As you may have noticed from some of the recent posts, girls were well on my horizon by now. And there was one thing my finely tuned adolescent brain had noticed about girls (well, actually there was a couple of things, but let’s not get all biological): they liked music.
No, that’s not strong enough a description. They REALLY liked music. But, inexplicably, very few of them (by which I mean none) were even vaguely enamoured by the chug-a-chug-a-chug-a-chug which characterised 99.9% of Quo’s output. No, these curious beasts liked something called “pop music”.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve reconnected with pop music (although, paradoxically I now feel too old and out of the loop – although every now and again (rarely), I’ll hear something those pesky young kids are up to and think “What’s that? It’s got a good beat...”) A few years ago, a very good friend of mine (who I often describe as my little brother) reminded me that there’s nothing wrong with liking pop music and his message hit home. Okay, he was a 25 year old man buying a N*Sync album and that was what prompted the conversation, but that’s not the point. The point was, he had a point.
It’s odd; I don’t think I’m the type of person who is easily swayed in his musical opinion, yet as I think back when writing this guff that a couple of you are kind enough to read, I’m continually reminded how just about every reassessment I ever made of my musical tendencies has been shortly after someone I respected the opinion of, be that older brother or best buddy, “had a word with me“. Wherever there’s a turn in direction, a change in taste, it’s been because someone played me something, or said something, which stopped me in my tracks, made me take stock and reassess,
There are countless examples (well, 3 or 4) to follow, but for now, here are some records I bought in the hope that girls might maybe notice me, maybe like me, maybe even let me have a look at those “funny bumps on her chest”, as my Dad once phrased it in a misguided attempt to diffuse an awkward situation when we accidentally ended up watching a movie together where a young lady went sans blouson (and we all know how awkward that can be when you’re 13, right chaps?).
I can’t say I’m particularly fond of either of these artistes or these records, but I bought them, so here they are:
Seriously, does anyone know what these songs are actually about? The whole point of the Duran record seemed to be to strap Le Bon to a windmill in the video and see if you could drown him. (Unperturbed by the failure of this venture, a higher being than I tried again when his yacht “Drum of England” (I never had him down as a rollie smoker…) capsized. That’s two lives down Simon “or should I say La Chat” Le Bon. I’m counting even if nobody else is.
As for Kershaw….well, cute as he apparently was (but not as yummy, so I’m told, as JohnTaylorfromDuranDuran – a friend of mine (hello, you!) still refers to herself as “The Future Mrs John Taylor” which I’m sure delights her current beau), this record signified the start of his slide into the bargain bin of life (or Woolies, if you’d prefer me to be a little more specific). Soon he’d be singing about a Spanish bloke chasing windmills and people would be seeking alternatives, asking “Where’s that other bloke, y’know, with the wonky eye and the keytar, had that bald chap dancing in chains with him?”. Sadly he was to become just as irrelevant around the same time.
Anyway, suffice to say, wasting my cash on these records had no effect whatsoever on my popularity, or lack of, with girls, who continued to treat me with an air of indifference usually only afforded to a visiting Belgian. Thank God I stopped short of wearing a snood.
Damn you Le Bon, Rhodes, Taylor, Taylor and Taylor!! And you Snood-Boy!
If only I’d listened to Rowlf (and Kermit)