Category: Archive

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.   

At the end of October, I toddled off to see Tony Hadley at the Manchester Opera House, and reviewed the gig for the Mancunion, our university’s newspaper. The following review was subsequently published on the paper’s website here: https://mancunion.com/2018/10/31/live-review-tony-hadley-a-night-at-the-opera-house/

 

Tony Hadley has left life in Spandau Ballet behind to embark on a solo tour with a new album, Talking to the Moon, from which he performed several original songs, as well as some classic Spandau ‘gold’ (see what I did there) at Manchester Opera House on the 13^th October.

The show opened with the superbly energetic Take Back Everything, the first track of the new album. Whilst receiving a very good reception, it was clear that most of the audience were there primarily for the classics. This theory was proven by the unmistakable synthesised introduction to Spandau’s To Cut a Long Story Short; the atmosphere of the hall turned on a dime, the entire audience were suddenly on their feet, dancing in the aisles, screaming, and having a ball all round. The clear difference in attitude towards songs new and old was not a problem for our host. During a break between songs, Hadley acknowledged the wide-ranging desire to hear Spandau Ballet’s eighties classics, and graciously obliged whilst also appreciating the very warm reception of the new album, a reception which only grew stronger the more originals he performed. These included Skin Deep, a ballad about inner beauty, which Hadley related to the age of social media and the current climate of obsession around physical and superficial beauty, Accident Waiting to Happen and Killer Blow, both providing a punchier, more intense antithesis to the softer tone of Skin Deep.

And then came the classics. Peppered throughout the set were the songs that made Spandau Ballet an eighties sensation. Through the Barricades featured the powerhouse vocals of percussionist Lily Gonzalez, Round and Round, Only When You Leave, Chant No. 1, Lifeline and Highly Strung all featured maximum audience participation, as did a stripped back, acoustic rendition of I’ll Fly for You. A surprise anomaly came next in the shape of Queen’s Somebody To Love, and whilst it wasn’t quite Mercury-standard, it was yet more proof that age has in no way had an affect on Hadley’s voice. The set concluded with the ever-beautiful True. After two minutes of teasing, the audience becoming rowdier and rowdier with requests for One More Song, their wishes were granted with the long-awaited Gold, followed by the closing track of Talking to the Moon, entitled What Am I?, a semi-autobiographical ballad with personal sentiment regarding Hadley’s decision to leave Spandau Ballet. As the cheering died down, the night ended with a rendition of Sinatra’s That’s Life, momentarily transforming Manchester Opera House into a 1930s New York jazz club.

Any artist worries about audience reception to new music. Of all of them, Tony Hadley needn’t concern himself in the slightest; I have rarely been to a concert where the artist was wrapped in such a warm, accepting and encouraging atmosphere. Every song was like an encore – these were fans who had grown up with Spandau Ballet’s music and given Tony Hadley’s very apparent credentials as all-round Lovely Man, and his gift for showmanship, there was no danger of his new album being greeted with anything less than sheer joy, a joy which stems from an all-encompassing love for the artist himself. Tony Hadley has still got it, and he’s got the fans to match.

The term Yacht Rock confused me at first, because I couldn’t work out whether it was ‘cool’ to like it or not (not that I’ve ever cared about being cool when it comes to music – I unironically love Chicago). Nonetheless, it feels very ‘taking the piss out of 80s yuppies,’ the sort of music you’d say you like, only to be met with eye rolls for being a bit pretentious (Steely Dan). Music snob takes aside, let’s examine the evidence.

The Doobie Brothers. Classic Yacht Rock staple. The potatoes of Yacht Rock. There are the obvious ones – What a Fool Believes, aka the One That Everyone Knows, Long Train Runnin’ and Listen to the Music. Then you’ve got the lesser-known ones like Little Darlin‘ and Echoes of Love, both off my personal favourite Doobies album, Livin’ on the Faultline. At the other end of the scale, there’s Black Water, which combines deep southern imagery with a bluesy, gothic country twang.

Steely Dan are the aforementioned music snob entry for the genre. Don’t get me wrong, I love Steely Dan but it’s absolutely music for musos. In the great Yacht Rock potluck, they’re the vinaigrette – composed of posh ingredients, adds pizzazz. I don’t mean that as an insult, much of Steely Dan’s music is where my favourite, favourite drummer – Jeff Porcaro – did some of his best work, but take Kid Charlemagne, for example. I’m not sure the mainstream charts at the time were clogged with similar songs about the 1960s San Francisco LSD scene, but there you go. Much of my time spent listening to Steely Dan is taken up by thinking ‘how the hell did they get there?’ The answer is Donald Fagen and his famously exacting nature, but even his solo work on The Nightfly follows similarly esoteric patterns – New Frontier is set under the assumption of nuclear war during the 1960s. Obviously the music is brilliant, but for me, the thematic elements are of primary interest in the case of Steely Dan. Apart from the solo in Peg, which I’ve heard my brother play so much that I now have a mild allergy to it (sprouts).

Love Hall and Oates. Kiss On My List, Private Eyes, August Day. Out of Touch – no notes. Don’t have much more to say on these two, the songwriting, harmonies and production are all great. Classic of the genre. Very much the assorted seasonal vegetables.

We have yet to mention the Godfather himself, Mr Michael McDonald – head chef of Yacht Rock. Present on records by the Doobies (lead vocals on What a Fool Believes), Steely Dan & Toto (backing vocals on I’ll Be Over You), pretty much all at the same time, the guy basically owned the genre in the late 70s & early 80s. He also put out some solo work in between these other projects (I Gotta Try, I Keep Forgetting, etc) because apparently he couldn’t take a day off. Look up the video of his character on Family Guy sneezing.

And then we come to the miscellaneous paragraph. The individual Yacht Rock chipolatas which have woven their way into the genre and onto playlists, standing alone next to the entire discography of Boz Scaggs. Such gems include You Can Do Magic by America – I love this song, it gives off a similar lyrical tone to the Eagles’ Witchy Woman, all very sugar and spice, etc. I’d Really Love to See You Tonight by England Dan and John Ford Coley is a favourite – it’s not a huge, dramatic love ballad, it’s a bit of a does-what-it-says-on-the-tin kind of song, but I find that this gives it a gentler sense of intimacy. The last of the miscellaneous section is Dance With Me by Orleans. Again, it’s not complex, nor is it overly emotional, it’s just really sweet.

Yacht Rock was where men were outwardly expressing more nuanced, softer emotions. There’s vulnerability in it, but the vulnerability happens to have some great harmonies behind it and you can’t help but get all misty eyed over Michael McDonald’s owl-like crooning. Yacht Rock full of great music, and it seems that its slightly clichéd reputation has come back round, especially with the gathering momentum of modern Yacht extravaganza Young Gun Silver Fox, about whom I’ll have to write a separate post because I love them so much. However, with the term gradually entering pop culture more and more, it seems that Yacht is cool again – if it was ever meant to be cool in the first place.

As the nights draw in, the days get shorter and the rain gets colder, it’s easy to see that winter has arrived. Well, not for me, because I’m at university in Manchester so it’s always dark and raining. However, for others located not quite as close to the Arctic Circle, I’m told that winter has arrived. November is a hideous month for us students; as well as the darkness making it more difficult to motivate oneself for those hateful 9ams, the month is riddled with deadlines, dwindling loans and a heightened dependence on alcohol. Or is that just me?

There is, however, one thing which has aided the pain of November for me, and by proxy, my flatmate. Christmas music. That’s right. Come at me.

“NO.”

“No, Christmas starts on December 1^st.”

“IT’S TOO EARLY.”

“Oh God, you’re one of those.”

I have been met with the above by practically everyone I know. Let me justify myself: I don’t care. No matter what anyone says or how many people complain and roll their eyes, you cannot deny that Christmas music is brilliant. It just is. It’s so happy, so energetic and full of excitement. I’m not even necessarily talking about your average Slades and Muds here, because even, even I roll my eyes at the introduction of Merry Christmas Everybody. However…

Take Wizzard’s I Wish It Could be Christmas Every Day. It’s absurd. There’s so much going on that you can listen to it 9 times and still find a new detail. Kelly Clarkson’s Underneath the Tree (a recently discovered work of magic which has become a fast favourite) and Step Into Christmas, a brilliantly colourful work of instrumental genius with a bassline that fills me with festive joy the minute I hear it. I adore Last Christmas, which will never cease to be a beautiful song for me lyrically and musically, no matter what my brother says. I’m so sick of Fairytale of New York but it does have an annoying nostalgia to it. And of course, nobody, I don’t care who you are, nobody, can resist Mariah. Don’t even try.

I have to point out a special one – imagery is an important factor in Christmas music and many successfully capture this, but few do so as authentically as White Christmas. It’s the one that even the I-do-my-shopping-on-Christmas-Eve Grinches are fond of. It’s the ultimate Christmas song; warm, sophisticated, simple, beautifully crafted and reminiscent of a Christmas before Slade and Mariah Carey – a glorious image for most, I’m sure.

But it isn’t all about the mainstream Christmas music. I wouldn’t be the annoying music snob that I am if I didn’t point out a few underrated favourites. One of these is Greg Lake’s I Believe in Father Christmas.This is one of the songs in my household which is worshipped by everyone – a rare occurrence, I assure you. In a similar vein, In Dulce Jubilo is performed every year by my brother on Christmas morning for my mum.  Other tunes played frequently are the Waitresses’ Christmas Wrapping, Little Saint Nick by the Beach Boys and A Spaceman Came Travelling, though the latter is so loathed by my brother that even the first three seconds causes him to break out in hives.

There are so many things to love about Christmas music; the excitement they conjure from the off and the richness and warmth they wrap you in. Images of blazing log fires, blankets, mulled wine, cosy evenings and the smell of the Christmas tree as the light glints off the decorations all come to mind as the music begins to infiltrate daily life. As well as this, they’re (mostly) really well-written songs. Christmas music is, in a way, very inspirational as a songwriting tool. Layered with interesting and often complex instrumentation, along with an onslaught of melodic genius, a good Christmas song is timeless. Christmas is such an extravagant occasion, so why not make the music to match? It’s the one time of year where we’re allowed to embrace bells and brass bands left right and centre. So to all those who have pooh-poohed my choice of listening to Christmas music before it’s socially acceptable to do so, I say the following: bah humbug, you miserable git.

I’m at a crossroads in my life. Or at least I was until I began university, so now it feels like I’ve just crossed the crossroads. In other ways, I haven’t; I’m still standing in the middle of several paths, each leading in a different direction, each route I want to take dependent on my mood. And being a hormonal teenage girl, this means I often end up beginning to take one route before backtracking and starting again. In other words, the last year of my life (give or take) has been incredibly emotional, but primarily, pretty terrifying. I left school last summer, uprooted my entire life and plonked it halfway across the country, in Manchester, on my own, knowing nobody and leaving behind every shred of the identity I had constructed for myself over the past 18 years. Needless to say, I was bricking it.

I started thinking a while ago as I walked to and from campus about the songs that had shaped my life up until this point. Everyone has songs that they remember hearing as a kid, or those they’ve loved for years, but having a particular set of songs which had an influence on your life, those are different. And so, with the crossroads comes the music. Strap in.

Magic – Pilot

This is possibly the very first song I remember hearing, or at least consciously concentrating on listening to. There isn’t much backstory to it, I was sat in the car with my Dad and the song came on the radio, and I just remember listening to it and liking the hook. Whenever I’ve heard it since, I think of that time.

Beach Baby – First Class

An epitome of summer and nostalgia, a childhood memory of a song that was just…there. I originally got confused with the song name, thinking the artist was the Beach Boys, also because the song could easily be mistaken for a Beach Boys track. Nevertheless, it’s up there with one of my childhood classics. I don’t think I’ve ever heard it in real life, it was confined to the mixtapes my Dad would build as a way of (probably) indoctrinating my brother and I. It worked, because this song absolutely slaps.

There She Goes – The La’s

One of my favourite sounds in the entire world is the sound of my dad playing acoustic guitar. I could listen to it forever and my earliest memory of this is dad sat at our table playing There She Goes. It’s also the song that my brother played on my guitar when he came to visit me at university, so it’s up there with the core memories.

My Sharona – The Knack

We’re moving away from the core memories now, but this is another childhood oldie. There isn’t really much of a memory attached to it, just another one that was always there, floating around in a cloud of gig setlists and tabs. I’ve also discovered that it’s a pain the arse to play on bass, so I decided to sit and drum it on my brother’s bedroom floor instead, using the carpet as a bass drum and the chair as a snare before I acquired an actual kit.

Boys of Summer – Don Henley

Another one to add to the summer playlist; I heard this song constantly growing up, played either by my dad or brother, and as a result, I could pick out the chorus because of its distinctive melody, but I could never remember the name of the song.

Now, my brother and I are much closer than we were when we were teenagers still living under the same roof. When this was the case, whenever I liked a song he was listening to and asked for its name, he would not tell me. God forbid I’d listen to a song that he liked because obviously, the second I listened to a song ‘of his,’ it would automatically ruin it for him and I would be forever burdened with the sin of corrupting a song that he enjoyed listening to. This very thing happened with Boys of Summer. After I received the usual reply, I decided enough was enough. I’d known this song for years and refused to allow the gatekeeping to continue. Marching to my dad’s office, I explained the sitch, and hummed/sang the chorus as best I could. After some guesswork, we eventually established the title and I immediately ran back to my brother’s door.
“Boys of Summer”
“Fucks sake”
Slam.
Nowadays, I often get messages from my brother which go something like this:
“Listen from 1:35-2:00, the bass is SO GOOD.”

Papa Don’t Preach – Madonna

Yes I know, but it was the very first single I bought on vinyl, so I kind of have to include it. Plus, not going to lie, I kind of really like it.

Waiting For a Star to Fall – Boy Meets Girl

I feel like many of the songs I’ve chosen to write about from my childhood all come under a certain emotional umbrella; they all seem to have that late 80’s/90’s summery nostalgia attached to them – the musical equivalent of battered, faded Levis, sunshine, bias cut dresses and oversized printed shirts, giant plants in living rooms and dandelions, all seen through a sepia filter. Basically, the music video of Waiting For a Star to Fall. I heard this song many, many years ago and never really heard it again. Many, many years later, re-enter brother. Same formula applied, however, this time, he actually told me what it was. We sat listening to it and came to the mutual conclusion that it was possibly the happiest song ever.

As well as the sentimental value of the song, the actual music itself is spectacular. The burst of saxophone at the start and the solo in the middle both evoke a metaphorical explosion of summer. That is what this song is to me. It is the musical representation of happiness and I don’t think music gets better than that.

Photograph – Def Leppard

Def Lep is one of the earliest bands I remember hearing, so there are many to choose from, but Photograph was the first song by them that I remember hearing (apart from Unbelievable, but I initially thought that was by McFly so let’s skate over that). Once again, I can’t pinpoint exactly where or when I heard the song, it was just kind of there, but it’s always been there as a popular Def Leppard favourite in my house. As I gradually became more interested in music, I began to analyse the guitars more, and I love the construction and intricacies of the chord sequences. My favourite part of the song is the crescendo, both on the studio recording and the live performances by Steve Clark in 1988 and Phil Collen now.

Livin’ On a Prayer – Bon Jovi

This was my favourite song for nearly 10 years. I don’t remember how exactly it was that I became obsessed with this song, but I’ve told the story in a previous post about how I discovered Bon Jovi as a band. Livin’ On a Prayer is obviously everyone’s gateway into 80s rock, so I think my first memory of this song is sitting on the sofa with the rest of my family and my Mum singing along to it on the TV. It was the song that I air guitared to in my room with a scarf tied around my head; it was the start of my idolisation of Jon Bon Jovi and it was the song that stayed with me through the years, and became ‘my song’ at school. Whenever it came on at parties, I’d be the one that people turned to. It stayed with me as an anthem of happiness, shit key change and all, and I loved the power and euphoria of that last chorus.

Bohemian Rhapsody – Queen

I’m going to voice possibly one of the most unpopular opinions to have as a rock fan – I’ve grown to not like this song. Here’s why…

When my brother and I were teenangers, our secondary schools put on a joint musical. The year that we did it, the musical was We Will Rock You. So obviously, I was in the cast and my brother was the guitarist. However, this did mean endless (enjoyable) rehearsals, and constant performances of BoRap. I can now never hear it and not think of the musical, so it’s just been done to death for me. Nevertheless, it reminds me of the fun I had putting on the production. And it was a bloody good production, not going to lie. We got sent a signed photo by Brian May.

Side note, the beginning of Innuendo nearly makes me wet myself from fear because that was the start of the first act.

Faithfully – Journey

I was raised listening to bands like Journey and Def Leppard, and Faithfully was one of those early Journey songs I heard. This should have been an early warning sign of my approaching AOR addiction, but I remember falling in love with Faithfully for the sweeping romance of it all. Being 9, this wasn’t really my area yet, but the first concert I went to was Journey when I was around this age. I remember little else apart from hearing the final chorus, sang primarily by the audience. I saw Journey again a few years later, supported by Styx and Foreigner, and again, the melody, the crescendo, the guitar, the piano, the vocals, everything about it elevated me when I heard it. It was the song I talked about in my very presentation at university, when, in a seminar focused on the history of popular music (best module EVER), I had to talk about a song I associated with a particular childhood memory, or one which meant a lot to me. I did feel sorry for my classmates, as I did get a bit animated talking about the song, but it was my one and only chance to yap about AOR and reader, you can bet I delivered.

Uptown Girl – Billy Joel

This is another Livin’ On a Prayer style gateway song, in this case, my gateway to Billy Joel’s An Innocent Man. Its title track, and a few others on that album stand out for me – This Night and Christie Lee. The former I loved for its melody (yeah it’s Beethoven but come on, artistic license), the harmonies and most importantly, the saxophone solo. I didn’t expect the energy of Christie Lee but it’s another fun one to have a lil dance to, and was another song which influenced my love of saxophone. But more on that later.

During the summer of 2016, I went to see Billy Joel at Wembley Stadium. I took along a friend who hadn’t been to a concert with me before. She did get elbowed, but I did warn her. Anyway, the concert was magnificent, and everyone knew what the encore would be. Surprise surprise, the stage was bathed in pink lighting as the drumbeat kicked in and 90,000 people started singing Uptown Girl. If you haven’t experienced this, I’d highly recommend it.

Love Theme to St Elmo’s Fire – David Foster

Now, I mentioned my love of saxophone. This is the song which tipped me over the edge, and I reckon that the emotional attachment to my favourite film has influenced my outlook on its soundtrack.

I mentioned at the start of this piece that I am at a crossroads in my life. I am teetering on the brink of something strange called ‘real life’, which I have come to realize, far fewer people know how to navigate than I originally thought. I’m at a crucial point at the start of university. It’s the time where I can start to make choices in terms of what career path I’d like to take, choose the people with whom I want to spend time, develop my hobbies, and ultimately, start carving a life for myself. It is the time where you have to take all of these things into account, and make a choice: sink or swim. Make the most of it, because, if you don’t, what else? It’s terrifying, so terrifying, I’ve never been so scared about anything in my life. The choices I’ve learned that people have to make when they’re this young have more of an impact than one would think. On one hand, the new start is a great thing, people can reinvent themselves, develop as a person, and generally take to it like a duck to water. Others hate it immediately, realize it isn’t for them, and decide to do other things. St Elmo’s Fire epitomizes that emotion. The film follows 7 friends who try to navigate life as college graduates in their early 20s. Some can do it, others take a little longer. Most have no clue what they’re doing. But, as the film develops and ends, it leaves a sense of “yes, it’s hard. Yes, you may not always know what you’re doing, and it’s scary having to go into the real world by yourself and work out your own life. But whatever happens, things will work out” And I believe that if the Love Theme to St Elmo’s Fire could speak, this is the thing it would say. When I heard it, I will just say that it affected me. I’m not entirely sure how, but it did, and that is all I feel I can say about it.

I feel the need to clarify that nowhere in here am I admitting that I think St Elmo’s Fire is a good film.

Alone – Heart

Ann Wilson.

Tangled

I watched Tangled the first time and quite liked it – I liked the story, and on a basic level, I liked the songs. However, upon the next couple of times I watched it, and then the next 39542952082 times I watched it, I came to realise that OH MY GOD THE SCORE. Alan Menken is already a genius, but this just isn’t fair. Listen to the instrumentation of I See the Light, or my personal favourite, the reprise of Mother Knows Best. Or just the background music. The film score for Tangled is one of the reasons that I decided I wanted to teach myself more about the construction of film music. But this was more in the sense of writing actual songs which were performed as part of the film, not traditional scores. This came later, and there is one person whom I have to thank for setting a fire inside me about the art of  film music.

John Barry

I could go on forever about John Barry. To some, I have. If you’re one of the people to whom I haven’t spoken about him, I suggest you possibly don’t mention it around me. There are several standout pieces to me, but I’ve had to narrow it down a bit.

Body Heat plays into the saxophone thing and was another key one, combined with St Elmo’s, which made me want to play. I was once discussing Body Heat with a friend, and by that I mean I’d forced them to listen to it and tell me what they thought. I said that I thought the song was the musical equivalent of sex; or rather, how sex should be. They said it was more like seduction, and I found myself agreeing. The tempo and peaks and troughs of the motif combine to create such a heated atmosphere, heavy with anticipation.

I read a biography of John Barry over the summer. I would sit on the roof listening to his discography, and I noticed that there was a term frequently mentioned to describe his work – soaring. No better word to describe Out of Africa. I will be forever grateful to my dad for dragging me along to the John Barry memorial concert at the Royal Albert Hall a few years ago. I didn’t want to go, because at the time, I had no interest in his music whatsoever. I’m so, so glad that I went, because not only did I get to see Michael Caine and Shirley Bassey, I got to sit for a whole evening in the Albert Hall listening to the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra play John Barry’s greatest hits. My only exposure at that stage was the James Bond theme tune, but Out of Africa is one of the songs that I associate with that concert, and it’s remained one of my favourites.

Somewhere in Time is my dad’s favourite Barry piece, and one of mine. However, I viewed it differently before seeing the film. I shan’t give away the plot, I shall only say that the ending of the film was followed with about an hour and a half of weeping. Prioritize the score.

When I heard the London Theme, I felt that I had to learn how to create music. Taken from the series of pieces composed by Barry for Elizabeth Taylor’s visit to London, I listened to the whole lot but kept going back to the London Theme. It’s such classic Hollywood, it’s at once sweeping and beautifully elegant and feminine. I listened to it a few more times and picked up a book about film music. Currently 4 chapters in.

Take This Heart – Richard Marx

And now we come to my favourite song. It’s been newly appointed, and took some emotional effort to yank the crown off Livin’ On a Prayer, but I think it’s more than justified. “You fear every step you make, so sure that your heart will break/It’s not how the story ends, you’ll be back on your feet again.” If you refer back to the first paragraph of this (very long) post, or the paragraph concerning St Elmo’s Fire, you may understand why I listened to this song on a loop for about 16 hours straight. Re: terror of real life and need for musical comfort. My dad showed it to me in his office one summer evening on a whim, saying that he used to play it in a band. Anyway, I love it. I love it with all my heart, I told Richard Marx how much I loved it (he said thank you), and I love the video. Richard Marx has a habit of creating the sort of melodic hooks which perfectly scratch the itch in your brain. Everything about the song makes me feel empowered, happy and reassured. It’s been my go-to throughout my year of transition, and I still continue to love it.

Start Me Up – Rolling Stones

Ok, it’s an unpopular opinion in my house, but I love the Stones. I have many favourable Stones songs, but I’ve chosen Start Me Up, because it always makes me think of when I saw them in Hyde Park in 2013. The band came onstage and Start Me Up just exploded, and the entire festival was suddenly focused on them and I felt the air around me lift. I only have to hear the riff and it takes me right back to that summer; the feeling of walking bare foot on short, dusty grass and the faint, echoing sound of guitars wafting around on the breeze and remembering that the day I saw the Rolling Stones was one of the greatest days of my life.

Wake Me Up Before You Go Go – Wham!

Absolute banger. My first memory of it is sitting with my dad in his office, he showed me this song and I remember clearly the two of us laughing at the part of the video lit up in neon. I come from a house of Wham! lovers and will not hear a bad word against them. When we heard the news of George Michael’s death, it was the one which hit us hardest. His talent was undeniable and this was the song which introduced me to that talent.

I realized how long this post was when I hit about 3000 words. However, I didn’t want to stop, because there are so many songs which influenced my life in many different ways – some purely due to sentiment and memory, others due to influence and fascination. I am still at a crossroads in my life. I feel that I will find myself in this position many more times, but so far, this is the musical influence which has accompanied me on this path.

A life in song. A map for a crossroads. A helping hand for a work in progress.

Raised on Radio is a hidden gem among the catalogue of everyone’s favourite karaoke arena rock band, Journey. Released in 1986, it rode on the coattails of the band’s earlier success with Escape (1981) and once everyone had established Don’t Stop Believin’ as the only Journey song, Raised on Radio didn’t really get a look-in, despite having some absolute bangers on it.

The first song I latched onto was Suzanne. Before I go much further, a lot of this article is going to be about Steve Perry. He’s one of the unsung (geddit) heroes of rock and practically every song on this album reinforces it. Be Good to Yourself explodes in about 1.5 seconds after the end of Suzanne and the whips you up in a distorted, raspy eighties guide to self help. Perf.

I’m not such a big fan of the title track. It doesn’t stand out particularly prominently and seems a bit of a letdown that it falls into the filler category. It’s also completely overshadowed by It Could Have Been You. For a classic AOR band, the riff is the punchiest, grooviest feature of the album and this carries through the rest of the song.

The final song on the album, Why Can’t This Night Go On Forever, is a hauntingly beautiful piece of music, melodically and lyrically. This one’s always pretty high on the ‘songs which only Steve Perry can sing’ charts – if you don’t believe me, try and hit that note. It fills me with rage when people consider Aerosmith’s Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing the best power ballad of all time. Like, it’s not. It’s so not that it’s not even funny. I love Diane Warren, but come on. I’m not saying that I necessarily think that WCTNGOF is the best power ballad of all time, because I don’t, but I definitely know which one I think is better.

I love this album. It doesn’t deserve to be as overlooked as I think it has been. Overall, it’s energetic, dynamic and some of melodic rock’s finest. It’s well worth a listen, so that if anyone ever says to you that Don’t Stop Believing is the best Journey song, you can say “ah, but…”