melody, or even just the tenderness in the voice of the singer.  For me, there are a few, just a few, very special songs that I know, whenever I listen to them, will move me.  I’ve never actually shed tears solely from listening to a song, but some bring me very close.

Some songs hold a connection to someone we know, the subject and lyrics may remind us of someone in our family, which means that the song automatically connects to that person in our head.  An example would be Handbags and The Gladrags.  I find this song so incredibly sad, because it makes me think of my own Grandad and the line ‘That your poor old Grandad had to sweat to buy you’ makes me think of all the sacrifices my Grandad has made to give me things I wanted over the years, and how hard he worked to do it.  Some connections are less obvious.  For example, (another Rod Stewart song, sorry) in Maggie May, there is a line; ‘The morning sun when it’s in your face really shows your age.’  The line always makes me think of my Dad, and how he’s ageing but still wants to be young, and the injustice of growing old, hanging on to youth.

Sometimes songs remind one of a time and place, a period in one’s life.  For example, two songs will always remind me of the phone call that told me I’d been accepted into University.  Immediately after I’d put the phone down, I played Last Night and Someday, both by The Strokes, to celebrate, and those two songs will always take me straight back to that moment of elation and pride.  Similarly, a group of songs will always remind of a certain summer that I spent in my flat, shut away behind closed curtains, which I will always think of as the summer when I found myself and learned to write.

I mentioned, at the start of this post, tenderness of voice.  Some songs have an emotional power, for me, because of a quality in the singer’s voice.  Examples of this would be Last of The Ladies, or any song really, by The Courteeners, because of the gentleness and  touching quality of Liam Fray’s voice.  All of their songs are excellent, and almost all of them are beautifully moving, because of his voice.  Similarly, Pete Doherty.  Many of the songs Doherty sings with The Libertines, Babyshambles, or on his own, have a euphoric and celebratory note, and are uplifting.  I happen to think that almost all of them are fantastic music.  Some of them, a small selection, are more sedate and take on a beautifully poetic and almost heart-breaking quality.  An example would be For Lovers, which is Wolfman featuring Pete Doherty.  This song is so sad in the tone, audibly, and incredibly sung.  Last summer I was out walking on my own with the dog and I turned off the path onto the Heath, near where I live.  I was surrounded by a vast expanse of fields on one side and a view over the river and fields full of horses on the other.  As I set off, veering slightly downhill, with the sun setting in a flare of gold and orange and green, over the fields, For Lovers came on my Ipod, and it took my breath away.  The beauty of the moment, and the sound of the song, was magic.

Just over a year ago I went to the funeral of an eighteen-year-old boy, who was a very close friend.  This young man was devoted, in a way you can’t imagine, to music.  He spent any time he had travelling down to London for gigs.  His heroes were Morrissey, Robert Smith, and Pete Doherty.  He’d shook Morrissey’s hand, and was a regular visitor to Pete Doherty’s gigs and flat, and was on friendly terms with him.  There is a video of him playing the guitar while Pete warbles through Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now.  The funeral was a very religious, catholic ceremony, and nothing in the service moved me that much.  Aside from feeling undeniably devastated at losing this friend, I didn’t actually cry all the way through the ceremony, until it ended, and I heard the first few notes of Music When The Lights Go Out by The Libertines.  Nothing else in the service had spoken about this person as an eighteen-year-old lad, or even as a human being.  The service talked about God and heaven, but nothing personal.  When this song started playing, I felt suddenly that it was Dale’s funeral.  Since then, the song will always be special to me, even more than it was before.

In the way that smells can take me back to a memory, or a time and place, and make me instantly remember where I was and what I was doing, create a picture in my mind of a specific situation, music takes me instantly back to specific emotions, and recreates that feeling deep inside me, every time I hear it.

Why I’m a Trendsetter

My sister with Pete Doherty, three years after telling me how awful he is.

Okay, so I haven’t actually set any trends, but I’ve noticed a fair list of items, fashions, objects, which I sported to much mockery from family and friends, and which subsequently became ubiquitously popular; from the F.R.I.E.N.D.S pencil-case which I was the first to have and later became the favoured pencil-case of every girl in the year, to the desire to wear skirts over jeans or trousers, which my mother told me made me look ‘a lesbian’ but which, following the Spice Girls girl-power era, became a fashion staple for a couple of years in the mid-nineties.

This isn't me, I'm just illustrating the trend.

I don’t wish to sound like I think I’m some stylish trendsetter, because it couldn’t be further from the truth, but I just find it curious, sort of like when you’re reading a book and the word you’re reading is said aloud in the room or on television, at exactly the moment you read it, it’s a strange peculiarity.

An example is Jack Wills.  Now, I’m not claiming that I invented Jack Wills.  No, that was the ingenious work of Peter Williams and Robert Shaw in Salcombe, Devon, back in 1999.  However, long before I knew anything about Jack Wills or had even heard the name, my family used to call me scruffy and weird for wearing tartan pyjama bottoms and chunky knit jumpers.  I used to love nothing more than coming home from college, or later, work, and settling down on the settee in comfy pyjamas and a jumper, it’s just so cosy.  Now, Jack Wills charges £49 for what they call ‘Loungepants’ but are essentially very well-made, high-quality tartan pyjama bottoms designed to be worn during the day, as loungewear.  When I first discovered Jack Wills, walking into their shop in Chester was like walking into my own mind.  I felt they’d captured every idiosyncratic thought I’d ever had about an outfit, and made it reality.  Does this mean I’m a genius?  I think, more probably, my predisposition for wearing pyjamas in the daytime was shared by a great many other people, mainly students, to be fair, and this was noticed and capitalised on by Jack Wills, who have since made it extremely popular.  Nevertheless, at the time, it felt like they’d stolen my thoughts.

My next point of conjecture, good people of the jury, is The Libertines.  Now, this point is more personal, but still serves a purpose.  Back when Pete Doherty and Carl Barat actually played together, before they broke up and reformed for a lucrative festival deal, I loved them.  They were the epitome of everything I worshipped about music, and their songs were good, too.  Some years later, when my sister reached that age when teenagers start forming their own opinions about music, I tried, as a big sister, to make suggestions.  I was desperate for her to experience what I had experienced, feel what I felt.  The Libertines had been broken-up for years, their music was never played, not many people ever mentioned them, they’d faded into musical memory.  I wanted to show my sister the wildness of those early gigs, when they’d line people up and tattoo Libertine across their arm.  I wanted her to hear the music that was full of passion, energy and poetry.  She refused.  Still not quite over the break-up of her beloved Busted, but never into McFly, she said the Libertines were junkies, dirty and refused to listen to a single song.  Fast-forward two more years.  My sister began going out with boys who loved the Libertines, and so began listening to their music and very quickly warmed up to them.  Nowadays, she knows more lyrics to their songs than I do, is a personal friend of Pete Doherty, goes to parties at his flat, has been photographed in Elle and Grazia walking down the street with him, has been in a taxi with him, has Libertine across her arm, which was drawn by Pete himself and then tattooed over.

My sister in Grazia with Pete Doherty.

My point is, I begged her to listen to them, and now she’s more of a Libertine than I am.  So, does this mean I started a trend, if only in my sister?  I think so.  I have very similar stories for the films Withnail & I, the film (coincidentally) The Libertine, and Sylvia Plath.  She always resists but concedes in the end.  Also, The Smiths, but I can’t take all the credit for that one.

My sister at Leeds, wearing a Libertines jacket to see the long-awaited reformation.

Libertine

Back in, probably around 1997, I was the first person in my year at school to have a mobile.  To be fair, this is probably less to do with the fact that I’m a perspicacious mogul and more to do with the fact that my Dad was flogging moody phones that topped up £10 every time you turned them off and on again.  Still, I started the trend for mobiles at my school, in one way or another.

So, you see, my point is not that I began trends and influenced people, more that I had a desire to wear, listen to, or do something, which later became very popular.  Back in 1990’s Runcorn, I longed for a vague ‘something’ which I couldn’t define, which involved loving good music, wearing floral dresses, a sort of mixture of 80’s, 70’s, 60’s, something cool, vintage, old-fashioned, and which later developed as a little trend we know as ‘Indie’.  I was indie before I even knew what it was.  Growing up, we wore tracksuits, listened to whatever was number 1 in the chart, bought our cd’s from Asda with the weekly shopping, went to McDonalds, and didn’t really think about anything else.  I had a tingling; an itch which was finally scratched when people started talking about indie.  I’d come home.  Just like, I suppose, all of us.

My Interview with Fyfe Dangerfield.

Stepping away from his role as Guillemots front-man and mastermind, Fyfe Dangerfield released his stripped-down, soulful debut solo album Fly Yellow Moon. Vikki Littlemore questioned him about going it alone…..

Taking a side-step from his role as lead-singer and mastermind of The Guillemots Fyfe Dangerfield has revealed his first solo album; an exciting combination of uplifting romance, moving self-expression and over-flowing with musical finesse.
Dangerfield’s emotional investment in the album is unmistakable. ‘Barricades’ in particular, holds the same combination of vulnerability and strength so powerfully embodied by Jeff Buckley. Fyfe was inspired by Buckley years ago when listening to his classic album Grace, and is not unhappy with the comparison.
Chatting as he tackles the aisles of his local supermarket, he still managed to be hypnotically charming, interesting and markedly passionate about music, Fyfe discussed the unconscious effect of his influences, from Jeff Buckley to The Beatles, and a new, more liberating way of working.

“He was incredible, you can’t be that annoyed about being compared to someone who’s amazing. The whole record [Grace] is amazing. It’s never a conscious thing, but when you listen to something a lot, it can’t help but find a way out. I don’t really tend to make a point of referencing things, it happens naturally. This album was so much fun. We did most of it in a five-day session and it was just the best week. It felt quite liberating; nearly everything was the first take. The best moments happened quickly, when people didn’t know they were being recorded. I suppose it’s like life; you’re funniest when you’re not trying to be funny, most attractive when you’re not trying to be attractive.”

He is also eager to quash any doubts about the future of the Guillemots; “It’s not instead of doing stuff in the band at all, it’s as well as, it’s not in competition or anything like that. It’s just something I fancied doing. It’s exciting’.

I ask whether he’d be on stage alone and how he felt about flying solo, and while he is confident he is slightly apprehensive about venturing out on stage without his band mates, “It’s a bit scary, doing stuff by myself. I’m just trying to relax about it and just play music. The recording part I just love, the live part is scary. I’ll be standing on stage on my own, maybe a couple of string players, depending on how I feel.”

Work is beginning imminently on a new album with the Guillemots and his experience working on this solo project will transform the way he works with the band, going from a precise and carefully constructed sound to something more natural and organic. Discussing the creation of Fly Yellow Moon, Fyfe described the freedom and enjoyment he felt in a less pressurised process; “This record is more straightforward, more stripped down. It was quite nice to do something where you’re not so bothered about the sound; I just really like the songs. It was strangely liberating. There was no pressure to do something unique, that’s not like anything else around, spending ages on one sound. It was quite a change, totally different.”

The album is a mixed bag. While some of the songs have the emotional vulnerability and vocal poeticism of Buckley, others are joyous and celebratory and have an epic grandeur.
His voice, too, has varying qualities on each track. It often holds something of the haunting potency of Morrissey or Liam Gallagher; something indefinable in the voice which seems to reach out to the listener and take them somewhere else, sending a shiver down the spine. The voice matches the record’s diversity though, and is often much more exuberant.

When deciding on the order the tracks would appear in, he was advised not to begin with ‘When You Walk In The Room’ because of its opening, but he felt instinctively that it was right; “I’m learning as I go on that it’s important to be stubborn and when to be stubborn. Quite a few people thought that starting the record with ‘When You Walk In The Room’ was completely wrong and I was making a really bad mistake, because the first thing people hear would be me screaming when I was drunk, but I knew it was the right thing to do, and I’m really glad I stuck to my guns.”
The songs on offer are of a personal nature being written in the euphoria of a relationship, which has now ended. Everything on this record comes from Fyfe, lyrics and music; “In the band we just get into a room and play and record it. For this record, a few people have listened and made the odd suggestion, like; “that line’s shit”, that kind of thing.”

Returning to Buckley and the intimate connection with the music, I asked how Fyfe feels about sharing such personal emotions; whether it’s a reluctant or willing impartment; “It’s not reluctant. I don’t think of myself as a confessional songwriter, music is just my way of making sense of things. Music is just always what I’ve done. I tend to write things which sound quite emotional, I wish I didn’t. The music I like listening to is often instrumental, or more abrasive. I write in this style and it would be false if I tried not to be like that. It is personal but no more personal than the first Guillemots record.”

He explains the scrutiny involved in the process of finding the right people to form the Guillemots; “It just sort of happens. I always hoped and felt it would. I think I’ve worked for it, it wasn’t easy. I’m not that young, the first Guillemots record came out when I was twenty-six and I’d already spent years trying to get to that point. When I was trying to find members for the Guillemots; listening to three guitarists a day, a few times a week, I knew none of them were right. You know in your heart of hearts it’s not a final thing. You just know. I came to London to assemble the band when I was twenty-two. It’s a personal thing, playing in a band, I’m very particular. When you find the right people, you don’t need to think ‘maybe this might be right’, you just know.”

On hearing how, at twenty-two, Fyfe had moved to London and formed the Guillemots and brought the band together, I ask about his thoughts on the British music industry and found him surprisingly secluded in his creativity and not overly concerned with the business itself; “I’m not as in touch with the industry. I don’t really spend a lot of time thinking about it”.

I mention the current debate concerning programmes like The X-factor and the influx of new reality pop-stars to the industry; “‘X-factor is an entertaining programme. Since the fifties there’s always been that kind of music and market around. It’s a funny time in the industry at the moment; the internet is what really turned everything on its end. We’ve come into the industry in a period of change really; it would have been interesting to come along in 1994 in the heyday of Britpop, at a time when the industry was celebrating itself. Things were very different and no expense was spared.”

It’s clear that the music itself is Fyfe’s primary concern, rather than the politics and economics of the market. Music is something inherently deep within him, a permanent light at the end of a tunnel.

He describes how he’d heard his parents playing The Beatles and concentrated his efforts on trying to reach high enough to play the piano, when he was still too small; “I just concentrate on music; I don’t think too much about the business side of it, it’s not my department. Music is what I’m good at, it’s always been what I wanted to do, very much so. I never had another ambition. I don’t know what else I would have done, maybe worked in a bird sanctuary. I can’t remember ever wanting to do anything else.”

“There was always a piano in the house growing up; I was always trying to reach high enough to play it when I was a kid’.” I ask whether his family had encouraged him; “My family have been great, they’ve always been very supportive. It makes a big difference.”

Trying offering constructive advice for anyone wanting to follow the same path, he offers clear but tentative words; “Be honest with yourself, make sure you’re doing what you want, not trying to do stuff to be successful. You often get waylaid by business and end up chasing your tail. Discover your own style. You need to be enjoying what you do. I’m no expert but a combination of persistence and being honest with yourself. It’s easy to get caught up in being commercial. We found it in The Guillemots. It’s difficult with radio; it’s insanely difficult, crazy. When I make music, I want to make something that’s going to reach out to people, I don’t really think an awful lot about the popularity thing, like if I’m doing something melodic, I write the music I like. Unless you’re desperate to make it and be successful. If you want to get something played on Radio One, for example, there’s a definite sound at the moment. It’s just trying to do yourself justice, writing something you like. You can’t really get too caught up in it, you just think about how it sounds and whether or not you like it.”

A classical composer and former teacher, Fyfe’s deep-rooted relationship with music is simultaneously tender and expertly executed. His approach is one of passion but precision. It’s clear he carefully crafts his songs with a purpose, and says that sometimes ‘you want to make music that will really take people out of themselves’.

However, the invigorating experience of creating his solo album in a five-day almost-extemporization, has instilled him with a new feeling of liberation and his future work, individually and with The Guillemots, will be a less pressurised, more relaxed and spontaneous process. The next Guillemots album will have much less pre-construction prior to recording; the band, he says, will; ‘more or less play live, just play live and record it’, rather than the previous process of carefully constructing and labouring over every detail and minute sound.

He feels Fly Yellow Moon has the most conventional sound of anything he’s done; “It’s been the most straightforward record, in that I’ve been thinking the least on this record about what people are going to think. That wasn’t really on my mind that much at all. It’s the least thought about record, in those terms.”
Indeed, this record does feel somewhat unburdened. From the primal, drunken, cry at the beginning of ‘When You Walk In The Room’, to the delicate and naively adolescent, but beautiful, ‘Firebird’. The sincerity in Fyfe’s voice and his lyrics is complemented beautifully by the intricate acoustic guitar on the more gentle tracks, while the livelier numbers are fortifying and exuberant.

Some of the tracks, ‘High On The Tide’ in particular, capture the same dramatic energy and atmosphere, vocally and melodically, of The Smiths, Morrissey and James, but still maintain their own authenticity. ‘She Needs Me’ has a Michael Jackson beat and triumphantly happy vocals. Both in tenderness and energy, the lyrics, music and voice are effervescent.

Fyfe illustrates the depth of his passion by suggesting that he would be completely unable to divert his concentration to anything else; “I don’t drive but if I did, I couldn’t drive and listen to music, I’d just crash because I’d be listening to the music.”
He doesn’t have a strict plan for the forthcoming year but is certain it will involve music; “[I’ll be] doing a few gigs, start recording the next album with the band. A year full of music.I’m doing what I want to do. As long as I can keep playing music, I’ll be happy’.

Can You Feel It?

We were told at Michael Jackson’s memorial service that his favourite song was Smile. Personally, I find it difficult to believe that a man with the undeniable musical ingenuity, the passion and soul that Michael Jackson exuded in every note and every movement, a man so inherently connected by some primal, inner force to the music he devoted his life to creating, held above all other music a song written by Charlie Chaplin, a song whose only really remarkable merit is the admirable and touching sentiment;

When there are clouds in the sky, you’ll get by
If you smile through your fear and sorrow
Smile and maybe tomorrow
You’ll see the sun come shining through for you.

But, what can one believe? We are flooded daily with a deluge of conflicting and tenuous information based on the most spurious sources and motives. Was Michael Jackson, one of the most prolific, talented and influential artists of all time, so struck by the sanguine candyfloss of the song’s lyrics, which are admittedly very sweet , that this cheerful little number replaced every other song in history as his favourite? All the soul and technical achievement of musical history, the great artists and number one hits? Are all the dancefloor fillers, poetic lyrics and bone-shaking beats discounted in favour of Smile? It’s possible. However, perhaps this is all part of the myth and image that we are supposed to believe, a sort of Father Christmas figure and we’re not supposed to lift the beard. Does someone want us to see Michael Jackson as a sweet, childlike elf, dancing around Neverland to Smile and being moved by the chipper motivation? Why would it be inconceivable for the public to believe that this musical giant, genius and god, this man who created Billie Jean, Smooth Criminal and so many others, might have had a more mature and frankly musical taste in music.
Watching the footage of Michael performing at the 1995 MTV Awards, for a few seconds I thought the screen was showing stilted frames or somehow distorting the recording. I then realised that I what was seeing was a human being in full reality. Many people have performed what is known as ‘the robot’. Some have done it well, some less so, some have been outstanding, but they have always looked like a person performing as a robot. Watching Michael Jackson feels like watching a machine. It feels more than human, too perfect to be human, and yet somehow merging clean precision with dirty, animal imperfection and magnetic sexuality, polished and raw at the same time. His performance was flawless but the man and powerful humanity glimmered through in the hint of stubble on his chin and the wildness of his hair, something in his hips, something immaculately mechanic and simultaneously deeply human.

I find it so hard to believe that the music he listened to and was influenced by wasn’t something with more substance and soul than Smile. The song is very nice but surely the person who created the songs Michael did would need a stronger fuel to feed his fire. It would be like filling a Land Rover with extremely watered-down petrol, it wouldn’t be strong enough. Surely someone with so much music and beat running in their blood and bones, someone who could dance like Michael did, would need something stronger?

Futile conjecture is indeed futile, but illustrates something greater. Do we accept what we are told too easily? Shouldn’t we question information with discernment and less susceptibility? If we learn to be more sceptical and less easily manipulated by the media and those controlling it then perhaps people higher up and people running the country will have less power over us as a nation.
If we accept manipulation of the consumer in music, we accept it elsewhere, and manipulation can come in the form of substandard. I, for example, forgive Amy Winehouse her shambolic breakdowns on stage because of her proven talent. Artists like Amy Winehouse are genuine and real. They write the songs they sing, about their own experiences, and when they sing those emotions are vivid in their voice. Bands that play their own instruments are able to create something; completeness and a sincerity which is missing from bands that sit on stools and sing somebody else’s lyrics. Why do so many people, young and old, proudly state their musical preference as, for example, Westlife; a group of admittedly good looking young men who wear either identical or co-ordinating outfits (usually suits), mine to their own plastic, inoffensive, anodyne voices singing songs that have been covered by every band to come along for the past thirty (or more) years? The only word to encapsulate bands like this is ‘nice’. They look very nice and have very nice voices and are certainly very nice themselves. I can half-forgive (though reluctantly) the teenage girls who swoon and daydream over the polished, chiselled features and squeaky clean image, but I cannot understand the appeal for grown adults and wonder seriously whether the appeal is musical or simply matinee idol infatuation. Music should not be perfect or polished but raw, sensual and unafraid. For me, music is a human voice which demonstrates the life it’s lived in its imperfection and inimitability, a voice that doesn’t hide pain and the exertion of life. Lyrics that tell their story poetically and beautifully, and rhythm and beat that make you want to move, that speak to the body.

Watching Michael Jackson in 1995 was to watch a demonstration of physical transcendence. The music in that instance served more as a backdrop to the dancing but was in any case outstanding, but that performance was a master at their very best. Billie Jean is one of a small collection of songs which have this elusive power I have been attempting to define. The beat makes the body pulse and urge to move. You can’t help but want to dance. Do people really feel this when they hear a Westlife song? Two songs by Dusty Springfield, for example; Son of Preacher Man and Take Another Little Piece of My Heart are among the songs which urge me to sing, though none of the notes will be right, but they have this power.

Whether it’s live performance or listening to a cd, music has to make you feel, even change. If Westlife is what elicits that experience then who am I to argue?