Saturday, October 23, 2010

the night the music died

I was just flicking around the channels, sitting on the sofa with her good self, having just watched, interruptedly, the intriguing new series 'The Event' (it's either going to be the next 'Lost' or lose the plot ... and the cast is great - everybody you ever half-remembered from every second or third TV series you ever watched or saw the ads for and meant to watch) - interruptedly because we have four children ... there is no such thing as an uninterrupted TV show when you have children ... that's why God invented DVDs ... he understands what it is like to have unruly & disobedient children!

But the flicking around after brought us to something called the 'MOBO Awards.' 'There you go,' says my wife, 'that'll help you understand what the young people are listening to.' Or maybe not. After four or five acts we gave up, giggling. We had no idea who these people were, what they were singing, or why they were wearing those clothes. Young woman, you'll catch your death, and yes, your bum does look big in that. Young man, the seat of your suit trousers does not belong somewhere in mid-thigh, and even Mr T would think the chains you're wearing a bit OTT.

Another flick or two brought us to 'Later with Jools Holland.' Ah yes, surely more our cup of tea, as we took another sip of Ovaltine. We tuned in as a group of middle-aged men were in the middle of singing something that sounded vaguely familiar. And the lead singer ... surely I had seen him somewhere before? I suggested tentatively to my wife that this might have been one of the bands we listened to in our youth.
'Never,' she scoffed.
'I think so,' I said, with growing dread ... even suspecting that these old boys were the pin ups of my teenage years made me feel older with every note that emerged from their rather thick necks.
The music ended, Jools came on, 'Ladies and gentlemen, Heaven 17.'
Heaven 17 indeed ... the pins ups of my youth looking like Francis Bacon had gotten at the poster and smeared them into something fat, balding, and much wrinkled.
'Oh no,' gasped my wife, 'They used to have such lovely hair.'
'Didn't we all,' I sighed.
'No they had nice hair. Pretty hair.'
'Pretty hair, pretty faces, pretty voices.'
We listened to a couple of other acts, but our hearts weren't in it. Someone said recently that tribute bands are the best why to relive the heroes of your youth. It may not be them, but they look more like what you remember. Personally I think I'll stick to remastered CDs. The minds eye is the best video of them all. And it doesn't make you feel like you're looking into a rather unforgiving mirror.

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