Archive for the ‘My Life in Music’ Tag

My Life in Music: 1974

The song for this year I remember being in the charts, and in a way it’s the song that indirectly inspired this series of posts. I remember every time I heard this song, I felt sad and I couldn’t understand why. I was too young to understand it at the time, but it’s the song that first made me realise the power of music on our emotions.

The song is about death, and I think I knew that. But at the age of four I didn’t really understand what death was about. All of my grandparents were alive, my parents were still together, and I didn’t really appreciate what grief was all about.

I started school in September 1974, at All Saints’ Infants School in Mossley. Fun fact – TV presenter Melanie Sykes was my classmate in junior school, all the way from the first day of school until my family moved to Canada in 1980.

The school was an old building, and we spent three years there before moving up to the junior school next door – Micklehurst – which was a newer building and had portacabins for some of the classrooms, and went from Junior 1 to Junior 4. I looked online for the school, which is still there, but it looks like they’ve now combined the infant school with the junior school, and the nursery school next door which I also went to. I don’t recognise any of the pictures at all. The location is the same, but either the school’s been renovated beyond recognition over the last forty years or they pulled the old buildings down and rebuilt it completely.

My best friend at that time was a girl named Helen, who lived down the street from us. Her father was a policeman. He died, in this year or the following one, I can’t remember exactly. This was my closest experience of death at that time, and all I really understood was that Helen’s daddy wasn’t around anymore.

This song still makes me feel sad. It makes me think of primary school, and the house we lived in until 1976, the first place that I came to understand was ‘home’. There’s also a very odd memory that comes to mind whenever I hear this song. At the age of four I was still trying to understand the world and every day was a new adventure. I had very little understanding of what a cruel place the world could be. I knew that wars existed, but it was all so remote from my own existence. I guess I was lucky in that sense. But I remember my mother talking about a news story in the paper. There was a picture of a woman lying on the ground, and one of her feet was gone. My mother said the woman’s foot had been blown off. I didn’t know what bombs were at that age. The only thing I knew of that could ‘blow’ was the wind, and for quite a long time afterwards I was afraid to go out in a strong wind, because I thought wind had the power to blow body parts off.

It’s a strange memory, and I have no idea why I connect it to this song, except perhaps it was playing on the radio in the background at the time of the conversation, or maybe my immature brain connected this song about death to the article about war and destruction, in an attempt to understand the adult world.

The picture of me here is from a day trip – to Great Yarmouth, I believe. I don’t remember the day out. I do, strangely, remember the anorak I’m wearing.

So, here is the song for 1974 – ‘Seasons in the Sun’ by Terry Jacks. The video is a series of images that relate to the lyrics of the song. I can’t watch this video without crying. This song has that kind of power over me. And that’s why it was the only choice for the song for 1974.

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My Life in Music: 1973

As has been evident in my previous posts in this series, the music that made an impact on me in the early years of my life was influenced by my parents’ tastes in music. The song for this year is from my mother’s music collection.

It’s from an album by the Carpenters, called Now and Then. The album is effectively a mix of old songs and new, with one side being original Carpenters tracks and the other covers of old songs, set up on the album to sound like they were being played on the radio, with a DJ between the tracks.

The Carpenters were a big influence in my childhood, because my mother had most of their albums. I thought Karen Carpenter had a beautiful voice, and of course she was a drummer before she was a singer. Women drummers were rather rare in the 1970s and I’ve always been drawn to women who dare to venture into worlds traditionally occupied by men. It has been pointed out that Karen’s anorexia, triggered apparently by media criticisms of being ‘chubby’ in the early days of the Carpenters, perhaps is evidence of the fact she was never very comfortable being in the limelight, and might have been far happier had she stayed hiding behind her drum kit.

I do remember that when she died, in February 1983, my eighth-grade English teacher used the event to trigger a discussion about anorexia in class.

The track I’ve picked for this year is not my favourite track off the album but it is the most evocative. We listened to it a lot, and we must have had the album on tape, because when I hear this song it reminds me of being in the car with my mother, driving through Mossley, the town in Lancashire where I lived for the first ten years of my life. The tape had a ‘wobble’ in it partway through this song. Those of you who are the same generation as me will remember that a hazard of cassette tapes – the only portable medium of music we had in those days – was that tapes would often get ‘chewed up’ by players, and they never played quite the same way again.

Sara in Portsmouth, Summer 1973

And the photo? My album says this was taken in Portsmouth. Evidently it was summer, which means I was probably a couple of months away from turning four. I was all skinny legs and knobbly knees at that age, but I’m wondering now if it is actually 1973. All the childhood photos I have of me I gathered together before I moved back to England from Canada in 1988, neatly arranged in an album in order of year, but I am starting to wonder if the year is accurate in all cases.

I do vaguely remember this holiday, though. My grandparents lived in Portsmouth at the time. Being a naval town, Portsmouth had big black anchors arranged as sort of sculptures in the town, and I remember climbing all over them. Well, I remember them being giant-sized anchors, but I was very small back then. In this photo I am standing on a narrow wooden post on the beach. It was hot. I was very good at balancing on things when I was very young – I lost the ability to do that a few years later, when the fear of falling kicked in. I do remember it was the only time I had my hair cut very short, during a summer that was rather hot (though not as hot as the British heatwave that kicked in a few years later). I decided I really didn’t like it short, and I refused to have it cut that short again. Even as an adult, I’ve always worn my hair fairly long.

Anyway, following this collection of memories which appear to span quite a number of years, here is the song for 1973, which definitely was released in this year – ‘One Fine Day’ by the Carpenters.

My Life in Music: 1972

Like the song for 1971, this year’s song is cheating a bit, because it’s a song that was released in this year but became important to me a bit later on.

The photo to the right is from 1972: Christmas Day, or thereabouts. I have vague memories of this being at my grandparents’ house, and there is a shadow behind me because my dad was using his cine camera, and when he was filming indoors a very bright light had to be shone on the subject, otherwise the footage came out dark. I remember the doll, too. I recall I named her Amanda, though I don’t remember the coat and scarf she was wearing – those must have got lost at a fairly early stage.

The feaured song was released by Tanya Tucker in this year. She was thirteen years old at the time. It was another one on the tape of ‘favourites’ from my dad’s country collection. In fact, it was one of the first songs I remember hearing at his house in Ashton-Under-Lyne, Lancashire, which he moved into after the divorce. My sister and I got to know this song so well we used to sing along to it and we knew all the words. Though at the time we got them wrong – we were from deepest Lancashire at the time and we misinterpreted Tanya Tucker’s southern drawl. For a long time I thought Tanya was singing about a “mysterious duck-haired man”.

Every summer, between my parent’s divorce and us moving to Canada, my dad used to take my sister and me on a camping holiday to Blackpool. I adored Blackpool as a child. I loved the arcades, where you fed pennies into machines hoping to set off a cascade of coins and win money back, and played video games. My favourite video game in those days was a game called ‘Boot Hill’, in which my sister and I would manipulate crude pixels shaped like cowboys to fire pixel bullets at each other. If you got your opponent the game would start playing an electronic version of the Funeral March, and your pixel cowboy would fall down and start floating up the screen as if he were being called up to Heaven. How video games have moved on since those days.

But my favourite thing about Blackpool, by far, was the amusemark park – otherwise known as the Pleasure Beach. Usually we’d be limited to one day there during our trip with Dad, and we were rationed as to how many rides we could go on, because in those days you had to pay for each ride separately. We had our favourites. The Alice in Wonderland ride. The ladybird ride. The Tom Sawyer raft ride, which was rather sedate but it lasted for ages.

The drive to Blackpool was as exciting as the trip itself, just for the anticipation, and my dad kept my sister and me quiet by making a game out of who would spot Blackpool Tower first.

For some reason, this song makes me think of the road trip to Blackpool, when life was simpler and a trip to an amusement park was all it took to make me happy. The song was on the mix tape we played for the journey.

I haven’t been back to Blackpool as an adult. I get the feeling I would be disappointed. Sometimes you need to keep memories in the past, and keep your illusions unshattered.

So this is the song for 1972: ‘Delta Dawn’ by Tanya Tucker.

My Life in Music: 1970

I really don’t remember much about the music of 1970. I was too busy eating, sleeping, pooping, and growing, the way babies tend to.

Baby Sara, 1970

I am not sure how old I am in the accompanying photo. Six months, maybe? So it was probably taken in the spring of 1970. Colour photography had been invented by then. But my grandfather, who took the picture, was a keen amateur photographer and had a black and white camera.

Anyway, back to the song. I’ve gone for a song that was a hit in 1970, and it’s an Elvis song. My mother is a big Elvis fan, and I grew up knowing rather a lot of Elvis songs, because she was always playing them.

I’ve picked this one, because I remember this song on the radio, though I very much doubt I remember it being played the year it was released. It was apparently Elvis’s most successful UK single, staying at #1 in the charts for six weeks in the summer of 1970.

Because this blog is all about the memories associated with music, I should also mention what I think about whenever I hear this song. I think about my mother, and the way she cried when she learned about Elvis’s death. But that was not until 1977. I also remember the flat we used to live in after my parents divorced, but we did not move there until 1976. My memories of the house I was living in in 1970 are rather vague, and aren’t really associated with any particular song, but I will explore this further as we move on in this series.

I always thought of this song as a ‘big song’. The sort of song you want to sing along to, even if you’re not a big fan of Elvis.

The video I’ve chosen for this song is not actually a video – it’s a collection of stills of Elvis. But he’s looking pretty good in most of them, and I think my mother might appreciate it. And the sound quality of this recording is a bit better than the other versions I could find on Youtube.

So may I present the song for 1970: ‘The Wonder of You’ by Elvis Presley.