THE SOUND OF MUSIC
‘Here comes the story of the hurricane…….. ‘
I place the needle in the groove and immediately my senses are ignited. Flow through me pure vibration. A familiar feeling that has been with me since day dot. The dot being me as a two-year old, commanding my father to play a record; probably by way of pointing at the deck and attempting God’s work. No words needed when it came to the language of Rock and Roll!! Oh, he played those records with vigour. Praise you, slightly insane father, you were one in a trillion.
Music has always been a prevalent force within and around my life. It accompanied me through the painful, dramatic, ecstatic and joyous times; plus, all in-between. Each emotion I carried, a song lingered to either sooth or seethe. Forever waiting like a patient friend, a trusted companion. To be enjoyed and appreciated. Always there with no judgement or praise. Although I can’t play an instrument (albeit extremely amateurish on the drums) there is something about its power that is so utterly mesmeric, that I struggle to articulate the profound impact it has on me as a human.
What I will type is this; music manages to merge through every fibre of my material shell. Not only that but each pattern of sound reaches in and attempts to grasp hold of my stitched together soul. I’m sure many of you can relate.
In my scattered scrawls and typed up ramblings I have not yet managed to go in-depth, concerning my relationship to music. Touched on, yes; delved I have not. Partly due to my fear of not being able to do it justice and partly because condensing down such a core thread of my existence seems a near mammoth task (another book idea perhaps?). I write from the heart and this subject niggles at my brain and tugs on my beater strings. Dear reader you may be reading for some time. This post has the capabilities of turning into a nostalgic love note. You have been warned.
I must go back to what I touched on at the beginning. I don’t vividly remember ordering my father to play records, but the recollection derives from stories that he relayed to me in later years. The first album I used to pick out was the self-titled ’Blue Angel’. A record by a band that Cyndi Lauper was a part of prior to exploding into the mainstream. My father was a huge advocate of theirs, and to my knowledge wrote an article for the NME, in 1981, about this amazing new talent. Of course, it fell on deaf ears and blind eyes, and it wasn’t until ‘Girls Just Want To Have Fun’ was released that folk caught up. From the tender age of two, I also became obsessed. Cue the great appreciation I have had throughout life for that ‘certain’ kind of front woman. Let’s be honest there could be much more unsavoury things to become a fan of as a young boy. Although my obsessive nature could have been an early indicator of my addictive tendencies; who knows? That album sporadically played a part in various aspects of my life. It helped spark the bond that me and my father formed over our unified love of music and the power it possessed. From the days of being a toddler, barely able to speak, up until the drunken nights we shared as I morphed into a young man. ‘Blue Angel’ was never far from the deck as the empty tins began to pile. Both developing our skills towards absolute alcoholism. I still have the copy we used to blast out, during the nocturnal hours. Unfortunately, it is cracked, so unplayable. Funnily enough its demise was met by a combined effort. Me and my father were pissing around in the house I lived in, directly next door to his. I grabbed hold of him feigning fisty cuffs, and as I did, he stumbled back and stepped onto the sleeve, vinyl within. ‘Ah shit’ I said looking into my dad’s eyes in shameful shock ‘shit indeed’ I think was his response. The man was not best pleased, and I didn’t blame him. There is a final scene which involves that album, but I shall touch on that later. Now I must rewind back to the younger me.
Seemingly sounds always used to be vibrating through our household, flowing through the air like the hymn of the day. From the sixties sounds of Eddie Cochran, Gene Vincent, Buddy Holly, Elvis, The Doors, Hendrix , Janis Joplin, Bob Dylan, The kinks, The Animals, Iggy Pop, Van the man and The Beatles. Spanning through later decades with the likes of Bowie, Roy Orbison, Led Zeppelin, The pretenders, James Brown, Emmylou Harrison, Cyndi Lauper (of course) Prince, Joy Division, The Clash, Sex Pistols and many more. The list endless. Those being the ones that enter my brain as I type. My Father’s record collection was an education in Rock and Roll, Punk and a plethora in-between. Over the years and through various moves, some got damaged, some drowned in a flood and several of them magically disappeared. Such is life; oh, I cherish the remaining warriors.
In my childhood home, the hi-fi was set up in one of the alcoves in the corner of the dining room. Raised up on shelves, perched high like a monument of faith. Music was our religion and each one of us understood it’s language. I was a small child and of course it may not have been that high, but still a powerful image of the mighty music player sits in my mind. The record collection sat on three shelves below, spanning the alcove. An eclectic array of beautiful tones. I used to kneel on a chair, thumbing through the spines with excitement, wondering what delights I could pick to play. Apparently, I was lucky that my dad allowed me to touch the records at all. Prize possessions and all that jazz. Having said that, I did treat them as delicately as he taught me. I struggled a little when I was younger, due to my child hands, alas from what I recall I didn’t scratch or damage any; that came later as I ploughed headfirst into debauchery. These days I still have that respect when handling vinyl – ritualistic and innate.
Like Blue Angel I remember another record I couldn’t get enough of; the band ‘The Clash’ and their self-titled debut. I played ‘Garageland’ over and over. The raw sound of punk – rock and of course a little profanity in the form of ‘Back in the garage with my bull-shit detector’, being my favourite line due to its rebellious nature. Swearing allowed and amplified. I couldn’t get enough. Then came the stories of my dad’s time spent with the band, but another story there lies.
As I grew a little older and started mixing with other folk, more delights of sound were introduced to my insatiable ears. In particular stuff like NWA, Nirvana, Simon and Garfunkel, The Smashing Pumpkins and of course The Stone Roses. The Stone Roses (self-titled) album has a special place in my heart. It holds memories of a summer of happiness and love. Windows open, music blaring and laughter in abundance. Our older friends, who used to congregate in a house next door but one to ours, were in and out of our home throughout those glorious summer months. Late nights, laughter and a sense of community. The possibilities endless. It was the last summer that my mother and father would spend together as a couple. It had been on the cards for some time, and a little while later their marriage and lives as they knew them, broke down. My mother had to get away, for various reasons. God knows how it would have ended if she had stayed. I cherish the memories of that summer and its awesome soundtrack.
Quite some time after my mother had left, I pottered into my dad’s work room. ‘I should take you boys to a concert’ he exclaimed. At this point live music was only something I’d seen repeated on telly or heard on a record. I was nervous and excited, just at the suggestion. He sat at his desk in his work room and scanned the ‘gig list’ pages for a show that he could take me and my brother along to. I sat staring at him as he muttered a few band names under his breath, then he spoke clearly and loud ‘garbage, they sound interesting ‘. That ladies and gentle men was the beginning of my journey into the insanely intoxicating world of seeing bands do their thing; up, close and personal.
It must have been a few months later that my dad got us ready and set to go and experience something that still to this day, allows me to be at one and completely in the moment – live f#ckin’ sound. The venue; The Manchester Apollo. I was eleven at the time and my brother thirteen. The year ’96’. In my mind, for years I was convinced that I was ten at the time, but that wouldn’t add up correctly. The weird workings of memories of memory. I don’t remember the bus ride there, but I do remember entering the venue. To me it was like entering a completely new world. We pass through ticket inspection into the lobby, tackle our way through a swarm of eager fans and head towards the staircase. An old theatre type feel: the walls painted burgundy and the ghosts of artists gone by seemed to haunt it’s very atmosphere. This sense derived from tales my father had told me about its history. It first being a cinema, then transformed into a music venue in the late seventies. Magical and divine.
We reach the top of the stairs and enter the circle. My heart by now is pounding from the climb and through pure excitement. Our seats are on the right-hand side, with a tremendous view of the stage. I look around in amazement, my tiny sponge like mind attempting to soak it all in. Hundreds of occupied seats, lined in a curve. This layout giving each audience member their own personalised view of the stage, even if only by a miniscule fraction. Then below a swarm of hungry fans, stood centre stage waiting for the main act to present. Just a hum of human murmurings, filled the acoustic chamber. ‘What are they?’ I asked my dad, pointing at the great circular holes in the auditorium ceiling. ‘Good question’ my dad responded, as he too looked up with wonder ‘probably something to do with, when this place was a cinema’. I took them to be just that, as you do when your parents attempt to answer an inquisitive question. To this day I wonder of their purpose. Although I did look the last time, I saw a show there (The slow readers club. Blinding by the way) and I think wires were hanging and attached to some piece of equipment suspended. Please if anyone knows, feel free to enlighten me of their purpose? For whatever reason, I remember my dad slating the backdrop (black, with scatty white lettering, that simply read ‘garbage’). He claimed he could have done much better. Yes, forever the critic and competitive artist, but less of the décor. The stage was set as we looked on; drum kit waiting to be perched at, microphone and stand ready to be grasped, guitars awaiting players. The tension was building.
Then it happened. The band strutted onstage towards their chosen tool and boom! Never had I felt sound pierce through my system with such force. This was heaven and the whole place was vibrating along with my soul. I would be lying if I was to say I remembered the whole gig because I don’t. What I do remember is the feeling it gave me. Visceral and magnetic. Pure and true. A certain something that can only be felt through live music. I vividly remember them playing a particular song called ‘Only Happy When It Rains’ and boy Shirley Manson knew how to command that stage, the crowd and of course the microphone. Sexy and certain, writhing towards the stage beneath and then back upright as she sang ‘Pour your misery down on me’ over and again. My eyes were totally transfixed, and I could not overt my stare. I was eleven years old, and my mind had been blown into a new realm. I’d fallen in love. Not just with Shirley Manson (the lead singer of garbage) but too, with experiencing music on a whole new level. I was hooked.
After that mind, body and soul altering experience, going to live shows became a regular occurrence for me. I’d start going with friends and some still with my dad and brother. Although as I started to develop as a teenager, then as a young man, our taste in music began to go down different routes, as did our fractured family unit. Seeing shows as a trio became a thing of the past, however always we could connect our love through the classic records we relished.
In later years as my affair with booze became more passionate, I’d still go to concerts, however blackouts became a regular theme. Without exception, copious amounts of alcohol ‘had’ to be consumed before and during every gig. Good intentions blighted by my insecurities and the anxious nature I had now become a master at harbouring. Always attempting to block out rather than deal with my issues – emotionally stumped I became. In recent years I’ve found ticket stubs for concerts that I had totally forgotten being in attendance. Rather sad to be honest. This once pure and ecstatic experience became clouded and dulled with my propensity towards oblivion and the masking of my internal pain. Which by my late teens and early twenties had turned into such a minefield within my psyche, that I wouldn’t have known where to begin, if I was to attempt to repair my scarred mind. ‘I wish that I knew what I know now, when I was younger’ rings true, but also if I hadn’t experienced the full cycle of destruction that was yet to come, I wouldn’t be typing this right now. Believe me I certainly do not recommend trawling the depths of despair that both my mind and body did, however those pits taught me a hell of lot. Thankfully I survived, many do not. There is something to be said about prevention though and I wouldn’t wish that internal torture on any soul.
Many years after my days of barley being able to speak and commanding my father to put on records, came a time that left my soul crippled for rather a long time. My father had left the building. No more concerts, no more late-night record sessions, no more laughs together, no more dad. He was the only person in this world that unequivocally understood me and my ways. It was as if something deep within died in me that day, never to return. We all go through the loss of people close to us, however with my habitual way of not dealing with things head on, it would be many years and a chaotic trip down a near eternal spiral of steps, before I would deal with the grief it garnered. I was twenty - four when he passed. The reason I have just entered this realm is due to the song I picked to be played at the end of his funeral service. As me and my brother got into position to lead the pallbearer crew and hoisted the coffin onto our weary shoulders once more, it began to play; the opening line ‘I can see, you slipping away from me…….’ . Yes, a track off ‘Blue Angel ‘, titled ‘I’m Gonna Be Strong’. It could have been no other. Goodbye father, friend, mentor and all in-between. You will be missed. From his introduction of music to me as a tiny human, to the death of the shell he inhabited in this world, music connected us in a way I can’t begin to describe. Words don’t cut it, but that kindred connection still lives on in me and it shall continue up until the moment I draw my final breath.
When I got sober, I was terrified that my passion for music would somehow die with my drunken self. That I wouldn’t get the same buzz or excitement from playing tracks I loved and enjoy the songs I was yet to hear. Due to the association, I had with concerts and drinking, I feared at one point, that I would never be able to handle those environments again, through risk of relapse. A great example of the mind trying to convince you, that you can’t live without your drug of choice. Addiction certainly is a cunning bugger. Of course this was irrational. A member of staff at the rehab I did treatment in assured me that ‘You will be able to go to concerts again ‘. He didn’t advise jumping straight into the life I once led (that would have been disastrous), but what he did labour was that with time and effort, I could become strong enough to still be able to enjoy my passions, without the crutch I’d become so accustomed to using. At the time it seemed a million miles away, but sure enough, like with many other pieces of advice he shared, this little number was bang on the money.
These days, not only do I still love music and going to live shows, but now my senses are in tune more than ever. Not being dulled and killed by large amounts of alcohol, leading to loss of memory. Now I remember every show and let the songs course through my system, as if replacing my blood with sound. Ultimately being present and in the moment, just like I was at that first show a lifetime ago. I can attribute this re-ignition of my senses to nearly every aspect of life and it’s intoxicating. This without the ingestion of drugs or alcohol. High on frickin’ life. Yes I can still get rather low at times, however the heightened sense I experience often, makes those lows damn worth it.
Sometimes it can feel like all is lost in the chaos of addiction. Maybe it is or it has been. However lost or buried things may seem, it is never to late to start again. Help is out there, ready to be sought. Claw through the filth, stare yourself down in the shattered mirror, take responsibility and put on a record. Rejoice in the fact that hope is burning inside.
Thank you for tapping in.
‘Music the great communicator, use two sticks to make it in the nature ‘
Peace ✌ 👣