Author: Flyssy

Yes, I’m sorry to say that this post does start with yet another reminder of last year, so feel free to skim down until you reach the part that says ‘picture this.’

Cast your mind back approximately 87 years to the start of the first lockdown. Those blissfully naïve weeks when nobody had a clue what was coming, and the novelty of a few weeks (ha ha) at home when the weather was warm. If you were lucky, you were furloughed and you got to laze around and sunbathe while getting paid for it.  Everybody started baking banana bread and sourdough out of nowhere. The yeast consumption of this country shot through the roof at the same time we ran out of toilet roll. Amid the lamenting of the gluten intolerant, we were only allowed to leave the house for one hour a day for essential shopping or exercise. We weren’t allowed to see friends. The pub was out of the question, as was the stress and rush of the daily commute. No more packed tube trains, armpits in faces, fighting for Pole Position on the platform or exasperated sighing as you joined the back of a queue stretching the length of your chosen morning café.

Once we’d all absorbed the fact that we were suddenly living in some sort of dystopian nightmare, we just sort of…got on with it. Our circle of daily activities suddenly and unexpectedly shrank, and there was absolutely nothing we could do about it. Everybody was forced to stop. We became more introspective, we valued that one hour when we could go for a walk during those balmy summer evenings, and we made use of technology to keep in touch with those we cared about. Lots of people I spoke to who were usually too busy to stop and look around finally had the (enforced) opportunity to do so, and most, if not all, enjoyed it much more than they expected to.

We all know how things developed as time progressed. You don’t need me to lead you down a sanitised rabbit hole of misery to recap the rest of last year, when all you have to do is turn on the TV or look at Twitter (don’t). Everyone was affected by the events of 2020, whether in terms physical, mental, emotional, romantic, financial, professional or a combination of all of these. Without disregarding the awfulness, I would like to go on for a bit about what we can take from the last year, using the example of the humble pub gig to highlight the importance of finding the joy in the generic. Bet you can’t wait for this.

Picture this: a pub, probably in north west London. Not an awful amount of space, but the sofas and tables have been cleared to make way for a dance floor. Kitschy taxidermy animals mounted on the walls, each with the name of a middle-aged man. Underneath Dave the Badger, the drumkit, keyboard, guitars, bass and microphones glint under the precariously balanced, multicoloured lights. These bad boys make the room ten times hotter but add to the vibes. Pint glasses of water, some full, some half-drunk, sit nestled among a snaking maze of cables. The lead singer gleans some small respite from the one electric fan offering blissful cool air, of which there will always be an attempted hijack by those dancing, slowly melting under those precariously balanced lights.

Gradually, those who were out for a post-work drink rotate and are replaced by those who deliberately got dressed up, ready for a good dance to a set list of entirely generic Dad rock. If you’re lucky, it’s summertime. The big windows will be open, spilling the sound of clinking glasses and easy, relaxed conversation onto the high street as it gradually turns gold in the sinking sun. This is the setting in which I’ve spent countless nights since the age of 13 and it is the setting in which I have found the most joy. Since then, the circle of attendees who come along with my brother and I has steadily grown, and we all trot off to west London every now and then and prepare ourselves for a night of shouting, dancing, general euphoria and a hell of a lot of sweating (those lights are murder).

I wasn’t joking when I said that the set is generic. Lonely Boy. More Killers than you can shake a stick at. Muse. Superstition, Summer of 69, Rock and Roll Star . That’s not even all of it. It’s a function musician’s nightmare.

The dancing begins in staggered shifts. In a pre-socially distanced world, my friends and I would sit like sardines in a tin, all bobbing and shoulder dancing to Rock the Casbah. There’s always one random punter who’s had a bit too much to drink by 8:30 and proudly occupies the whole dance floor with an incredibly expressive interpretation of Take Me Out. They tend to disappear by the fourth song, finally freeing up the space for the rest of us. By then, a few brave women have started dancing on the fringes of the floor, and then once Two Princes kicks in, I’m up and off. The second set is always the best – the old favourites come out, the alcohol is taking effect, the dancefloor grows more crowded and the temperature starts to climb. My brother usually does a stint on Play That Funky Music and takes about 20 minutes to get through the solo. Finally, once a hand contorts into an abysmal shape on the frets, we all know what’s coming. There are a few eye rolls but it’s too late. The roof is shaken by a collective “coming out of my cage and I’ve been doing JUST FINE…”

By the time the climactic screaming of Chelsea Dagger has subsided, you’re utterly exhausted. Gasping for water, your feet are killing you, your back is begging for mercy and your face is shiny with sweat, a few stray hairs stuck to your forehead. All you want is to sit down.

And then Sweet Caroline starts.

Momentarily replenished by this musical shot of adrenaline, you find it from somewhere deep within your soul (and diaphragm) to hack out one more. Then that really is it. Your vocal cords are shredded. Staggering to the bar, you all order a pint of water (ice is essential here) and make your way to the cold, sweet relief of the street outside. You then spend half an hour standing around with your friends, catching your breath, making a fuss about how hot it is inside, and shouting at each other because your ears are ringing. You always end up staying outside for fifteen minutes too long so that by the time you’ve finished moaning about how hot you are, it’s time to moan about how cold you are and you all traipse back inside to warm up.

A gig in a pub isn’t a monumental event. Five blokes in a band getting the words wrong to Get Lucky or missing the introduction to Town Called Malice isn’t exactly Queen-at-Wembley-Stadium calibre. It’s not meant to be. That doesn’t mean it isn’t special.

Everyone has their own stress. But for one evening every once in a while, a load of people gather under one roof, and then nobody is thinking about the next day, when you’ll be speaking at least two octaves lower because you’ll have lost your voice somewhere around Dakota. All that matters is being with friends in that moment and having a laugh.

I’m not oblivious to the state of things, I am in no way glossing over the atrocious events that have happened over the months. What I’m saying is that these circumstances have forced a lifestyle shift, and a mindset shift along with it. Namely, an appreciation for the smaller things and the acknowledgement that nobody has their lives completely together. What matters is having friends to laugh with and muddle through it together, focusing on the present and hopefully having a bit of fun along the way.

Hopefully we will soon return to the nights when the only things you have to worry about are whether or not you reckon you can squeeze in a trip to the bathroom before Common People starts, and having a dance without getting a pint spilled on you.

I’m so excited about this. I love this song SO MUCH. It’s got all the components of a great rock song. I can hear the sharpening of pitchforks as I await the slew of “wHaT aB0uT b0hEMiAn rHaPS0dY” and woe betide anyone who dare approacheth, attempting to sing the praises of Stairway to Heaven, Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing or anything, anything by Biffy Clyro. When I say that Stay is the ultimate rock song, I mean in terms of the ingredients that have gone into it – you can stand down.

You know it’s going to be good when there’s a strut-worthy introduction. The sort which turns turns you from stressed London commuter to fan-blown, leather-trouser-wearing frontman whilst walking down Marylebone Road in the dark in January.

Dann Huff did not need to go that hard. Providing not only a blistering solo but also having the perfect rock voice – equal parts power, range, rasp. “Won’t you stay till the end/Don’t walk away tonight” – this moment when the drums drop out before the vocals return on the upbeat in the last chorus. It’s the most satisfying part of the song, culminating at the end with the backing vocals, Huffy’s high note and the solo. Sublime.

Giant really don’t get enough credit. They just happened to come along right as hair metal was having its face rubbed in the dirt by grunge and so never really got off the ground. Stay is from the band’s second album, Time to Burn. The first, Last of the Runaways (1989), contains similar masterpieces, notably It Takes Two and I’ll See You in My Dreams. There’s no bravado, no stupid outfits, nor does a fog of drugs and chaos suspend itself over the heads of Giant like it did those of the bands rolling, crazed and wild, off the Sunset Strip in the late 80s. Whether or not Giant were melodic rock or hair metal made no difference, as it was all destined to be swallowed by the rise of Pearl Jam and the globalisation of Nirvana. It doesn’t mean it isn’t still a shame that a new decade of music threw out the baby with the bathwater and a band like Giant never stood a chance.

I’ll be honest – the main reason I like this song is because it’s featured in Notting Hill. Aside from imbuing me with images of Portobello Road, the Ritz, the escapism of a romantic love story and the frankly laughable notion of ever being able to afford to live in London, it’s a great song.

Love isn’t complicated. Yes, it creates hurricanes within us, but that’s the side effect. You realize how you feel and suddenly your mind goes into overdrive with worries, insecurities, excitement, nerves. Meanwhile, love is just sitting there, filing its nails and watching the fireworks.

Ain’t No Sunshine distills the experience of love and heartbreak down to its basic fundamentals. There is no climactic point in the song. No melismatic scale-climbing typical of many soul or blues artists. Sometimes, understated is more effective. It almost mirrors the famous scene from Notting Hill – Julia Roberts stands in a bookshop with a creaky wooden floor in front of Hugh Grant and simply states “I’m also just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her.” Sometimes the soft, uncomplicated declaration can more deeply convey what we feel. Someone smiles at you and your sun comes out. See? Simple.

I’ve been out of university and in the Real World for just over a year now, so I’ve had fewer opportunities to flex the muscles of my inner wordsmith – however, I regret to inform the 3 of you who may read this, that the chance to flex once again has arrived. The light to the blue touch paper? Sonia’s You’ll Never Stop Me Loving You.

I’m pinpointing this song because it’s a recent discovery by way of an old Top of the Pops repeat. I had no idea it existed, had never listened to Sonia, and suddenly all I listened to was Sonia. You thought I was being mean about this song by my use of the
word ‘trash’ in the title of this post. Two things can be true at once. It is, in fact, utter trash. Is it still great? Yes. By great, do I mean terrible? Also yes.

YNSMLY was part of the subsection of music borne out of the synthesised technicolour rainbow that was Stock, Aitken and Waterman’s late 80s pop emporium. Such an empire was built on so much pop cheese that it could cause
gastrointestinal issues in anyone within a 5-mile radius. Don’t believe me? Check out another Sonia offering – Someone Like You. A far cry from the 21^st century lamenting of Adele, its 80s counterpart is in fact a bouncy, bubble-gum tune about finding the Perfect Boy. This sense of naivety brings me back to the somewhat questionable message behind YNSMLY.

“You’ll never stop me from loving you/It doesn’t really matter what you put me through.” Where is this message to be found in Beauvoir’s The Second Sex? Oh, right. Although, the whole song does strike a rather stalkerish note: “When I know that you’re alone/I wander to your home/And catch a glimpse or two.” The only other example I can think of in this lyrical arena is Busted’s That’s What I Go To School For – “I climb a tree outside her home/To make sure that she’s alone/I see her in her underwear/I can’t help but stop and stare.” However, where Busted come across as laddish schoolboys, the idea of ‘it doesn’t really matter what you put me through’ walks the line between lovestruck and faintly concerning.

I know, I’m being painfully self-righteous. I understand this is by no means the worst song to come out of the 80s regarding the perception of women (the entire back catalogue of Mötley Crüe, anyone?) Indeed, there are many other songs with equally wet sentiments from the women of the 20^th Century – Jennifer Rush’s The Power of Love, even Dolly Parton’s Jolene. I am not holding Sonia or any of these women up as the enemy of feminism – I’d be a hypocrite if I was. It is simply interesting to notice how easily a questionable lyrical message can be overlooked by a catchy melody jammed with more synths than Gary Numan’s garage in 1979. But then, how many pop songs can that argument apply to?

I’m not trying to get on a soapbox and rant about how 80s pop music undercut centuries of feminist struggle. That would have been a brilliant dissertation topic, but the bottom line is this: You’ll Never Stop Me Loving You was written by a group of 3 blokes in the 80s who knew their way around production and a decent melody. It’s incredibly catchy, it’s very upbeat, and most importantly, it’s of its time. During these months of confusion, uncertainty and fear, it is completely harmless. It’s escapist and light-hearted. It may be so cheesy that you feel ashamed of liking it, but I say this – put it on when you’re making dinner or tidying your room. Allow yourself to fall for it, hook, line and synthesiser.