writing, not drowning

Is it safe to . . .?

. . . step out from behind the curtain, after such a long absence?

Of all the events that might have caused me to scurry back to the laptop, the one that I would not have predicted was the reappearance of someone else - Kate Bush, to be precise.

The Dear Daughter had tried to get tickets for Kate's re-emergence. I tried to get tickets. No joy; sold out in just 15 minutes. We had to settle for the Guardian live-tweeting throughout the opening night and watching old video clips on YouTube. 

And then, a couple of days ago, the DD sent me a link to an eBay page, where someone was selling a poster advertising Kate's first tour in 1979.

'Remember this?' said the DD.

'Would you like it for your birthday?' I asked, in a moment of madness.

'I've already got it,' she replied. And so she had. It had once adorned a wall of her bedroom.

'I think I've got one of these too.' Attached was a copy of a 1978 Christmas card, courtesy of the Kate Bush Fan Club. 

In the 1970s, Kate was a significant presence in our house; well, her voice was, along with various Kate-related stuff.  The DD was a HUGE fan; I was pretty much of a fan too. So we could not possibly miss going to see Kate on that first tour and we did see her - at the London Palladium. No frustrating hours spent endlessly reloading internet pages in those days; it was all very civilised: a phone call or a trip to the box office. And affordable tickets.

We loved every minute and, 35 years later, I was amazed at just how much I could remember of that concert. It was one of the high points of a year during which other things in our world were beginning to unravel.

'I think I've still got my ticket,' said the DD. 'I just have to find my Kate Bush memorabilia . . .'

I spent the rest of the day playing four of Kate's early albums (vinyl, of course). They belong to the DD but live here because I am the only member of the family who still possesses an ancient hifi with a turntable, so that I can play my substantial and much-cherished collection of LPs and 45s, not to mention EPs. I was transported back to our flat in Marylebone, still young(ish) at 31 - which seems very young when one is nearer 70 than 60 - and the mother of a daughter on the cusp of her teenage years. As Sandy Denny once sang, 'Who knows where the time goes?'

But I couldn't find Hounds of Love. I searched everywhere. I could see the cover. I emailed the DD. 

'I think I had it on cassette,' she answered. 'What year was it?'

'1985.'

'Oh yes, I already had a Walkman by then.'

Ah, the refuse heap of technology.

But the disappointment of not bagging any tickets this time round in no way detracts from the wonder of being there the first time and seeing my daughter's face light up when Kate appeared. It was, almost, unbelievable . . . 

There was one final email from the DD, normally a very private woman. 'You can blog about this, if you like.' So I did.

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.