I'm 48 what the Hell do I know? I don't need the hate mail. I know that I am not qualified to write about music, I'm not sure what qualifies ANYONE to write about it. Well I suppose growing up and going to Art college in the 60's is good for something other than brain damage.
I am in a bit of a time warp. I have soundbyte memories of music.
The Yardbirds, first time I sullied my Fathers interior decoration with a poster.
Spencer Davis Group, I was older than Steve Winwood, still am if he is alive.
Cream, I had very fond memories of Cream and those guys in all of their various bands. Unfortunately I have discovered that I was delusional. Drugs may have played a part in setting up that fond memory. My husband gave me the box set of Eric Clapton's LIFE for Christmas. All I can say is I've had enough of Eric. I'm sure Eric would understand, he undoubtedly has memory distortion too.
I either read, heard or imagined that Ginger Baker is having problems with immigration and may have to leave the States. It must have been a radio report because I also heard that his favourite whore had just died. I eventually realized it was his favourite horse that had passed away. It did seem rather strange to use such a derogatory term for a loved one. Ginger, if I may be so familiar, is still a God so what the hell.
In college everyone listened to Donovan, The Beatles, Joni Mitchell etc. Of course I was and still am a big Who and Rolling Stones fan, I missed the Who's final tour because I didn't believe that it really WAS the last tour. I was in a club having a drink at a strangely deserted bar and the bartender said rather cruelly, "so you're not at THE WHO concert either?"
I didn't have much time for the Beatles,(but sorry about Linda). I hated that 'lovable lads from Liverpool' crap that the incredibly patronizing British press put out.
You see I am not in any way qualified to share my uninformed opinion about music.
That's never stopped me.
We skip ahead, because there is a big memory gap, to the barren years after college. I stayed at college as long as possible, a span of '68 to '73 when they couldn't stand me any longer. In desperation I took a job teaching technical drawing in a Secondary Modern school. I found that playing music to the masses helped us all to survive the experience. I developed a fondness for Reggae. I got over it.
I fell in with a bad crowd for a couple of years and listened to Jackson Browne, Bonnie Raitt, Bette Midler,(!) Bryan Ferry and the BBC World Service. I am not proud of this era but I was unemployed and depressed. I met the love of my life, he was just too cool to live. He introduced me to the whole Punk thing. I was already anorexic so I had the Heroin chic look without the drugs, not that I was without drugs. It ended badly, he dumped me so I regressed to Stones and Who music.
I ran away to America and fell in with a jazz-loving group of people. Beggars can't be choosers, they were supporting me and I was too heartbroken to fight for control of the stereo. I married but my husband's happy place involves Led Zeppelin. The only time I will ever play Stairway to Heaven is at his funeral.
It is rather lonely but I discuss music with my seventeen year old nephew Max who lives in England. The distance allows him to imagine that he is talking to another seventeen year old; so as long as he never sees me again we shall continue in this way.
As I type there is a rap (aren't we over that?) concert going on upstairs. I have to close and go take a drive, listen to The Who Live at Leeds.
God I am SO depressed.
Love etc....
Pandora
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