1960 – 1970<\/h3>\n\n\n\nThe First Chord<\/h4>\n\n\n\n
Who can say when I first heard music? It was probably the rhythmic swoosh-glug heard in the womb as my hearing developed. There would have been sounds though not necessarily music throughout my growth from baby in the womb, to young child. Although I have no recollection of it. Music would have been played although I wouldn\u2019t have known it as music, I\u2019m sure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I wasn\u2019t brought up in a household of piano-playing or violin-practice, nor was I schooled in an instrument of any kind. I remember having my hearing tested with a tuning fork at primary school distinctly, in a hall, with all the other children. That tuning fork was probably my introduction to music at school – at least it was in tune. The schools I attended, like many of that period of time in the late 1960\u2019s, appeared to me to favour proteges and grew them and that, closed club of alumni\/Illuminati, developed to take on the mantle of \u2018Music\u2019.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Faint Beginnings<\/h4>\n\n\n\n
If I think back, it\u2019s as though through a fog with cotton wool-stuffed ears. Faint thoughts, sounds and lyrics echo<\/p>\n\n\n\n
- \n
- \u201cKicking down the cobbled stones\u2026 Feeling groovy\u201d<\/li>\n\n\n\n
- \u201cRing of fire\u2026\u201d<\/li>\n\n\n\n
- \u201cHey there, Georgie Girl\u2026\u201d<\/li>\n\n\n\n
- \u201cLittle white bull\u2026\u201d<\/li>\n\n\n\n
- \u201cMy name is Sue\u2026\u201d<\/li>\n\n\n\n
- \u201cHey, Hey, we\u2019re the Monkees\u2026\u201d<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n\n\n\n
I must have heard these on the radio. These snippets of lyrics are all I recall but distinctly recall. However, I can\u2019t say that they helped shape my musical taste directly. I have more recently discovered and found an appreciation of Johnny Cash<\/a> but there is no burning desire, compelling me to play this early music.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There would have been Rock & Roll playing. Not as the raw, breaking phenomenon of the 1950\u2019s but the matured, decade later sound of \u2018classics\u2019. It was evolving. I felt I was kept away from popular music as an undesirable influence at a young age. There was acceptable music and unacceptable music.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Radiogram<\/h4>\n\n\n\n
I suppose the next thing I remember with any clarity was a Radiogram – a deep, low wooden sideboard, with speakers flanking either side. Deep within its body once the heavy wooden lid was lifted, a sprung record player and receiver. It had rich tones and a heavy quality. I remember laying on the floor, on my stomach with my head equidistant between the speakers, at that sweet spot where stereo separation occurs. This was Hi Fi! I don\u2019t remember the make<\/p>\n\n\n\n
(This is the nearest I could find, as I remember it<\/a>)<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At this time, I remember listening to a combination of Jim Reeves<\/a>, Andy Williams<\/a> or Herb Alpert and His Tijuana Brass<\/a> or Engelbert Humperdink<\/a>. Of Herb Alpert, I particularly remember rich, colourful album colours and the A&M Records<\/a> logo with the trumpet. This music was infectious, however it was the only music I knew, had been exposed to. This was my parents\u2019 music, their collection.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Next, it was the radio once again, listening to the Radiogram, head firmly planted between the speakers but also listening to Radio Luxembourg on a small radio, in bed under the covers, crackling static, sounds phasing in and out\u2026
I have vague memories of<\/p>\n\n\n\n- \n
- \u201cLazy Sunday afternoon\u2026\u201d<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n\n\n\n
This song drifted in and out of my mind. I didn\u2019t know who it was by at the time (I now know it was Small Faces<\/a>). It was colloquial, quirky and quintessentially English.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At Home and Abroad<\/h4>\n\n\n\n
As I think of it now, I\u2019m yanked back to another time and on to another place. That place is Spain and the music is by Ronald Y Donald and<\/p>\n\n\n\n
- \n
- \u201cCouac Couac\u201d<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n\n\n\n
I was abroad for the first time, this song of ducks singing<\/a> was everywhere and my parents bought the single as a curiosity (not their usual fare, it must have been the holiday vibe). I heard it played, back at home in England. It was brought out when people visited as a novelty but that novelty soon faded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Floating in the Ether<\/h4>\n\n\n\n
All this strangeness of disparate tunes and barely defined genres was floating about in the ether, crossing the airwaves, being picked up and then cast adrift. Some flotsam, some jetsam. Little did I know that below the surface of this ill defined sea was an alternate world of sounds, bubbling like magma from some subterranean fault. It just hadn\u2019t burst through into my life yet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As I write this, I understand full well that very few memories possess perfect recall, least of all mine. Time twists back on itself or detaches and sits adrift with recourse only to itself in certain cases. However, I think this is a good thing. What is important is that which is<\/em> remembered. That which is remembered is distilled, creating a potent draft. Chronology is important but strict chronology is for archivists and strict chronology, although it can be easily checked, may miss something. Those missed things, in the end may be the essence of the thing. I hope to capture some of the essence. I make no apology for flitting between sounds. It’s in my nature…<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Here ends A Condensed History Pt. 1<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The next post – A Condensed History Pt. 2<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n
- \u201cCouac Couac\u201d<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n\n\n\n
- \u201cLazy Sunday afternoon\u2026\u201d<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n\n\n\n
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