60 Going On 16

In which Glastonbury prompts me to action

I lost my blogging mojo rather, at least for a few weeks. But I tried not to get all angsty about it. The mojo, I thought, will either return or it won't. Que sera, sera . . . 

In truth I had been exceptionally busy with my two jobs (freelance writer/ editor and purveyor of high quality dog care- ahem) and grappling with shingles and the dodgy shoulders. Jobs now come into the 21st century category of income streams so I have been busy keeping the income streams flowing, which sounds marginally more professional than than merely working. 

I slipped into 'oh, must blog about that - mañana' mode but mañana never came. Does it ever? Until, that is, my daughter and her husband went on their annual pilgrimage to Glastonbury. The Dear Daughter sent regular updates and photos from her iPhone so that, whenever I found myself feeling wistful and wishing that I were there too, I would look at the pictures of deep, deep mud and realise that Glastonbury, this year, would not have been a sensible choice.

That is where the BBC came to the rescue, as it does most years,  with plenty of Glastonbury coverage and not just of the megastars. So, from the comfort of the sofa, I was able to watch: Coldplay, who - truly - played a blinder of set, with amazing lighting and effects; the first half of U2 until I got bored, all of Paul Simon (who was suffering from some wretched infection that didn't do his voice any favours - but Paul Simon is Paul Simon), some Plan B, and absolutely all of B B King. At 85, this extraordinary man is still performing - and brilliantly, even if he has to sit down on stage these days. Well, at 85, it's allowed. I'm afraid that I gave up rather on Laura Marling after just one song, which was more than enough. Apologies to those of you who adore her.

I haven't caught up with Beyoncé's set; to be honest, her style of music and presentation doesn't do much for me but I will say no more, lest I find myself cast out into the exterior darkness, like poor old Zane Lowe. (But at least Zane's reaction proves that it's not just an age thing.)

There was, however, a single performance by the Raghu Dixit Project, an Indian group, who were new to me, that had me quite spellbound. So much so that I immediately emailed the Dear Daughter and the Friend in New Zealand (AKA the Finz). 'You must listen to this', I cybersqueaked, sending them both a link, not to the Glastonbury coverage but to an earlier performance of the same song by the same group on Later . . . with Jools Holland.

The three of us share a passion for India; we've all been there and the Finz was my travelling companion on the quest for my Indian family roots a few years ago. She is also my constant point of reference on matters musical; If she loves a particular singer, musician or piece of music, the chances are that I will too, and vice versa. And we particularly love the thrill of live music. She hadn't heard of Raghu Dixit either but, ever since I sent her the link, she too has been working her way through everything that is available on YouTube. I suggested that she might also like Adele - and she does. In fact, Raghu Dixit and Adele have provided the soundtrack to the bag-packing that is now under way in New Zealand, as the Finz prepares to fly halfway round the world for a month's stay in the UK.  

She'll be here in just over a week. Can't wait. And, by the time her train pulls into Tiverton Parkway station, the Raghu Dixit CD will be here too. (Yes, I'm still old-fashioned enough to buy CDs). We'll be whizzing along Devon's lanes listening to this and smiling rather a lot. No words needed.

Jingle jangle morning

It was London, 1965; I was 17, in love for the first time, and passionate about, oh, all sorts of things. Dylan released this wonder of an album:

I heard this song and I experienced what I can only describe as a seismic shift of the soul. The boyfriend and I played it over and over. Nothing was ever quite the same again.

Seventy eh? Who'da thought it? Just hope you're dancing somewhere beneath the diamond sky today, Bob. We're still following you . . .

Notorious

 

Believe me, life is never dull here in the wild, wild West. Things happen that probably couldn't in, let's say Woking or Frinton . . . unless you can tell me otherwise.

Take yesterday, for example; I was expecting a visit from one of my oldest friends. And then I was tipped off that a local drug and porn baron pensioner was hosting the woodland funeral and burial of  the notorious one-time road manager of one of the world's most notorious rock bands. A band not exactly known for its quiet and abstemious lifestyle. A band that wrote the Rule Book of Excess. And then tore it up. Even the toned-down versions of what they did while on the road would put you off your breakfast - at the very least.

Said burial to be followed by wake at local pub. 

Not surprisingly, the old friend and I decided to give the woods a miss for our afternoon walk and took the dogs up to the moor. Even that didn't go entirely to plan, when the red-faced and portly husband of the dreaded Mrs Double-Barrel drove towards us at top speed. (Mrs D-B beside him, with her exhausted hunter no doubt being hurled around in the horsebox behind as their monster vehicle tore along, the day's hunting having finished.) Mr D-B was driving so recklessly that he forced us off the road. He is also notorious in this locality for, yes, reckless driving. (I don't think this sort of behaviour can be good for his blood pressure.)

Nevertheless, we had a wonderfully uplifting walk on the moor, relishing the afternoon sun on our backs, and set our mind to things higher than bonkers hunter-drivers and decadent rock bands and their managers. We talked instead of hairdressers, including Jingles in Baker Street which we used to go to c1974 (where, as my friend reminded me, I foolishly allowed a stylist to chop off my long, blonde hair, sob, sob), and how the nature of our days has changed in the past year and what we thought about A Book of Silence and so on. 

The dogs ran backwards and forwards along the moorland track, blissfully unaware of all the day's shenanigans, living, as dogs do, absolutely in the moment. A perfect canine example of the Buddhist concept of mindfulness.

The wake, by the way, went on until very, very late. 

I wouldn't really have given any it another thought, had I not been half-listening to BBC R4 this morning, when the announcer introduced a programme about one of the most notorious album covers of the 1970s, created for . . .  one of the world's most notorious rock bands.

So I sat bolt upright and listened and it did, indeed, include a barely-veiled reference to one of the most stomach-churning episodes in the above-mentioned road manager's time with said band. I pondered the inexplicable synchronicity of things. As you do.

Anyway, if the village ever finds itself strapped for cash, perhaps it could organise guided tours to the last resting place of Mr X. Once the dust has settled. It could be our answer to Jim Morrison's grave in Père Lachaise.

 

But if you go down to the woods today, be warned. It's no place for teddy bears. 

Here comes Jerry Keller

Even though McDonald's stands for everything that I don't, I have to admit that it makes exceedingly good ads. The one currently showing on British TV has taken me straight back to 1959 and the very first 45rpm record I bought, with my very own pocket money. Still have it, still in its white and blue striped London American Recordings cover. 

In 1959, this record matched the weather; it was, unusually (and unlike this year's typically wet and soggy one), a perfect English summer and we don't get many of those. So there I was, on the very brink of teenagerhood, desperate to be one, drifting about in the sunshine, dreaming about the future and listening to Jerry Keller. 

Just in case you're interested in random facts, Jerry went to the same church as Pat Boone, wrote Almost There for Andy WIlliams and is now 72. I expect that he is wondering where that half century went too.  

Roll up, roll up - great Bob Dylan draw

I thought I'd round off the Bob Dylan posts with a gesture of - er - unbelieveable Bob-related generosity. In other words, instead of the book draw (which is coming, promise), it's a CD draw - a brand new copy of Dylan's Love and Theft. Unplayed and still in its case and unopened, pristine wrapper. (I was given two copies but even a Dylan fan like me really needs only one).

So, if you'd like your name to go into the draw, just leave a comment below or, if you prefer, email me via the link under the boots photo (top right). CDs don't weigh much so I'm happy to send anywhere in the world. I 'll ask a friend, who'll be visiting next week, to do the draw on Monday - just to ensure that all's fair in Love and Theft, as it were.

It's a 12-track album, released in 2001, so expect mature Dylan rather than earnest young troubador. Don't all rush at once . . .