2011 Onwards: When my hair's all but gone and my memory fades

Once I reached my 50^th year, I succumbed to the scourge of senescence and gave up for good any attempt to keep up with the charts and note down the top four singles as I had done assiduously since 1973. Top of the Pops had long gone, barring the occasional one-off Steve Wright-narrated TOTP2 retrospectives, and I rarely listened to the radio.

Moving in with Angie in September 2012 made little difference to my exposure to contemporary music as we both eschewed the likes of digital networks such Capital or Kiss in favour of the Cardiff-based Nation Radio. Whilst rock-oriented, with a patriotic inclination towards the Manics, ‘Phonics and Catatonia, Nation does feature some new stuff, including ballads. However, ‘Urban’ genres such as hip-hop or grime and the pure teen pop of 1D and Little Mix are mercifully missing. 

However, the down side is that on the rare occasions when music appear on mainstream TV, I find myself tuning into my parents or grandparents by expressing my total ignorance of most artists. Take recent Brits nominees. Skepta. Huh? J-Hus. Who? Anohni? What? Dua Lipa? Is that just an anagram? Yet these are the Seals, Sinead O’Connors, Kate Bushes and the Bowies of modern times. And times change. It’s just that there comes a point when you suddenly realise that you no longer have to change with them. At least, not at the same rate.

The antipathy I feel towards much of ‘new’ music is very likely purely an age thing, and it helps drive me to the security blanket of nostalgia. My default listening has become oldies station Dragon Radio, the Greatest Hits CD or those ‘3 discs for a tenner’ compilations you buy at motorway service stations, play in the car and forever skip tracks until you find one you recognise. It’s usually Black Sabbath’s ‘Paranoid’ or Golden Earring’s ‘Radar Love’.

Yet it’s not all livin’ in the past. There remain songs which lodge in the memory, just as there always were. Some good, some dire. And there have been a fair few prompting me to reach for the sick bag. The Lumineers’ ‘Ho Hey’, James Bay’s ‘Hold Back the River’ and Wiz Khalifa’s repetitive ‘Black and Yellow’ spring readily to mind. One Direction and their subsequent solo stuff obviously weren’t intended to appeal to a 50-something, and neither was Rizzle Kicks’ ‘Do the Mama Hump’. Just as well! I can’t stand Mumford and Sons’ modern take on diddly-diddly Country and, despite the quality of ‘Take Me Home’, for some reason I can’t get on with Jess Glynne’s voice.

In 2011, Jessie J promised much. A British pretender to the throne of Gaga, Perry and Pink, she and her fierce fringe delivered the dubious ‘Do It Like a Dude’, followed by the altogether more inclusive slow-beat hip-hop of ‘Price Tag’. I’m not totally convinced that she was in the business purely “to make the world dance”; her ship jumping from The Voice UK to the more lucrative X Factor certainly stank of bling and ker-ching!

Lana Del Ray’s Gothic melodrama of ‘Born to Die’ was another in my credit column, while Christine Perri’s ‘Jar of Hearts’ also turned melancholy and heartache into a successful single. Lorde’s stripped back ‘Royals’ sounded very different, and Gotye’s genre-defying million-seller ‘Somebody That I Used to Know’ enjoyed mass appeal despite being impossible to dance to.

2012 was the year of Diamond Jubilees and the London Olympics. Both sought to capitalise on British musical pedigree with multi-artist performances. The gig outside Buckingham Palace was fairly forgettable but the Olympic Closing Ceremony spared no superstar on the bill. Yet for all the much-lauded appearances of The Spice Girls, The Who, McCartney and an underwhelming George Michael, the artist I still associate with the Stratford stadium event is Emeli Sande. Amidst all the Olympics tracks flooding the charts in August, it was her breathtaking rendition of ‘Read All About It' which lingers more vividly.

Like London mayor Boris Johnson - but without the hypocrisy - Sande peaked at the perfect time to reap the rewards of a billion-plus global audience, tuned in already a-glow with the heat generated by a hugely heart-warming fortnight of sport. Her album Our Version of Events was the biggest selling in UK for 2012 and the second-biggest the following year. Her duet with Labrinth, ‘Beneath Your Beautiful’ (that’s the official spelling, not a typo) was another triumph but, for all her 2016 comeback ballyhoo and consequent Brit award, I fear she left it too late to carry that public love into the second half of the decade.

The other insurmountable barrier is that she isn’t Adele.

I must confess that when Adele released the first single of her album 21 it left me underwhelmed. ‘Rolling in the Deep’ was a change from her ballads but its upbeat gospelly sound wasn’t really up my alley and it peaked at two. However, in the States it made her a massive star, selling squillions. What transformed Ms Adkins into a UK icon was her heart-melting performance of ‘Someone Like You’, accompanied only by a piano, at the O2 Brits ceremony in 2011.

I didn’t watch the broadcast. However, there couldn’t be anyone who hasn’t seen it since who wasn’t utterly, utterly captivated by the delivery and genuine tears shed by Adele at the end. The single promptly rocketed from 46 to 1 in the chart, becoming the biggest seller of the year and exploding the album into record-breaking territory. Even I felt a lump in my throat.

I also loved the piano intro and verse to ‘Set Fire to the Rain’ although it failed to make the top ten here. Meanwhile, the Yanks couldn’t get enough of her. What won me over was her concert from the Royal Albert Hall. Her folksy ord’nary-girl-from-London charisma and natural interaction with friends and mates in the audience were nothing like anything I’d seen from a major artist. In a local pub perhaps, but not an illustrious venue like the Albert Hall! Her emotional, sometimes potty-mouthed, links between songs demonstrated why so many people can relate to her and the way she channelled life experiences into music. I dare you to listen to her introduction to ‘Someone Like You’ and not be spellbound. And she sure knows how to ‘phrase’ those lyrics, too, probably her greatest asset when singing live or on record.

Since those heady days of 2011, Adele’s blazing success has been undimmed. It’s a relief, too, that she hasn’t been forced to conform to the traditional Hollywood Size Zero stereotype. I’m not a huge fan of her music; the sequence of impassioned, poignant ballads is becoming a bit tedious, too one-paced for me. Nevertheless she remains a beacon of homegrown talent and has more X Factor than any act churned out of Simon Cowell’s assembly line. 

It hasn’t just been soul giants like Adele or teen fodder like Shawn Mendes releasing ballads. Even Will.I.Am and Fergie showed their sensitive sides on ‘Just Can’t Get Enough’ I’m not sure whether it counts as a ballad but Coldplay’s ‘Paradise’ has burrowed deep into my musical psyche more than any other in recent years. On first hearing it sounded a bit old-fashioned, maybe a bit over-produced. It was seeing the video following a man dressed as a joke elephant escaping London Zoo, taking the Tube to Heathrow, then flying to Africa to meet up his family on the plains which made me fall in love with the record. And Chris Martin as unicyclist. Who knew?! It took a while to reach the summit of the singles chart, just after Christmas 2011, but I still love the dramatic synth chords, the inevitable “wooh-oo-wooh”s, seductive string sections and that triumphant chorus and guitar solo. Those ingredients which at first seemed to make an unappetising stew, now combine to serve up a 21^st century gourmet classic.

As must be apparent, I do have a high regard for melodic synth pop. Since the heyday of Depeche Mode, Human League et al, it has been in relatively short supply so when something breaks through the twenty-first century genre barrier, I raise a brave cheer or three. La Roux did it in 2009 then in 2015 it was the turn of Years and Years. They also topped the chart briefly with the excellent ‘King’. I adore the Mediterranean flute-like motif running through the track, which bounds along beautifully throughout.

When it comes to ubiquity in the last few years, few can match Pharrell Williams. Already in his forties, the former ‘Neptune’ and media all-rounder wrote, produced and sang lead vocals on no fewer than three million-selling singles in under two years. Not even Lennon or McCartney in their heyday could claim such an achievement. The first was the toe-tapper ‘Get Lucky’ the second the toe-curler ‘Blurred Lines’. ‘Get Lucky’ was officially a Daft Punk record but it’s Pharrell’s falsetto and in particular Nile Rodgers’ Chic-ish disco guitar which appealed to me and a legion of downloaders and streamers. Even I could have a go at dad-dancing to this at a family wedding. On the other hand, the collaboration with Robin Thicke on ‘Blurred Lines’ was a different kettle of (rotten) fish and, while undeniably catchy, Williams' ‘Happy’ - one of the very short list of singles shifting more than 2 million in the UK - makes me rather less than happy; irritated, not happy.

Up to 2012, if I had told anyone I’d like anything by an outfit called Swedish House Mafia they would be at liberty to refer me to mental health services. Failing that, to shoot me! I was unfamiliar with the electro trio’s earlier stuff but they finally registered with me thanks to ‘Don’t You Worry Child’. I know I’m probably in a minority here but I love the production, building from the understated opening guitar riff through John Martin’s wistful verse to the anthemic chorus.

By way of contrast, some of my musical exposure in recent years has been influenced by the arrival in my life of Angie’s grand-daughter Millee-Rae. Always a chatty soul, I’d no inkling of her affection for pop music until, at the age of two, she started singing along during a car journey to Angie’s Sam Smith CD. But, Millee, why did you have to choose the execrable ‘Stay With Me’? I can’t abide Smith’s white soul-boy songs. Yes, he has a super smooth tenor voice but that high-pitched whine sounds so depressing.

As for Millee, her affections transferred to Meghan Trainor’s ‘All About the Bass, ‘Let It Go’ from the Disney blockbuster Frozen, Pink's 'What About Us?' and Sia’s ‘Cheap Thrills’. Maybe our Millmeister is developing some good taste as she matures, because I quite like it, too. Uncomplicated pure pop with the now-commonplace Latin chonk-a-chonk-chonk beat, aligned with Sean Paul’s ‘featured’ but totally unnecessary vocals, it’s a song that can do no wrong. It’s hard to stop myself from joining in with the verse:- 

Gotta do my hair, put my make up on
It's Friday night and I won't be long

Til I hit the dance floor
Hit the dance floor

   

But stop I must….

The veteran Aussie singer is leading the way for the females but it’s the men who have come to the fore in recent years. Casting aside the likes of 1D and Justin Bieber – preferably over a steep cliff into shark-infested waters – a raft of male singer-songwriters has emerged to critical and market acclaim.

In 2013, in addition to the aforementioned Sam Smith and established figures like Gary Barlow and John Legend, along came Yorkshire’s John Newman (‘Love Me Again’), Chichester’s Tom Odell and fellow South Coaster Michael Rosenberg, aka Passenger. Personally I can’t stand the latter’s million-selling ‘Let Her Go’; that weedy voice goes through me like a senna enema. However, I could warm to Odell’s ‘Another Love’, even though I do feel sympathy for his piano, which receives a fearful pounding during every performance.  

A handful of outstanding baritones have also arrived on the scene. First of all, George Ezra’s cute, kooky modern folk song ‘Budapest’ deservedly went to three in the chart early in 2014. Apparently 20 year-old George had never been to the Hungarian capital but it’s a captivatingly diverting ditty delivered in a distinctive mature vocal. Ezra supported Irish singer-songwriter Hozier on his 2015 tour, a musical match made in heaven. Andrew Hozier-Byrne also made his name the previous year, thanks to the extraordinary ‘Take Me to Church’. It’s a no-holds-barred attack on the Catholic church’s antagonistic attitude towards homosexuality. With lyrics such as:-

“I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife”

it’s hardly a fun-packed four minutes, but it’s emotional stuff. Musically it’s all dramatic thunderous minor chords, suggesting the imminent arrival of the Grim Reaper rather than a global pop success. It wasn’t a number one single but only two outsold it in the UK throughout 2015, and sold millions in the States.

When in 2017 I first heard the opening bars of Rag ‘n’ Bone Man’s ‘Human’, I assumed I was hearing another Hozier gut-wrencher. I don’t suppose I was alone to be surprised at seeing the actual artist for the first time, his generous bulk and menacing beard belonging to an intimidating club bouncer or Hell’s Angel rather than a pop star. The ghostly yelps and cries backing the opening verse evoke the sound of a night in a zoo rather than a recording studio but it’s a cool, chilling and utterly compelling record.

‘Rag’, or Rory, as his Mum would no doubt call him, was kept off the top of the singles chart by the man who in the past five years has enjoyed a career trajectory most musicians can only dream about. A man who has achieved phenomenal things despite a personal attribute normally such a barrier to star status: ginger hair! I’m talking, of course, about Ed Sheeran.

In the summer of 2011, Ed’s soft yet shiny voice was always on the airwaves. On ‘A Team’, it seemed incongruously light and upbeat whilst telling the dark story of a young woman, apparently stuck in a rut of crack addiction and prostitution, gently issuing descriptive lyrics such as:-

“But lately her face seems
Slowly sinking, wasting
Crumbling like pastries”

It clearly wasn’t written as a hard-hitting and worthy ‘song with a message’, but the subtle use of melody and easily flowing production allow the song to be enjoyed first, then work as social observation. For all Ed’s subsequent work, I think his appeal is encapsulated in this debut hit.

I first saw him on telly, performing ‘A Team’ in the BBC ‘garden’ at Glastonbury that June. Accompanied only by his urgently-strummed acoustic guitar, his green polo shirt, jeans, wellies and band-bedecked wrists signified an ordinary bloke who would probably next be seen with an open guitar case at his feet in a London Underground tunnel or provincial shopping centre. An ordinary bloke, but with extraordinary talent.

I was given a CD of his first album +, which contained further atmospheric observational everyman folky ballads like ‘Lego House’ and ‘Small Bump’. but was no guarantee that such an affable, haystack-haired lad raised in rural Suffolk would become a global phenomenon and sex god. ‘Ginger hair’ and ‘sex god’ are not terms normally found in the same sentence. I should know!. It was an ultimate airy love song, ‘Thinking Out Loud’, from 'X', which cemented his position in the hearts of Brits, Yanks and music fans across the world. Like Ed himself, this was no overnight sensation either; it took 19 weeks from initial streaming release to taking its rightful place at the top of the chart and as part of our wedding dance!

Sheeran’s very ordinariness and antithesis of the standard blueprint of  music celebrity are what make him so popular with people of all ages, genders and classes. I cannot condone his declarations of love for drugs and alcohol; instead I want to love Ed for his genre-bending music and cute scruffiness, for emanating from East Anglia, beat-up brown acoustic in hand, for his unapologetic redheadedness in a world of fake blondes and fake tan. 

Moving on to 2017 and the long-awaited third album ÷ (Divide), transcended everything which had gone before. Not only did the 12-track record sell 672,000 in its first week, beaten only by Adele’s 25 and Oasis’ Be Here Now, but the release for streaming of all these tracks and four others led on 10^th March to an unprecedented domination of the singles chart by one artist. With nine of the top ten places and sixteen of the top 20, Sheeran has single-handedly destroyed the whole concept of the venerable chart as a reliable guide to what people are buying; largely because the concept of ‘buying’ itself has become total blurred.

The medium of music streaming has rendered the old format of releasing ‘singles’ totally obsolete, and now the conflict between the notions of ‘listening’ and ‘engaging’ has been raised. What should The Chart be for? For a number of years it has tried to keep up with technology by incorporating shop purchases (now very few), online downloads and streaming but it is the latter which has tipped the balance, presumably forever. It’s all crystallised in the Sheeran Supremacy of March 2017. Thanks, Ed. For nothing.

And yet this current phenomenon permits peripheral contemporary pop fans like me the potential to sample new music with just a few taps on a keyboard, pausing to try another track if I can’t ‘engage’ with the first. I have done so with ÷, thus discovering that Sheeran has perhaps over-reached himself in the peculiar rush to cover as wide a range of genres as possible on one record. As well as the seductive ‘Shape of You’ (those Latin rhythms again) and nostalgic yearning for childhood and Framlingham ‘Castle on the Hill’ (sounding like a panting Labrador racing across the fields), there’s Irish folk, Spanish fiesta, Hip-Hop, R‘n’B and, of course, a selection of more typical wistful romantic ballads.

I’d love to see Ed Sheeran or Coldplay live. However, without the right apps, motivation to ring a box office number or focus non-stop on the appropriate website, that will remain a pie-in-the-sky pipedream. Stadium tours by such big guns are, of course, not an everyday occurrence. Visiting anywhere within 100 miles of home is even rarer. Thus perusal of What’s On pages instead tends to lead my eyes towards the plethora of tribute acts or nostalgic Sixties, Seventies or Eighties concerts.

Angie and I have actually taken the plunge and bought a few tickets, albeit with mixed results. I feel privileged to have seen two of the most famous tribute bands: Bjorn Again and The Bootleg Beatles. By the time we saw the latter, on 9^th December 2012 at the St David’s Hall, Cardiff, the fake Fab Four had been active for 32 years, a career three times as long as the originals had mustered. The music is timeless (even 'Love Me Do'), of course, but the Bootlegs' all-round musicianship was also excellent, backed by a mini-orchestra for the Sergeant Pepper era segment.

They appear at the Hall every winter, as does the collective known as The Classic Rock Show. We went along in 2013 and it was another extremely enjoyable experience, this time witnessed from the stalls. The essence of the act was to reproduce faithful note-for-note a few dozen songs from the archives. Basically, anything involving legendary guitar solos (or duos) was on the setlist, from Fleetwood Mac’s ‘The Chain’ to a climactic ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’, If there can be any criticism, it was that it was almost too perfect. 

In 2015, I was determined to experience some more live music here in Cardiff. Finding something which appealed to both of us was far from simple. However, Simple Minds and Paul Weller were each in town so I struck while the iron (and debit card) was hot. Sadly we didn’t get to see the former as Mum passed away two days earlier. The notion of enjoying a live gig in such circumstances was absurd, unthinkable. We did manage to attend Paul Weller’s performance at the Motorpoint Arena. Fortunately for me, but not for Angie, for whom the old Modmeister’s insistence on playing unfamiliar solo stuff, especially his new album tracks was met with at best indifference. At least we could all boogie down to ‘A Town Called Malice’, the show’s crowning glory and finale.

In June 2016, it was the turn of Rod Stewart. Angie’s choice, of course, but I could at least appreciate the opportunity of seeing and hearing one of the legends of my lifetime growling out his hits. His knighthood had just been announced and, while Sir Rod may not have been as good as he used to be (whaddya expect? He was 72!), his charisma was undimmed and showmanship what we expected from a man with fifty years in the business. A great night was had under the Cardiff stars.

That November, we enjoyed another shameless excursion into our past by seeing The Human League, again at the St David’s. Not quite a sell-out, but there were plenty of like-minded people my age taking their seats eager to re-live their youth in the company of Phil, Susanne and Joanne. Once we became accustomed to the sight of Mr Oakey shaven-headed, we could comfortably wallow in synth-laden nostalgia as he impressively ran through Eighties classics like 'Human', 'Louise', 'Love Action' and 'Don’t You Want Me'. Next month, local faves Stereophonics lay in wait for us.

Sadly, live music doesn’t feature strongly in my life. I missed out on the gig-going rite of passage that all teens and twenty-somethings are supposed to have undergone. I can’t claim to have seen the emergence of future stars in some London sidestreet bar, nor any epoch-defining stadium event, and it’s far too late now. Yes, there were the string of West End musicals in my Rotaract days and village hall board-treading with the QMTC, but they bore no relation to the pop and rock music closest to my heart.

And so I have to relive those heady days through the medium of CD (from Angie’s Cat Stevens and Whitney to my BritPop and New Romantics and our shared affection for Abba, Bowie and Carpenters), car radio and YouTube.  And yet, as I wrote at the very start, nostalgia still ain’t what it used to be; Nation Radio has subtly altered its strapline to ‘Nineties, Noughties and Now’, with the result that the ‘Now’ has moved more to the fore, straying into Capital territory. And not for the better. Never has my own archive delving been more heart-achingly vital but never has it been so indicative of my own inevitable ageing process. 56 isn’t old! I’m the same age as Suggs, Roland Gift, Boy George, The Edge, Daniel O’Donnell… Hang on, that last one makes me feel really old!

As has been a recurring theme of this trip down memory lane, music can spark memories of all sorts of things; places, events, random moments in my life. It can also be used with the sole intention of remembering people. In 2015, Catherine and I were dealt the double blow of losing Mum and Dad within six months of each other. Amidst all the maelstrom of emotions and physical pressures of clearing two lifetimes of possessions and the complexities of probate, we could at least find an island of sanity and pleasure of sorts in deciding what music to include at their respective funeral services.

It’s not just the sad occasions which require music to evoke, reflect or inspire. For our wedding, Angie and I seemed to devote more hours ruminating over our choice of music for the ceremony than the perennial problem of the guest list and table plan! While a cock-up meant not all were played, the following five made the cut:-

·       A Million Love Songs (Take That)

·       Something’s Gotten Hold of My Heart (Marc Almond and Gene Pitney)

·       Wonderwall (Oasis)

·       Love is All Around (Wet Wet Wet)

·       My Baby Just Cares For Me (Nina Simone)

And then there’s the dilemma of The First Dance. I’d been worrying interminably about this. It’s probably why I’ve never married before. All I knew was that there would be none of that elaborately choreographed mix-tape nonsense so beloved of YouTubers these days. We settled for a segue from the predictable ‘Talking Out Loud’ to the rather less obvious ‘Wild Thing’. Plenty of potential for embarrassment and humiliation but hopefully slow enough to avoid the need for oxygen or a trip to Casualty. It seemed to go down well!

So, from Stewpot and Savile to St David’s and DJ Kevin, there’s always been music in my life. Engagement takes many forms. Whether I’ve been ‘twisting’ to Chris Montez, drumming with knitting needles to Herman’s Hermits, contributing to four-part harmonies on stage with the QMTC, playing air guitar to Deep Purple, taping the best bits of the Top 30 or boogying on down at my own wedding, it’s almost ever-present across the decades.

My tastes have been influenced by many sources. Of all the stunning stuff I’ve detailed, there’s no golden thread linking them all. Just what is it which has led me to single out so many brilliant recordings? Occasionally a record registers as a perfect package from first note to last. Kate Bush’s ‘The Man with the Child in His Eyes’ is one such song which gives me a sense of completeness. On the other hand, I never want Massive Attack’s ‘Unfinished Sympathy’ to end.  Some of it is feel-good fun (e.g. REM’s ‘Shiny Happy People’), some of it is feel-bad melancholia (e.g. The Smith’s ‘How Soon is Now?’). I have warmed to the humour of ‘Baggy Trousers’, intelligence of 10cc, gone moist-eyed listening to the bittersweet lyrics of Gilbert O’Sullivan’s ‘Alone Again (Naturally)’, jumped to the beat of ‘Love Shack’ and had my mind blown by ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. 

Music gets me in the gut for all sorts of reasons, making its move throughout my life. Stevie Wonder once said:-

                     “Music, at its essence, is what gives us memories.

                      And the longer a song has existed in our lives,

                      the more memories we have of it.” 

I tend to agree.  The hits from my childhood do indeed hold a particularly tight grip on my memory banks. Whatever life throws at me, I’m sure music will remain an inspiration, a motivation, a diversion, a comfort blanket.  

Reminiscing whilst writing this diary has been not only a thoroughly enjoyable, nostalgic experience but also an educational one. I’ve learned a lot about the artists and hits I’ve both loved and loathed. I also appreciate that the year-by-year diary doesn’t necessarily allow me to tell the whole story. . What are the songs which best provide the timeline to my existence? Which are my actual favourites? Whose are the voices which make my hairs stand on end? Watch this space...

2008-10 And I’m on my knees Looking for the Answer

My final forties years formed, in retrospect, a bittersweet period with a mix of hot-headed adventure and the icy chill of a relationship gone sour. The first half of 2008 was occupied by preparations for a move to Somerset and a new life with Jan. I dismissed the nagging doubts and chiming alarm bells as symptoms of my traditional inertia and preference for the safe option, and duly gambled on leaving my childhood haunts and family bosom in June. Up to the point of packing, whilst spending most weekends down at Stogursey, I remained at the agency AMS during the week. Many of my musical memories still stemmed from the hours spent at my desk trying not to listen to the radio being pumped out into the office.

Some I still associate with those times include the debut single from Adele, ‘Chasing Pavements’ I never saw the ‘car crash’ video but those heartfelt vocals and the old-style lush string arrangements emanating from the speakers struck a chord. The whole Adele phenomenon didn’t explode until her 21 album came out a few years later but this track offered a glimpse of what was to come.

It was early days for Onerepublic, too. Ryan Tedder has since become the go-to songwriter for all sorts of pop wannabes but back then he and his band were best known for ‘Apologise’, made into a hit by the ubiquitous Timbaland, typically lacing the original with trademark “Dep dep”s. However, on ‘Stop and Stare’, I found the opening continuous electric guitar sound, reminiscent of some kind of eerie wind whistle, quite hypnotic. Not sure whether the rest of the song lived up to the intro, but it was one of my highlights in a sea of dross.  

North Walean singer Duffy emerged early in 2008 when she released ‘Mercy’. Its Sixties Northern Soul feel and her Dusty Springfield-like appearance singled her out from the crowd, propelling the Rockferry album to sales exceeding 1.7 million by the year’s end. ‘Mercy’ topped the chart for four weeks but it was the follow-up ‘Warwick Avenue’ which floated my boat. A gorgeous ballad, and hats off to the reference to the Bakerloo Line station. Another poignant slowie from that Spring was James Blunt’s haunting ‘Carry Her Home’. It only reached number twenty but certainly one of his best, in my opinion.

Probably two of the most annoying records of any era sent me scurrying back to my geodemographic analysis and Powerpoint reports. Sam Sparro’s ‘Black and Gold’ was pretty awful but Nickelback’s hymn to the stoner lifestyle in ‘Rockstar’ seemed to linger in the top ten forever. And how Virgin Radio loved it! I didn’t. My line manager Ange got it spot on when describing the song as “the anti-rock”. Aargh!!

At least Nickelback were a rock band. In that respect they seemed to be one of a dying breed. Approaching my fiftieth birthday with horrific haste, I was struggling to make sense of the preponderance of urban music at the top of the charts. I was grappling with the problem of knowing my Tinchys from my Tinies from my Taios. Messrs Stryder, Tempah and Cruz seemed to top the chart at will, but I was still none the wiser. At least I was more confident of recognising Dizzee Rascal in an identity parade. I wasn't too fond of some of his spelling, though.  ‘Dirtee’? It’s spelt with a ‘y’, Mr Rascal, a ‘y’! Then there was his crossover hit with Calvin Harris, ‘Dance Wiv Me’. It’s ‘WITH’!! Perhaps he was a secret fan of Slade...

British females were doing pretty well, too. What’s more, I was liking a lot of what they were doing, even if listening to Florence Welch (and her Machine) felt like being blasted by a hurricane while tied to a wall. The ever-outspoken Lily Allen returned to the top with ‘The Fear’. Featuring pithy, sarcastic observations of trashy starlet fame, the track had a more trance-dance sound than Lily’s usual destruction of ex-boyfriends in reggae or Country and I recall seeing her perform it on the Jonathan Ross show. Her lyrics were a tad naughtier live, though.

You’d never hear any profanities in Pixie Lott’s material. Of course there’d be no swearing from the pretty teenager living in my home town of Brentwood. She was no mere attractive ditzy blonde; she had brains and voice to match. Her first chart-topper ‘Mama Do’  was my favourite. Little Boots (aka Victoria Hesketh) was a welcome arrival in the charts with ‘Remedy’ in 2009, although that proved to be her last Top 50 entry. In the same year, a more successful, and slightly more enduring synth pop act was La Roux. Fronted by the androgynous-looking Elly Jackson, they had two big hits which whisked me back to the heyday of electro-dance while still sounding current. The frenetic ‘Bulletproof’ was a number one but ‘In For the Kill’ was, and still is, the track which, once heard, is very hard to shift from the brain. The vocals are a bit shrill but the uncomplicated production is undoubtedly on the money.

From out of nowhere, in 2008 Sugababes sounded back to their best with ‘Denial’. A few years earlier, I reckon this would have been a number one, but the trio were no longer in the limelight and it barely limped into the top 20. Things got worse soon after when Keisha quit the band. As a result, none of the original threesome were left, but they carried on regardless. ‘Denial’ may not have been as blatantly commercial as ‘Push the Button’ or ‘About You Now’ but it was brash and bouncy and deserved greater success.

  

There were plenty of sassy female Yanks around, such as Pink, Kelis and even Kelly Clarkson. Yet it was Katy Perry who had millions of girls around the world dabbling in lesbianism – well, if you believed the Daily Mail! I didn’t really see the virtues of Perry. Her voice was nothing special and I doubt she would ever have become the star she is had she not kissed a girl and liked it.  Ranking even higher on the obnoxiousness scale were the various products of the twin American conveyor belts of commercial crap, the casts of High Street Musical and Glee. Principal guilty party was the latter TV show’s cover of a little-known Eighties flop ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’. Add in a young Canadian brat called Justin Bieber and X Factor novelty duo Jedward, and the world of musical entertainment seemed to be wracked by an insidious virus.

Thank heavens for Lady Gaga!

My first experience of Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta was not a positive one. Her first appearance on the Jonathan Ross programme in 2009 was genuine ‘car-crash’ TV. She seemed totally unengaged and uncommunicative, gratifying fodder for the older generation keen to denigrate the talentless trash posing as modern pop stars. ‘Just Dance’ and ‘Poker Face’ went to number one and Brand Gaga was all-consuming. She was inextricably linked with outrageous costumes (remember the raw meat dress worn at the 2010 MTV Awards?!) and sexually-provocative lyrics which recalled Madonna in her heyday. Except we were now in the twenty-first century, so the celeb-obsessed media demanded notoriety to be ratcheted up to eleven. Gaga was no conventional beauty but she had – well – the X Factor.

Her second interview with Jonathan the following Spring was far more revealing. Behind the in-yer-face fashion it was patently obvious there was an intelligent woman, excellent voice, talented songwriter and musician. Had she been born twenty years later, Madonna simply wouldn’t have been able to compete. After she had steered her extravagant white peacock costume to the piano and began to play and sing ‘Brown Eyes’ live, it was a pivotal moment.

I had already appreciated the perfect pop of ‘Paparazzi’ (shown in its best light, like all Gaga’s music, live on stage), followed by the synth stomper ‘Bad Romance’ and the slower-tempo of ‘Alejandro’ (move over, La Isla Bonita) so here was a pop star I could recognise as the full package. I was compelled to make a rare foray into Taunton’s HMV (probably) to buy a new CD which wasn’t a compilation album: The Fame and the nine-track Fame Monster.

For all the ubiquity of Lady Gaga in 2009, she had fewer number ones than the three chalked up by The Black Eyes Peas. DJ-producer David Guetta added the Peas’ fifth album ‘The E.N.D.’ to his growing list of credits although the hits sounded like typical fare from Will, Fergie et al. I wasn’t fussed about the first chart-topper ‘Boom Boom Pow’ or the third, ‘Meet Me Halfway’ but ‘I Gotta Feeling’ screamed “instant classic” when released in August.

Gaga finished ahead of the Peas in both singles and albums lists, but not at the summit. That accolade went to a 48 year-old Scottish spinster with Asperger’s Syndrome by the name of Susan Boyle. The complete antithesis of Lady Gaga, she nevertheless grabbed more headlines in the second half of 2009 and 2010 than Gaga, Rihanna or Katy Perry combined. Like millions of others, even my jaw dropped when I heard her stunning voice filling the room with ‘I Dreamed a Dream’ from Les Miserables.

She was the archetypal overnight sensation and a gift to internet searchers worldwide. Her massive publicity made her such a nailed-on favourite to win the BGT final in June that even I cast a vote – for dazzling dance troupe Diversity. To my astonishment, Ashley Banjo’s boys actually triumphed. Nevertheless Cowell knew he was on to a sure thing with Boyle, and she converted column inches and YouTube hits into enormous album sales worldwide. To my relief, she didn’t shift many singles but I had to grudgingly admit that her success demonstrated the adage that anyone can do it if you really try.

Bruno Mars didn’t need a peaktime TV talent show to make it big. The pint-sized Hawaiian was one of the top artists of 2010 and 2011, churning out umpteen hits singles either as a solo or ‘featured’ vocalist. He seemed to switch seamlessly from vanilla pop to reggae humour and R’n’B ballad, none of which really floated my boat. Take That’s rebirth received new impetus in the form of a new member; an old new member by the name of Robbie Williams. Fifteen years after quitting the boy band, Robbie Williams returned to the fold, albeit temporarily. 

But where were the REAL bands. You know, the acts with guitars and drums. Real instruments. They weren’t anywhere near the top of the UK singles charts, that’s for sure. Of course, there were a few exceptions.

Irish trio The Script weren’t exactly high-energy rockers but did produce a handful of decent ballads, led by ‘The Man Who Can’t be Moved’. This one grew on me, and ‘Break Even’ also met with my approval. I wouldn’t have recognised any of the personnel had singer-songwriter Danny O’Donoghue not been one of the judge/mentors on BBC1’s new talent series The Voice UK. 

But The Script were hardly genuine meat-and-two-veg rockers. Muse and Kasabian were winning awards, more for their stupendous stadium tours than their recordings. Nickelback I have already summarily dissed and dismissed. The biggest selling rock single of 2009 or 2010 was a re-release of a barrage of roaring riffs, a flurry of “fuck”s and not a lot else, entitled ‘Killing in the Name’. I hated the record but applauded its use as a vehicle for halting the run of bland X Factor Christmas number ones. In December 2009, the anti-Cowell campaign coalesced behind the Rage Against the Machine single and, incredibly, succeeded. The latest pretty boy winner, Joe McElderry, was thwarted at the critical time.  It was only a transient triumph but for one glorious week, real music lovers had raged against the X Factor machine and won!

Coldplay, of course, were more to my taste, and they didn’t disappoint with their 2008 single ‘Viva La Vida’. It sounded different from their previous singles, with prominent strings, bell and a thumping tympanum in place of traditional drums. Despite the melancholic lyrics describing a ruler’s fall from his lofty position of power, it’s a thrilling, uplifting four-minute production. Sally gave me the album for my birthday. Sally was blessed with a musical download collection more eclectic than any 15 year-old had any right to possess. From Marley to Florence, burly Yank rockers Bowling for Soup to ginger-dreadlocked Newton Faulkner, Vampire Weekend to Lordi, she took great pride in blazing trails for acts long before they struck stardom in the UK. Another of her favourites were Kings of Leon.

Prior to September 2009 I honestly could not have named a single song from their three-album canon, nor did I know they were in fact a genuine band of brothers by the Tennessee family name of Followill. However, when I first heard that growling, prowling intro I knew ’Sex On Fire’ was a surefire hit. I was also intrigued by the unorthodox placement of the drumbeat on the opening verse before normality was restored for the exhilarating chorus and subsequent stanzas. Apparently the original intention was to call the song Set Us on Fire but a technician’s quip led to the change and the rest is history. 

I would later discover that ‘Sex On Fire’ was a favourite of Angie, too. It’s virtually the law that I request it for her at any discos, the inevitable result being her shaking everything she’s got on the dancefloor. Never mind the knee replacement, hearing those guitar siren calls and Caleb’s soulful vocals never cease to unleash Angie’s inner rock-chick emotions! Hell, isn’t that why rock music was invented?

When it came to musicals in 2008 there was only one name on everyone’s lips. Well, two names, to be precise. It made lots of money, money, money for Abba, the winners who took it all: Mamma Mia! We enjoyed the touring stage production at the Hippodrome, Bristol, in January and hurried to the local independent Bridgwater cinema for the much-heralded movie in its first week on release in July. Abba have been a recurring feature of this memoir, and for good reason; their music has continued to bound back joyfully into British culture at frequent intervals to remind us of their incomparable back catalogue of pop perfection.

Given the lavish cast-of-hundreds Greek location treatment, it was a guaranteed success but nobody could have predicted it would become the UK’s biggest box office hit of all time. Based on the behaviour of those around me, I reckon the cinema receipts benefitted from repeat visits of middle-aged women and their daughters intoxicated by the beautiful setting, the winning performances of Meryl Streep, Julie Walters et al, the stunning set-pieces (for example, Dancing Queen and Voulez Vous) and the feelgood love story.

Mamma Mia would also provide popular raw material for one of the productions by the Quantock Musical Theatre Company (QMTC), of which I was a member for over three years during my time in Bridgwater. It had a surprisingly striking impact on my life, enticing out the latent performer inside me, instilling self-confidence and establishing an inner strength which would benefit me far beyond the evenings in front of an audience.

Until 2008 my experience of being in a choir was restricted to my brief spell at primary school, singing the likes of ‘Little Spanish Town’ or ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’. That was all to change. Before I had taken the courageous but ill-fated decision to buy a Victorian house in the ‘nicest street in Bridgwater’ and become a full-time member of the Binstead family, I was already well acquainted with their involvement in the QMTC. 

It was run by Brian and Barbara Williams’, incomers from London who had become part of the fabric of Nether Stowey, a picturesque place at the foot of the Quantocks. Company rehearsals were held at the modern village hall.  The Williamses were massive fans of West End musicals, and had established the QMTC as a mean of directing their own productions of classics such as My Fair Lady and Oliver. For the latter, bolstering the membership created from friends of the family, a host of youngsters had been drafted in, giving the Company an impressive age range.

This blend of youth and maturity was also to serve the QMTC well in its secondary phase. The single-show format, toiling like stink for just a week’s performances a year, didn’t suit everyone. So it was, by the time I entered its lustrous circle, that the 30-odd members were instead spreading their range to encompass material from a host of sources, culminating in a Magic of the Musicals production. With no scenery or costumes to worry about, the QMTC could tour the village halls, appearing on Friday or Saturday evenings to entertain the local populace.

I saw no role for me in such an organisation. However, on my 47th birthday, Jan persuaded me to accompany the others. Believing I would have the chance to sit at the back and listen, I duly obliged. Jan probably smiled to herself. With the short, silver-bearded Brian running proceedings, nobody would be permitted to lurk in the shadows. She was right. I was swiftly set upon by  Brian and interrogated on my voice. Was I a tenor or bass? I hadn’t a bloody clue. I decided to sit with the men at the back. Easier to hide, I thought with cunning but naivete. It wasn’t long before Barbara sussed me out and shunted me forward to the tenors who comprised Scott, his close buddy Dom and Daniel, an entertaining trio who welcomed me into their wacky teenage world.

It was a steep learning curve. Although our first live shows weren’t scheduled until the new year, there was a lot to take in. For starters I could not then, nor can I now, read music. However, like many others around me, I found it possible to follow the staves, recalling long-forgotten teachings about crotchets and quavers, sharps and flats. Then there was the singing itself. As well as struggling with the notes, it became obvious my vocal muscles needed hours in the virtual gymnasium of each rehearsal. Never mind, as each week passed, my voice became more reliable, less likely to sound like Rod Stewart after a 48-hour bender.  

And so to 14^th February 2009: my debut performance! My diary records that despite a paltry audience in the tiny environs of Kilve - its parish one of the oldest in Somerset – we had a “good workout”. Four days later came an altogether different proposition: performing the same show on the sizeable stage of Minehead’s Regal Theatre. Unnerving but gloriously exhilarating! I considered my own voice to be “crap” but the audience seemed to leave happy. The performing bug was in me. Bloody hell, I could DO this….

Way back in my Rotaract days, I remembered going to see Les Miserables in London and departing feeling distinctly underwhelmed. A trip to a school production in Bridgwater Town Hall had me adjusting my opinion. Now I began to appreciate the power of the storyline as well as the music. Until then, ‘One Day More’ had been merely a nightmare of a song to learn: a complicated jigsaw of four-part harmonies, solo parts and chorus. When it worked, it sounded incredible. If someone came in too late: disaster! For three years, it was our show-stopping finale and I was a part of it.

I also immersed myself in the organisation itself, becoming its treasurer. We got through a few pianists in my time there, but most of them contributed different ideas designed to help us develop as individuals and, more importantly, a vocal unit.

For example, Peter threw in some random suggestions such as ‘Save the Best for Last’, ‘Eternal Flame’ and the a capella ‘Only You’. They weren’t strictly speaking songs from the musicals at all, but they undoubtedly developed our skills and repertoire. Peter’s promotion to head of music at Haygrove School left Paul as the custodian of the QMTC keyboard. He was more ‘old school’; a connoisseur of Latin and musical history, precise and a perfectionist, he also brought us on considerably. Even now, if I want to exercise my chords for presentations, interviews or even karaoke, I still practise his “Dah-meh-nee”s and “Ri-ta Chak-ra-va-ti”s to fine-tune my legato and staccato techniques.

The arrival of Shelagh in September 2011 proved a masterstroke. She gamely acquiesced in ceding the musical director’s role to Alice and with her at the piano the QMTC’s future seemed secure. In addition to works such as Oklahoma, West Side Story and Joseph…, there were also memorable performances of songs from Abba and The Beatles. I take particular pride in having my own suggestion of arrangement and audience participation in ‘Hey Jude’ accepted. I wasn’t just a weak tenor and part-time tambourine tapper, you know!

Our Christmas performances also became more important. Our sessions at the Hestercombe House Christmas Fayre and from the balcony of Bridgwater’s Angel Place shopping mall proved popular with players and public alike. However, for atmosphere and a genuine feeling of togetherness, nothing could compete with our mini-concerts on the grand staircase of Dunster Castle as part of the two-day annual Dunster by Candlelight event. I think even Angie enjoyed being in the audience for that one!

Come 2012, my relationship with Angie was blossoming and I was spending more time with her in Cardiff. With  attendance at rehearsals becoming more sporadic, I graciously bowed out in February. I confess I do miss the buzz of performing on stage. I may not be up there with the Michael Balls or Alfie Boes, nor even my fellow QMTC-ers, but my years with the Company gave me confidence and those years as a live performer remain with me for ever.