I Can’t Explain
“We are only of our time” is a principle that all human beings would do well to acknowledge, whether they are contemplating past events and historical figures, or indeed those of their own lifetimes and generations.
As in Britain our higher educational establishments ban free speech, cover up or deface images and statues of ‘great men’ from the past because of their colonial or slavery-connected activities and supposed ‘white men’s burden’ motivations whilst – separately – today’s politicians and media commentators fall over themselves to apologise for or distance themselves from the attitudes of our forebears that may offend the sensitivities of 21st Century “woke” standards, it wouldn’t do any harm to remind ourselves that in 2120 – if our species makes it that far – almost inevitably the decisions and acts of our current lords and masters will viewed through the prism of their successors’ viewpoint in dealing with the issues of their own time.
Which brings me, in a rather tenuous and roundabout way, to my feeble personal attempts – around the turn of the century – to bond with my kids over our shared interest in popular music.
Actually, as I typed those words it has just occurred to me that may an over-statement.
Perhaps I should have written “over my desire to impress my descendants with the music and musicians that dominated the lives of my youth in the hope that they would understand and appreciate them – that is, in comparison to the utter bilge that apparently held them in devoted thrall”.
Let me explain.
At some point – I’m still clutching at straws in terms of remembering the exact year bit it may have been 2002 – I was having a conversation with my son Barry, with whom at the time my relationship was ‘interesting’ in the sense that, by nature, either his state of rebellious youth was seemingly designed to question and decry every principle by which I lived my life … or, alternatively, my state of surly, rebellious, guilt-ridden, fifty-year old angst was systematically questioning and/or decrying everything that he and his generation seemed to hold dear.
To get to the nub of it – there was not a lot of common ground between us.
In an attempt to get our chat flowing, I bowled an intended easy half volley outside the off stump, round the wicket and off a short run – “What music are you listening to at the moment?”
(My extent of George’s musical interests at the time was limited to an artiste who apparently did little musically other than scrape long-player records back and forth across a turntable in nightclubs and at raves by the name of Fat Boy Slim, whom I now know was at one stage – but no longer – married to Zoe Ball).
Barry, whose means of communication back then tended to be limited to grunts and murmurs, shocked me to the core with his reply that – currently – his favourite band was The Kinks.
It would be difficult to exaggerate the joy and excitement that this news caused me.
At one and the same time it suddenly seemed to me that Barry had become a human being and that our shared appreciation of musical excellence could now be a kicking-off point for a transformation of our relationship.
A few weeks later I bought tickets to a concert at the Wembley Arena by The Who and invited Barry and his then girlfriend Sally to join me in worshiping at the altar of an all-time great rock band.
As the great day approached, so did some misgivings on my part.
Firstly, Roger Daltrey (singer) and Pete Townshend (main composer and lead guitarist) were aged 58 and 57 respectively and the only originals of the band left.
Both drummer Keith “The Loon” Moon, aged only 32 and Keith Entwhistle (bassist) had metaphorically “left the stage”, respectively in 1978 and just a few months prior to me buying said tickets, to be replaced temporarily by Zak Starkey – son of Ringo – on drums and, with all due respect to him, an unknown bassist.
Could the survivors still hack it?
Maybe I’d made a big mistake and the concert would go off like a damp squib.
I prepared my script for such eventuality: the draft was based around the notion “Yes, well, you’ve got to remember that they’re nearly 60 now … you’ve got to try and imagine them as they were in 1971 [thirty years previously] when I saw them in an epic performance on stage at the Oval Cricket Ground …”
Anyway the concert took place.
It wasn’t at all bad in the circumstances, but I was ready with my disclaimer/excuse.
As we sat in the auditorium, waiting for the throng around us to thin out before moving off, I was on the point of beginning my spiel “… Well, you’ve got to remember that they’re nearly 60 now …” when Sally turned to me, unprompted by anything, and said “Bill, I’ve just got to say to you that that was the best concert I’ve ever been to in my life, by a mile …”
Unfortunately, I was so overwhelmed by relief and elation at this statement that I couldn’t top myself blurting out “… Yes, but you’ve got to try and imagine them as they were in 1071 when I saw them at the Oval …!”
Looking back now – among the long litany of stupid things I’ve ever done or said in my life – I’m sad to say that I regard that as one of the top three I ever uttered.
See here for a link to a ‘List’ offering from Graeme Ross that appears today upon the website of – THE INDEPENDENT
