And in my hour of darkness..

My father passed away, alone, at the age of 84 on 6th April 2010 in a hospital bed in England.

He was diagnosed with bowel cancer over ten years ago and in that time endured a few minor strokes but recovered quickly, had glaucoma, and in the last three years walked with a frame. His second wife of 20 years was an alcoholic and this contributed to her death in November of last year.

My father had a relatively strict Roman Catholic upbringing; mostly in the absence of his father who was at sea, served 7 years in the British army (1939 - 1947), and worked as a labourer for most of his life. 


We were never really close and I spent most of my childhood witnessing the consequences of his drinking on my mother... she died in 1985 after enduring 6 years of Alzheimer's. In contrast, my mother was raised in catholic convents until she was 15, she had a very simple and positive outlook on life and although she wasn't an active catholic, she held her beliefs close to her heart. She wasn't just a Mum - she was a wonderful human being that liked art, loved music, and loved to laugh.

Just before Christmas, and living in Canada, I knew it wouldn't be long before I would be visiting my dad. Circumstances beyond my control prevented me from seeing him earlier, and so I made plans to see him in January. He was a very practical man and was never really one for accepting gifts of any kind. However, I wanted to take him something comforting and meaningful.. something that he'd keep hold of and not something he could immediately dismiss as being a 'waste of time'.

I thought long and hard about what I could possibly get him. Eventually, after lighting a candle for him at St Joseph's Roman Catholic church in Edmonton, I visited a local Christian shop and bought him a silver cross... nothing ornate or decorated... just a plain and simple cross. I considered it a risk... he could so easily turn to me and say "What's the bloody hell is this for??" and leave it at the back of the draw with his collection of broken pens and nuts and bolts. I thought to myself... I have no idea how he is going to react.. but if this cross gives him a fraction of comfort... just 0.1% of something, then it would have been worthwhile... it would have been meaningful to him and me. The cross would have reminded him that he was not truly alone.

When January came along, I received news that he'd fallen and broken his hip and that my visit to England would be spent visiting him at hospital, getting into small talk, and looking at my watch. It sounds harsh... but it's reality. We never really got on too well as father and son and his situation wouldn't make much difference to that truth at all.

Finally, I got to the hospital with my son and daughter and presented the cross to him: "Look dad... I got you this in Canada... it's a decent one... I had it blessed... feel the weight of it."

My dad sat up as far as he could, despite the near blindness from glaucoma, despite the discomfort and pain and despite the haziness of the drugs he'd been administered. I could see in his eyes that this little silver cross had far far greater meaning to him than I could ever have assumed it would.

We spoke fleetingly, little reassurances without the pretence, man to man, father to son as it so easily could have been for the absent years previously. After two weeks we said goodbye, I returned to Canada, and among the trials and tribulations that followed, something kinda wonderful happened amidst the chaos of the time.

My daughter, my son-in-law, and my ex-wife were my dad's only visitors during this time and on being discharged from hospital, he spent one week in a private nursing home where he had 100 pounds ($200) stolen from his side cabinet. There was nothing we could do.. it's not uncommon and is almost expected. But this man who was very 'careful' with his money throughout his life, who would have been outraged at the theft of his money at any other time, was completely unconcerned... just as long as he had his cross.. and he clung to it in his final hours and it brought him immense comfort.. that's all that mattered to him now.

On the night before he died, my daughter was with him and he told her: "Look... I am dying... I am telling you this because I don't want you here to witness it... they (the hospital) will phone you and tell you 'you're granddad is drawing his last breath...' or 'we really do think you should come to he hospital to say goodbye'. If that happens... don't come down here! He died the following morning.

I arrived in England two days later and made arrangements for the funeral that would be very small, simple, practical. He would have wanted people to spend money on keeping food and juice on the table rather than to buy flowers and cards. There were maybe half a dozen people attending at the crematorium. We had a short catholic service with 'I am here Lord' and 'Amazing Grace' playing in the background.

My daughters and I accidentally retraced a walk along the Liverpool docks that my dad would take me on when I was a child... it wasn't something I had intended, we just got off the train a stop before we should have. We caught the Mersey Ferry, and at exactly 4.20pm and halfway across the river, we dispersed his ashes with a few red roses from the ferry's bow into the River Mersey as he had requested.

In clearing his house and belongings, I found something I never knew he kept. In the inside pocket of his jacket, he kept a Pope Paul prayer card and a small cross.. he'd had kept these close for most of his adult life and I never knew. 


The silver cross I'd given him was returned to me and will one day be given to my son when he is old enough to look after it and maybe when he's at a point in his life when he understand's it's significance.

I wanted to share this because in this story there is something positive against the complexities of sadness, of estrangement, of despair and of suffering. It is the simplicity of the comfort that this cross brought to a man in his final hour.. something encouraging and meaningful.. something deep and binding between a father and his son.

On Being the Son of a World War Two soldier

British Army ID Card

Between 1939 and 1947, and as far I'm aware, my dad served with the Royal Irish Fusiliers (infantry), and the Royal Army Service Corps (dispatch rider) in France, Germany, Holland, Belgium, Egypt, and Norway. At 16, he lied about his age to get in.

I asked him recently if he regretted going in so young? "We thought it would all be over in a week!" He replied nonchalantly. Five years later, and as the war in Europe came to an end, he was home for a weekend and went back to Norway for a year for what he called his 'long weekend away'.

North Africa 1942

Growing up around my dad wasn't easy but it was my mother that caught the flak from a man who had fought and seen things that even some of the toughest guys today could barely imagine. I took my mother's side always and even though I was a young boy, I did what I could to support her in whatever way I could.

British Army WW2 Medals 1939 - 1945

For me dad, there were no counsellors... no one to mange the virtually unmanageable issues he had to have carried with him through the trenches and battlefields and all the way to his civilian life. I'd ask him about it from time to time but his recollections were selective, I realize now, knowing a little more about the events he would have been involved in, that had it been me then I'd have been even more selective.
A few years ago, I was thinking alot about his role in the Army and the kind of life he would have become accustomed to. Whatever way you look at it.. just surviving all of that and then returning to civilian life must have been incredibly hard and maybe that's partly the reason why he wasn't easy to live with when I was growing up. Ultimately I guess, he deserves some respect for what he endured during the war and perhaps a little compassion for the way he was afterwards. His only listeners would have been the fellas in the pub and maybe occasionally, his Priest.

The thing is, it occured to me that being the son of a WWII soldier is quite a bit different to being brought up by a father who has known only civilian life. I didn't have to spit and polish my shoes and have the creases in my trousers inverted, but there are parts of me that are very much him, things that he'd picked up along the way during the war, and either intentionally and/or unintentionally instilled in me.

I recognize those values, those views, that way of being in exactly the same way as the rest of us recognize non-military traits that came from our parents and I also acknowledge the things I'd rather not have inherited from him.

Fortunately, my mother provided the perfect balance; a more simplistic view of living with a greater emphasis on arts and music than my Dad's emphasis upon 'grafting' and 'applying' myself. If my dad had a vision of how I would turn out perfectly for him, then my destiny would have been the Liverpool dockyards, a 'decent' trade, or as a last resort... the Army. He didn't visualize a 'college pudding' of a son, so I didn't oblige him until my late twenties. When I got my degree, he didn't bat an eyelid ;o)

I wrote this piece as a tribute to a man that brought me up; not for being a great father or husband, but for doing what he did to defeat an unimaginably horrific adversary. I want to say 'Thanks' for fighting for us, to all the guys that fought really.


As time goes by, our younger generations are more distant from these conflicts, from the sheer collective resolve to put things right for the rest of us. I don't really recall too many heartfelt thanks being offered to soldiers who fought after 1945 to the present day. That's sad. I guess, for all the great things men and women have achieved, we never did manage to overcome that primitive concept of 'out of sight - out of mind'.

In 1967, Pauline Kelly tried hard not to laugh at my Dalek suit!

Close to Christmas 1967 and on the corner of Lambeth Road and Stanley Road in Kirkdale, Liverpool, there was a toy shop that I swear was called 'The Choc Box'. The window display included a red Dalek Suit that looked really cool draped over something kinda conical in the corner and with about half a dozen 'Action Men' laid out before it in different poses to catch the eye of passing kids and mums that didn't think Action Man was a boy's doll!

That Dalek suit to me was the closest you could get to having a real dalek in the house.. and all I needed to do was wish out loud a couple of times that I'd love one for Christmas.

Christmas Day saw strong winds rushing from the docks and ploughing through the cobbled terraced streets like a fine tooth comb seeking out nits in the backyards and entries. There was no snow.. not even a frosty suggestion of it and most of the kids in my street were indoors fiddling with Mousetrap, Hot Wheels race tracks and newly acquired Monopoloy money.

There was no fun in screaming 'Exterminate' at my mother or the cat in my red vinyl dalek suit with it's sink plunger and plastic helmet that kept falling to one side of me head. Me dad would just give me 'that look' for being soft!

Pauline Kelly meanwhile had served as my assistant in the Tardis (that was really the outside toilet) for years... she also took on the leading role of Lady Penelope, Emma Peel, Catwoman, and tons of victims when we played Dracula in the entry (back alley for our North American comrades). God I didn't 'arf want to bite her neck!

Yep... Pauline would be perfect and Tony Bancroft would be cool too!

Now, the awful thing about girls in our street, regardless of their loyalty bonuses as best friends, is that they were excrutiatingly honest... it was for our own good! So when I knocked for Pauline wearing my dalek suit with the wind blowing the vinyl skirt part up around my knees and with the red plastic helmet cocked to one side.. she laughed so hard that the Dalek eye was near blown clean off the helmet! She was suppose to be scared to death!

I should really have worked it out on the approach to her door... she was a brilliant Dr Who assistant but she wasn't soft... and she wasn't ever gonna say 'God you scared me to death then!' when it was so much easier for her to be honest and say 'But er... you do look stupid!" "You're not coming out then? I asked, shunned into insignificance. "Nah... it's too windy but I might call for you later on." she promised.

With the Kirkdale Christmas Day street still deserted, I went home and came up with a brilliant idea! I took the dalek suit off, which had begun to look crapper and crapper, and set it up over a brush and some small boxes in the back yeard air raid shelter that was now a coal shed. It actually looked miles better in there than it did on me!

Tony Bancroft wouldn't have had much for Christmas... and he'd play with me even if he had scurvy or the flu! When I knocked at his house and told him I had a dalek in the coal shed and that he HAD to see it.. he grabbed a butty and followed me down the entry to my back yard door. "Shhhh yer fool... it'll hear ya!" I said with caution as we approached the coal shed door and the second I swung the door open to reveal the awaiting dalek... he frowned, sighed, rubbed his forehead and then looked back at me and said 'But er... It's shit! It's not even a proper dalek!"


I was gutted but instantly went into self recovery mode. Your mate's opinions matter more when you're a kid. They matter a lot when you're older, but when you're a child.. a little beacon of unparalleled imagination and wishful thinking, what your mates think makes all the difference in the world.

It was decided. The dalek had to be destroyed and so the dalek suit was eventually exterminated after being bricked to death by The Jelly Man in a street production of The Outer Limits! The Jelly Man would be played by Tony Bancroft (because of his scurvy), supporting actress Pauline Kelly would make a brilliant victim and you could easily bite her neck, and yours truly would produce.

Giz a go of that hammer!

“I've told ya once and I won't tell ya again... you’re barred from this shop… and you’re not getting served!”


Flatnose Tom announced angrily as I walked into the corner shop he ran at the end of our street.


“Yer wha??? What for Tom?” I asked with increasing embarrassment and in complete and utter disbelief.


“I’ll tell ya what for you little robber! You climbed over the back wall last night and robbed a crate of Schofields lemonade!!”


Even if my status really had been elevated to ‘robber’, I wouldn’t have dared climb over the back wall seeing as Flatnose Tom kept a huge German Shepherd in the back! Not only that, but when I sagged off school or pretended to be sick, I’d look forward to having a game of draughts with him and I’m sure he was glad of the company. Nevertheless, I was banned and there was nothing I could do or say that would make any difference. So I simply crossed the street and bought me threepenny drink at Ballards.


On the way out, I saw Tony Bancroft kicking a stone in a perfectly straight line across the cobbles in an attempt to score a goal in the grid. His slip-on shoe came off with the force of the kick! “Ahhhh yer scruff!” I shouted compassionately. “What are yer doing? Are ya coming out or wha?”

I really liked Tony. He was me best mate and although he was two years older than me, he told me everything I needed to know about the universe and about girls that he had learned from his older brothers Jimmy and Billy.

It was Tony that told me when I was ten that if you lie on top of a girl “you get a thrill!” I tried it once with Pauline Kelly for a whole ten minutes and she just told me to “Get off!” So we both marched round to Tony’s house and told him he was a liar and that nothing happens! Tony just nodded his head and tutted at the pair of us.

There were ten people living in his three-bedroom terraced house including his grandma. They dressed in hand-me-downs, as did most other big families, and although they seemed poor, they managed on Billy’s money from delivering the coal and from Jimmy’s money working on the bins. Me and Pauline Kelly worked out that Mr and Mrs Bancroft were probably too tired to work!

There were other great things about Tony Bancroft.; he’d stick up for me especially with kids and even gangs that were older than us. All it took was a simple “AYYYY leave him alone you!” and most of the time they would stop, frown, spit on the ground, and drag their feet walking away; every one of them baring a curled lip! For this, and many other reasons, I’d usually share me pocket money with him or pay his bus fare when we’d go to the museum or on the trains as far as Southport which was miles away.

In those days, you could throw a brick at a kid, near split his head open, and there would be blood everywhere but no one ever snitched (unless it was really bad and their clothes were wrecked!).

When I threw a brick at Flatnose Tom’s son though, he went beserk and we had a fight at the bottom of the street until I convinced him that me trousers were brand new and that four year old Tony Kelly had thrown it. Tony even admitted it for me and we were all best mates within an hour!

For the next few months though, whenever there was a raid (gangs of kids throwing bricks and stones at each other) and despite being warned to “Aim to miss” Flatnose Tom’s son went out of his way to aim for me head! He still missed cos I was a good brick dodger but I got him in the forehead loads of times!

Now, you need to know that knocking houses down was great fun especially in the late sixties when hundreds of families were moving out of the area to places that had gardens and weird birds like Starlings, Thrushes, and Magpies! We only ever saw pigeons, seagulls and sparrows and the only trees you ever saw were all in the park!

When a family had moved out, their house was condemned for clearance and the entire area earmarked for poorly informed and narrowminded redevelopment. When a house became empty, it was like winning the lottery! As kids, we just thought it best to help out in any way we could and so our dad’s tools came in really handy!

Armed with a set of stone chisels and hammers, me, Pauline Kelly, Tony Bancroft, and Tony Williams managed to climb over the back wall of the Cobblers and in through the back window to begin our demolition.

Tony Bancroft legged it upstairs while the rest of us sorted through discarded shoes and found tons of leather cutting tools and bits of shoes. Once we’d sorted our individual stashes, we joined Tony on the first floor where he’d already begun knocking one of the upstairs walls down. 


“AY You!!!” I shouted. “What are yer doing??? We all start on the SAME wall!!!” We had rules and you never break them especially with tasks this big when you worked as a team. But Tony couldn’t wait… he wanted a wall of his own and that’s when we heard this almighty crash accompanied by an “Aaaaggghhhh!!!!” and a heavy thud!

When we got to the doorway of the room Tony was ‘working’ in, there was a huge hole in the floorboards where half the floor had collapsed! Now the distance from the upstairs floor to ground level was easily around 15 feet and as we inched our way to the edges of the hole we saw Tony covered in plaster and lying in a pile of rubble and timber. He was still alive but winded and it had to be one of the funniest things we’d ever seen! We could barely breathe ourselves for laughing but then, at the same time, you had to at least ‘look’ concerned’ cos this, afterall, was one of yer mates!!

There was loads of times I'd fallen off walls and roofs and Tony was there like a shot! When I fell off one particularly high wall and landed on me back, he even made a song up with lyrics that went: 'Putting on the agony, putting onnnnn the agony...." I wasn't putting anything on though... I near broke me back and me neck and I nearly died cos that wall was easy over 20 feet!!

Eventually, we controlled our laughing and it was safe to take our hands away from our mouths. We shouted down the reassuring “Awww are yer alright Tone? ... We’ll get yer out in a minute!” The thing is, Tony Williams and Pauline Kelly had already started knocking the stairs down so it took a while for us to negotiate the lack of stairs and reach the still winded mate.

He looked a right state lying there coughing and moaning and trying to clear his eyes of debris until he finally and quite casually said: "Fuckinell... I near broke me neck then!"


After he finally stood up, he tucked his shirt in and brushed himself down, and was sniffing quite a bit. When kids sniff like that, and they haven't got a cold, you know they're dying to cry or that they really got hurt. You kind of ignore it as though it isn't happening because there's every chance that someone will say "Ahhh look... he's dying to cry now!" I'd had it said to me loads of times but you never ever say it to your mates and no matter what.. you do everything you can to stop the tears!


So.. we got out of the Cobblers and back into the street. We’d just got to Pauline’s house when her dog Prince started jumping up at Tony probably because he ‘looked’ strange covered in plaster. Get off yer bastard!” Tony snarled, but it was then that I realized with horror that he had left me dad’s chisel in the cobblers and even though me dad would be blind drunk when he got home, he’d KNOW his chisel was missing without even having to look!


All of our dad’s had somehow inherited psychic abilities from all that fighting in the war. Some could tell that you were lying, others could sense something was missing from their toolboxes, and that you'd heard them calling you in half an hour before you turned up.


There were some dads that were really powerful though.. these were the ones that could tell if you’d been to Mass on Sunday or not just by looking at ya!


Eventually, Tony Bancroft went back to get the chisel through sheer peer pressure and when he got back and everyone had gone in for tea (dinner), I was waiting for him on my front step. "D'ya wanna go the pictures?" I asked enthusiastically. "It's alright.. I'll ask me mum if I can pay for ya... there's a Dracula film on and I think it's on with The Mummy's Shroud!"


Tony Bancroft smurked a classic best mate smurk: "How are we gonna get in... they're both 'X's?"


"Don't be soft!" I said, on my way to get me pocket money off me mum... "You know how it works... just look like you're about to cry and we'll get someone to bunk us in... cum-ed!"

Those really were the days..

Sometime between 1976 and 1980, my then brother-in-law Steve had completed a course in plant biology at Wolverhampton Polytechnic and had moved into a nice little flat in West Lancashire. 

Before long, everything he'd had at Wolverhampton as a student was moved up to the new flat. Steve's much prized Roger Dean posters; beautifully crafted and perfectly positioned next to his Pioneer hi fi and turntable was incredibly detailed and was more like a window into another world than it was a piece of art!

The newly acquired lava lamp stood like a mini monolith behind the ornately carved walnut and oak chess set bought from the Games shop in Liverpool (a favourite AD&D gamers haut). Just across from the fireplace stood the 'infomred' album collection nicely lit by one of those Habitat spherical paper lamp shades. On the west wall was the bookcase filled almost entirely with around a hundred or so science fiction paperbacks. 

I was completely enthralled browsing through these classics that included A.E Van Vogt, Harlan Ellison, Robert Heinlein, Philip K Dick, Issac Azimov and Arthur C Clarke. Steve's book case were testimonies not just of good reading but of experiencing previously unexplored worlds and alternative dimensions. Just looking at them tugged at your determination to get into that stuff whether you wanted to or not!

Conversations at the flat ranged from basic astrophysics and trendy scientific theories to shared and somewhat slightly exaggerated life experiences that were detailed to the nth degree. The sci fi writers and their works were examined in detail too and book covers were scanned with hungry adventurous eyes before being filed into our imaginations and inspirations.

Steve's flat then, was an incredibly perfect environment for me to be introduced to a whole collection of recordings by bands and artists I'd never heard but who's album titles and cover art were themselves overwhelmingly inviting with their scientific fact and fiction associations and often spiritually uplifting abstract presentations.

So, with the lights slightly dimmed (by the lamp shade not a dimmer switch!), and with the occasional glass of wine with Lancashire cheese and Ryvita, the first album to be positioned onto the turntable platter was Tangerine Dream's Rubycon on the Virgin Records label. For that moment, I had been introduced not just to one of the world's finest electronic music purveyors, but to the soundtrack that accompanied just about every thought and imagining I'd had about the universe, the stars and galaxies, the possibilities of Saturn having more than just nine moons (it has 49 today!). 

This was kind of what was meant by 'ambient' or 'atmospheric' music and yet we referred to it simply as instrumental rock or 'progressive electronic music'. The textures and pulsating rhythms were enchanting, the trickling glassendos and the 'spacey FX and sweeps were really genuinely out of this world!

For conversations on God, life, and just about everything else that leaned towards the spiritually informed, the soundtrack next on the playlist had to be Vangelis 'Heaven and Hell'. This, like Mike Oldfield's 'Tubular Bells' seemed to me to constitute 'impossible-for-mere-mortals-to-reproduce' music. I was a guitar and bass player that would have been shamed into the dankest darkest corners of these guys living rooms had I known them personally. As musicians, Mike Oldfield and Vangelis, although a few altered sub-genres apart, were just TOO good, too brilliant, and naturally yet extraordinarily talented craftsmen of forward thinking in instrumental music.

Heaven and Hell had the choirs and anthemic keyboard work laced with heavy and progressive percussion that was woven between and beyond thunderous, wonderous, production work. Tubular Bells, on the other hand, already recognizable by it's related and remixed Exorcist theme, was the work of a 19 year old guy who HAD TO STATE 'no synthesizers' on the back cover! And, unlike the short 35/40 minute deliveries from Tangerine Dream, both Heaven and Hell and the impressively long Tubular Bells very quickly became diamonds among bricks!

The record labels RCA, Polydor, and Virgin were each putting out their fair share of instrumental stuff outside of the classical arena. Artists like Tomita who grazed through the classics and transformed them with VCOs and VCAs was doing exceptionally well in the UK. Tangerine Dream were touring right, left, and centre, complete with mountains of synths and sound modules, strange looking sequencing hardware and bulbs instead of lasers! Dave Greenslade put out 'The Pentateuch of the Cosmogany' contained inside a hardback beautifully illustrated book by Patrick Woodroffe.

The mid to late seventies was indeed a time of transformation, not just in the use of electronic instruments and modules, but for the initiated, it was a transformation of 'vision'. 

Album artwork was something to behold again and again and somehow matched the music perfectly. Try getting that kind of association today and believe me it's incredibly rare! The sleeve notes, if any, were read hundreds of times. Y'see we absolutely had to know where these things were recorded, in what time frame, with what equipment, and more importantly, and I know some of you will be confused, but we also had to know who the producer was! Yep... back then, it really was IMPORTANT that we knew these things even if we didn't quite know why!

The sound from our speakers made grey mountains blue and crystalline, it made moods swing to the positive and creative, it made reality a little brighter than normal, but perhaps more importantly, this music transported us to planes of existence that drugs could never touch! The strange thing was.. we got all of this from listening to music with no lyrics!

Then, in the middle of all that, 'Oxygene', and shortly afterwards 'Equinoxe' were released by a French guy named Jean Michel Jarre for Dreyfus/Polydor. Perhaps more than any other instrumental artist of the day, Jean Michel Jarre managed to bring home exceptional electronic music not just to the likes of me and Steve, but all the way across to the pop charts too. 

Embarrassing as that was to us, both albums exuded genius! Here we had intricately crafted sequenced arrangements and drifting, sweeping melodies that were as palatable to the masses as you could possibly imagine but even more palatable to those who were still working their way through Tangerine Dream, Mike Oldfield, and Vangelis. If these three artists took us to the outer reaches of time and space, Jean Michel Jarre took us to the foundations holding everything together! Jean Michel Jarre unified stuff!

Ridiculously frequent visits to record stores, where new releases were decorating the walls, were absolutely essential. The music press icons that were NME, Melody Maker, and Sounds, in England told us everything we needed to know and remained positively encouraging towards these anthemic albums. It was almost like they knew we were witnessing ebbs and floes in musical history and if someone was going to document these things accurately, they were the guys to do it.

BBC Radio DJs Bob Harris and John Peel also brought stuff to our attention that would otherwise have been acquired through word-of-mouth. 

The immense gratitude when these guys got it right (and they very often did) is something we never really shared with them, but the real legacy of those introductions lies in the timelessness of the music they were broadcasting.


I'm not going to go on about 'if it wasn't for what's his name' and 'such an event' and 'what some guy did in a lab coat with wires and pliers after the war' because although it's interesting historically, it's completely irrelevant to me personally. What is relevant however, is that the artists and the settings I've discussed for this feature, kind of went hand-in-hand for us then. The sci fi, the science, the wonder of it all and maybe things are not alot different today, but I sometimes wonder if the transformations of vision this music seemed to engineer, inspire, and encourage back then, are a whole lot rarer today than they used to be. Or, am I just getting old and nostalgic?

Classical Music - Can it get you there?

Classical music is a very interesting title for music written and composed years ago or just the other day. Sadly, many people look at classical music and particularly the idea of attending a classical concert as something only the ‘fur and pearls’ brigade would be interested in.. the guys that would likely step over the homeless on their way into the carpeted foyers without even noticing the person at their feet!

One thing is for sure… classical music belongs to us all, doesn’t really have any borders or social barriers except for the ones we, as individuals might want to construct. Nope… it’s the music that matters and whether we realize it or not, we have all been inspired, moved, or gently persuaded by classical music throughout our lives in the form of film and TV soundtracks, commercials, jingles and God knows what else!

Do we have to ‘study’ classical music to be able to appreciate its immense value to our hearts and minds? Of course we don’t… what a stupid question! Do we need to know anything about the composer behind the music…? Nope! Ok… but classical music is for the ‘horsey set’ and not for the rest of us isn’t it? Nope!

Classical music is, as I have said, something we bump into on an almost daily basis and we can take it or leave it in very much the same way as we do with other musical forms and genres but it’s handy to understand a few things that kinda explain why it can often be perceived as less popular and/or ‘different’.

Let’s take the most popular classical composers that include, for example; Beethoven, Mozart, Liszt, Tchaikovsky, Vivaldi, and hmmm maybe Strauss, Bach, or Paganini. The first thing to get straight is that they all have silly names let’s be honest! Nicknames would not help these guys either… ‘Mozzy’, Beety’ Paggi’ ‘Tchai or Tchivvy’ just would not work. Pictures or paintings of these guys does not help in the slightest as, if you check them out, they look like podgy, pale, serious types from some European King’s ancient Court.

The other thing I am sick to death of is the ‘prodigy’ tag. I personally am not impressed that such and such a composer may have written their first score as an embryo or as a guy deprived of one or more senses. It is the music they composed and how well instrumentalists or orchestras in more modern times manage to present it in their performances. The Billy Bob Round Thing Orchestra for instance, covering a Mozart violin concerto might sound great, but Maggie’s Fleeting String Thing Quartet may have done something spellbinding! And… that’s the thing with any form or genre of music… composers and performers can spellbind you from what they do with classical instruments or with a Fender Stratocaster! Either way… music is THE BEST - as Frank Zappa pointed out, and all we have to do is listen!

So what else? Well… you can get a decent and probably unmarked boxed classical collection from a second hand shop or thrift store for relative pennies. It’s not so easy to do with popular rock!!! If you are scared… just do what I did; recognize the decent record label (Phillips, EMI, Naxos, Decca, Deutsche Grammophon etc), see what it says on the box, liner notes or whatever, and if it ‘looks’ good… get it!

On the other hand, you might want to go online and listen to some samples of recordings at a number of decent sites to give you some idea of what’s available and more to the point… what you may have been missing! You can also ask the guys n the store to let you hear bits OR if you are concerned about picking up ‘the wrong thing’ then get something like Absolute Classics or a Classical compilation to start you off.

Eventually, you’ll get to know who’s great and who’s a bit weird. After a while, you’ll know the ‘real’ difference between things performed by a full orchestra, symphony, quartets, and chamber music.

Generally, classical music really can be breathtaking. It may have its roots back in the King’s Court or in some New York basement in the 1940s, or, it could well have been composed, recorded and produced completely digitally from beginning to end just a few months ago… either way… it’s what sounds good to your ears folks and so try not to turn your nose up at it but give it a chance and I guarantee… you’ll get to love it with an insatiable appetite for more and more and…!

When Concerts Could Be Better Than Sex!

Initiation

That first ‘real’ concert memory is precious.. and pretty much as treasured as that first ‘real’ girlfriend but with very different outcomes. For me, great concerts are better than sex; they last longer (generally speaking of course), they have a far more profound effect, and you don’t need tissues.

I have always wondered what a visit to a reputable brothel might be like… maybe it really is a fantastic experience and if it is, then maybe you can’t equal it even with the kind of buzz you get at a major historical concert such as those that are the subject of this feature. Either way though, and speaking as one who is well aware of his needs and desires, I’d sooner go to a great concert but err...there are exceptions that I don’t care to mention here!

Like with sex, some people have dodgy experiences at the event and it’s the same for some where a concert performance fails to live up to expectations somehow. I’m lucky in not having had that happen to me; every concert I have attended was something of an exceptional experience.. they were all enthralling in one way or another and every one ended with a stunning climax!

Unquestionably, it’s the first concerts that add up to something truly synonymous with the phenomenon of just ‘being there’ and it's the witnessing of something incredible. These days however, we seem to be culturally positioned in a time when incredible things for many may well have become increasingly rare.

Today, we look at record, CD, or MP3 releases differently than we used to and often without the aid of a decent music paper review or news item to help us along. Although we may still have music videos and round table interviews to go by, nothing really beats the days of classic concerts when reading the concert reviews and other stuff in NME, Melody Maker and Sounds was a real buzz. I can remember one guy wrote in to NME for the letters page stating simply: "I Exist!" with NME's reply being "So What?" which was had us all in heaps of laughter!

I must say that Q and Mojo magazines are welcome surrogate exceptions however… great writing, great reviews and the occasional free disc but they cost as much as a CD and they're monthly!

The other thing missing is album artwork. Gone are the days when the vinyl record gave you an enormous buzz almost because of the artwork itself. There was a time when you knew what track was what, who produced and engineered what, and you might even get an insert or something inventive happening around the way the album was packaged. To compensate for the loss with CD releases, you will of course have noticed that CD art very often relies more on photography than brushes because it's easier to pick up the branding.

Sadly, we now have in our midst one inch wide media player audio lists. Here's the crack... you get a title with .mp3 at the end of it and a little thumbnail we are expected to appreciate even when we can enlarge it fivefold with a click! What a sad clinical way to select and receive music.... almost prescription-like! The thing is, and whether the industry likes it or not, art matters guys... so let's get a grip, think outside of the boardroom, and wake up and smell the coffee!

Black Sabbath - 1972

In 1972, when I was about 14, my friend and I were approached in the school play yard by a nice looking and musically enhanced girl who was from the year above us. She had two concert tickets for Black Sabbath that she wanted to give away. She came to us not because of our unsurpassable charm and good looks but because we were known to be far more interested in music than we were in the grammar school curriculum. 

The thing is, we didn’t really know much about Black Sabbath other than the fact that they were into ‘heavy rock’ and just had an album released by the title ‘Black Sabbath Vol. 4’. The other thing we knew from our venturing into the dimly lit corners of the record shops in Liverpool, was that people who liked this kind of stuff were often saturated in Patchouli oil which smelled great on girls.. and dear me those girls were rather nice!

“Yea we’ll have them!” was all it took to move beyond the centre position of the bedroom hi fi speakers to some point very close to the stage at the Liverpool Empire a few nights later.

On the day of the concert, we decided not to go to school and instead decided to walk around the record and guitar shops in the city centre before walking over to the Empire where fans were already gathering and where you could hear Black Sabbath rehearsing.

At the stage door, Black Oak Arkansas had just arrived as the supporting band and I think it was because my friend and I were in our school uniforms that the lead singer ‘Jim Dandy’ patted me on the head as he entered the stage door!

At the time of the concert, there seemed to be thousands of males and a lesser few thousand girls queuing up for the show and so we took our positions and followed them in wearing what we thought was suitable attire. We had earlier decided that; “Just a pair of jeans and a t-shirt will do!”

There was an awful lot of long hair, denim, army surplus clothing, afghan coats and flowered skirts being paraded and the aforementioned smell of Patchouli was blended in with the abundant tobacco and tobacco substitutes.

One of the things that really stood out as the crowd began to settle was the random shouting of “Wally!” that seemed to emanate from just three guys in one corner of the venue and then proceeded to be emulated by other groups which we thought was absolutely hilarious and far more contagious than Swine Flu. From somewhere high up on the balcony you’d hear “Wally!” and then from another somewhere in the stalls you’d hear an even louder “Wally!” with maybe a more desperate “Wally!” coming from somewhere near the stage. It wasn’t just a group thing; individuals would shout it out and soon after, we ourselves were shouting “Wally!” which was reams of fun because it really did seem like someone was looking for their mate and that everyone had that same mate with whom they had obviously become separated from! Pure genius!

The shouting and whistling and monumental ‘both hands’ peace signs subsided gradually as Black Oak Arkansas ventured forth with some startlingly fascinating and incredibly loud hard rock. “So this is a rock concert!” I thought to myself as the lights meandered around our heads and the backdrop appeared like a huge monolith behind the drummer. This was indeed a rock concert… and it sounded brilliant!

When ‘Geezer’ Butler, Bill Ward, Tony Iommi, and Ozzy Osbourne took to the stage there was seeming ‘pandamonia’… the Gods were transmogrified into this enthusiastically and warmly welcomed Holy Four. The Liverpool audience was wholly appreciative and respectful rather than all ‘gooey eyed’ and that stood out uniquely as part of the welcome cheers, whistles, and applause that night. Black Sabbath were very big but not quite immensely huge yet and for me looking back, this was when Sabbath were really making history… this was their peak so far for the UK and mainland Europe.

What struck me as absolutely historical, were the very tight and incredibly proficient renderings ofParanoid, Iron Man, Snowblind, Wheels of Confusion, Changes, and Supernaut. The ‘other stuff’ included War Pigs and Fairies Wear Boots, that were firmly established anthems anyway and delighted the crowd with all the delight there was to conjure.

I remember being enthralled by Geezer’s bass playing and Ozzy’s vocals… stunning work… brilliantly conveyed, and memorably performed. That concert, my first ever, was something to behold and looking back today, I wish I’d spent more time attending concerts of that standard particularly during the early half of the seventies. Had I managed it, then I’d have had so much more to reminisce.

Paul McCartney and Wings - 1975

On 15th September 1975, a few months after leaving school and during my first term at Art College, I got to see Paul McCartney and Wings perform the Liverpool Empire for what would have been the‘Venus and Mars’ or ‘Wings Over the World’ tour. The only Beatle’s numbers I remember were‘Long and Winding Road’ and ‘Lady Madonna’ (on piano)‘ and for the solo acoustic set: Yesterday,Blackbird and I’ve just seen a face.

The actual solo and Wings stuff was truly amazing featuring lots of stuff from McCartney, Ram, Red Rose Speedway, and Band on the Run. McCartney was brilliant and the other guys that includedLinda, Denny Laine, Joe English, and Jimmy McCulloch were truly exceptional performers in their own right and in support of an icon that still had a long way to go (and still does).

The Groundhogs - 1976

Next up, around 1976 , I got to see the amazing guitar wizardry of Tony ‘TS’ McPhee and theGroundhogs at Liverpool University; a brilliantly delivered and performed prog rock/blues rock endeavour dominated by incredibly well informed blues rock guitar work mainly on a guitar built purposefully by Tony Zemaitis (1935 – 2002). The friend I went to see Groundhogs with had some personal contact with both Tony McPhee (who’s then home phone number I still remember to this day!) and with the legendary TZ. Great times, inspiring times, and a thoroughly excellent concert!

David Bowie - 1978

In 1978, I had to see David Bowie performing at Earl’s Court in London.. a spectacular ‘Thin White Duke’ kinda performance with all the trimmings of real dedicated, passionate, performance supported by Adrian Belew on guitar which, in itself, was a treasured treat. Bowie began the show with the words ‘it’s all last night’s stuff folks!’ and I remember being particularly struck by the stuff from Low, Heroes, and Station to Station. This was one of Britain’s greatest being even more remarkably greater than I thought he’d be!

I have to point out, regrettably, that Kate Bush was performing at around this time. In fact, it was her only UK Tour EVER and I am still kicking myself for not going when I could so easily have witnessed those phenomenal performances!

Blondie - 1978

Later in 1978, I was invited to see Blondie twice where not only did I see them in their peak pop guise but I also got to meet Debbie and Chris and ended up on the tour bus with them after they’d offered to give a friend and I a lift home! Yep… it’s true… it was just as it was! (They also later invited me to a photographic exhibition in London that I gratefully attended!). The Blondie shows were an absolute must; Debbie was incredibly seasoned as a performer and the go go/pop/New Wave elements were combined eagerly for a just as eager following. I can vividly remember one guy shouting out to Debbie at one point "Hey Debbie... can I shag ya?"

Tanagerine Dream - 1980

In 1980 and 1981, I got to see Tangerine Dream at the Royal Court in Liverpool. These were almost entirely electronic events that were something to behold… the sounds were spacey, awe inspiring, and the large banks of sequencers and stunning sound engineering tipped the scales toward excellence in composition and performance that was indelibly inked ‘European’. These shows provided a leaning for the crowd toward the emerging dawn of innovative ambient music. New Age wasn't in the gene pool.. and whatever anyone else says.. it just hadn’t happened yet!

Frank Zappa - 1988

On 20th April, 1988, I was seeing and hearing Frank Zappa at the Birmingham NEC, and that has to be one of my favourite concerts of all time. The much written about genius was all too apparent; the guitar and orchestrations were absolute and incomparable, and the addition of Frank’s versions of I am the Walrus and Stairway to Heaven were the stuff of legend… remarkable, stunning, truly mesmerizing work!

John Martyn - 1988

Then, also in 1988, came the legendary John Martyn at the Empire who was amazing in every conceivable way and for me the real highlight of that show was hearing and seeing John perform John Wayne… exceptional memory and a much much missed human being.

Anderson, Bruford, Wakeman, and Howe/YES - - 1989

Shortly afterwards, I saw Anderson, Bruford, Wakeman, and Howe (ex Yes) at Wembley and at the Birmingham NEC. (A little later I saw the new 2001 line-up of Yes in Vancouver, Canada).

These, to me, were the ultimate consummate prog rock performers of our time gathered together to promote an often underestimated album of the same name that featured something truly magnificent;The Order of the Universe and Brother of Mine. Jon Anderson was terrific… actually he was more than just that.. he was universal… magical.. Awesome! Rick and Steve were enthralling as we know they always have been and Bill Bruford did things with drums and percussion that would not normally be revealed this side of heaven!

Other concerts since have included guest tickets for Extreme at the NEC who were absolutely unbelievably brilliant, Bon Jovi – utterly terrific (even in the bits that were less ‘rock engaging’, andBilly Joel – who was just excellent in every way, (Rexall Place in Edmonton, Alberta). I’ve forgotten who supplied the tickets but thanks for that anyway!

Dweezil Zappa - 2008

The most recent concert for me was also perhaps one of the best since seeing Frank Zappa and that was the Dweezil Zappa ‘Zappa Plays Zappa’ show here in Edmonton in 2008. This is the concert where I got to shake Dweezil’s and Ray White’s hands with absolute pleasure after one epic performance that will stay with me till the bright light gets really bright! Dweezil’s renditions of his father’s work was really something… it was respect… it was total appreciation, and it was verging on the Almightiest of Almighty performances. I have the DVD.. it’ll be reviewed here soon!

So.. not a very large collection of memorable concerts really, but a collection of absolute greats nevertheless. Concerts that meant something more than just lights and sound and more than just tickets and concert programmes.. it was... OK it was 'spiritual"!

What's Changed?

So what’s changed besides rising ticket prices since the Seventies and Eighties? I can’t speak for the likes of Glastonbury but I can say that many concerts have become a little too ‘corporate’. The less corporate concerts are often performed by ‘short stay’ artists; that is.. the ‘one or two albums and that’s yer lot’ kind. You very often don’t feel anything historical happening. There are also the 'reunion tours' which are great for nostalgia and ardent fans but they are echos really... some of them brilliant but still merely echos.

Of course, if you’re lucky, and you’re prepared to hit the top dollar BOOK IMMEDIATELY online buttonand your click beats the many thousands of other clicks over all of ten minutes or so, then you could be in for one hell of an experience (providing there’s no rehab tag hanging around the stability of an artist and their performance!).

I am convinced that some artists actually plan to walk off stage disgruntled and if they need help in walking off... all the better really, cos the publicity is often more enticing to the consumers and perhaps a little more spectacular than a well informed positive review. Add a bit of rehab and you're rolling in it!

What Next?

Let’s look at some of the guys I think you and I should go out of our way to see live: Kate Bush, Pink Floyd, Leonard Cohen, Neil Young, Bob Dylan, Mike Oldfield, Jean Michel Jarre, Vangelis, Joni Mitchell, Neil Innes, Kevin Ayers, Ultravox, Eric Clapton, and Madonna. There are quite a few others but these are my cream of the crop for today.

For the guys we missed cos they’re no longer around, we'd almost certainly have to have seen: John Lennon, George Harrison, Jimi Hendrix, Family, The Carpenters, Queen, The Rutles, Led Zeppelin, the early 70s line up of Fairport Convention, and of course if it had been at all possible, the Apple period Beatles promoting the White Album, Let it Be, and the new album Abbey Road.

So what I have earnestly been tried to point out is this... concerts were better than sex once, today… today of course, I might have to take some time to re-evaluate and revise the analysis!