1989 - Life is a mystery, Everyone must stand alone

If 1988 was a personal low point, then the following year signified a renaissance of sorts. The BBC research job was going well, the intestinal surgery had left me pain-free for the first time in two years, and Rotaract had brought me right out of my stubborn shell. 

OK, life wasn’t perfect. I never left a Rotaract disco with a young lady on my arm, or a phone number in my pocket. Nevertheless, for all that romantic disappointment there was social fulfilment of a different kind. I was Treasurer and Publicity Officer, throwing myself into all sorts of activities and an enthusiastic participant in a myriad of quizzes, sports challenges, days out, nights out, concerts and those village hall discos covering the four corners of Essex and everywhere in between.  I may have sat out the slowies at the end, but it was a cracking year for dance music.

It wasn’t all about the American house or British rave scenes either. Italian production team Groove Groove Melody formed Black Box and created possibly the greatest floor-filler in history, ‘Ride On Time’. Model Katrin Quinol was the face of Black Box, but the single’s vocals were sampled from an old Loleatta Holloway song. It didn’t really matter at the time that the sexy dancer on the video was miming; it simply made you want to dance, and what more could you want from a dance track?! For all its obvious house origins, it still sounds great well into the twenty-first century.

Belgian ensemble Technotronic got in the act, too, with the pulsating ‘Pump Up the Jam’ but Double Trouble and Rebel MC from London also made the top three with ‘Street Tuff’. I also had a fondness for the Beatmasters’ ‘Hey DJ’, which introduced us to the rap of Alison Clarkson, aka Betty Boo.

It wasn’t all plain sailing. I recall being in a car heading for a Rotaract event on a Sunday evening. One of my fellow passengers suddenly turned up the radio to hear the chart show, exclaiming: “It’s a woman having an orgasm!”  Lil Louis’ ‘French Kiss’ throbbed away seemingly forever before the rhythm slowed and ‘vocals’ kicked in. This was indeed clearly depicting more than a little tongue-on-tongue action! Embarrassing to dance to, though. An enduring Rotaract favourite was Damian’s version of ‘Time Warp’. 

The choreographed moves brought everyone together:

                        “It’s just a jump to the left

                        And then a step to the right.

Put your hands on your hips
You bring your knees in tight"

but I confess I hated the record. I just had to go along with the rest.

By November, a new dance craze, the ‘Lambada’ had spread across Europe. The band was French, the singer Brazilian, the language Portuguese, the song adapted from a Bolivian original, but the infectious Latin beat traversed all borders and was something I could happily attempt to sway along to.

I’m pretty sure ‘Bring Me Edelweiss’ was not such a global success, but it was a heady hotch-potch of – would you believe? – House piano, ‘scratching’, rap, yodelling, cowbells and a sample of Abba’s ‘SOS’ chorus. You might expect such a bonkers collection of Alpine stereotypes would kill the record stone dead, but you’d be wrong; the band Edelweiss were Austrian and the record topped the chart from Basel to Vienna, reaching five here. 

Another top 5 hit which appealed to me also relied on gratuitous (but no doubt legal) borrowing of bits from old records. Kon Kan’s ‘I Beg Your Pardon’ was a fast-paced track sampling various sources, especially Lynn Anderson’s ‘Rose Garden’. I don’t remember the Canadian duo doing much else but this was great stuff. Not a staple of Rotaract discos but fun to listen to nonetheless.

A glance at my 1989 diary uncovers the revelation that none of the above was my favourite ‘dance/disco’ single of the year. That contemporary decision fell the way of the Fine Young Cannibals’ ‘You Drive Me Crazy’. They’d been around for a few years with some interesting dance tracks but this was the time when they really hit the big time on both sides of the Atlantic. ‘Good Thing’ also made our top ten, boasting a very catchy jump beat. Lead singer Roland Gift had a distinctive mixed race appearance and unusual vocal style, which endeared him to the media and girls alike. He seemed to abandon music for acting and did indeed nab some decent film roles, but in more recent times I read that the recording studio has lured him once more.

I didn’t buy FYC’s album The Raw and the Cooked but I did splash out on Sydney Youngblood’s debut. This was purely down to the magnificence of the Texan’s singles ‘If Only I Could’ and ‘Sit and Wait’. If he had stuck with a conventional soul production, I’d never have liked him. However, his voice was mixed with some darned funky, hip-hoppy rhythms, but after these two crackers he never reached the top 40 again. A shame.

Apparently Mr Youngblood was criticised for one or two tracks sounding too similar to some work by another breakthrough act of ’89, Soul II Soul. Jazzie B became one of the faces of London R’n’B, his ‘pineapple head’ dreadlocks swaying alongside the sexy string section and behind the collective’s female singers. Caron Wheeler fronted the number one ‘Back to Life’ but it was the Soul II Soul beat which influenced a shedload of dance acts in the coming years. Impossible not to dance to.

Another icon of late Eighties hip-hop was Neneh Cherry. With Swedish-Sierra Leone parentage, she seemed to spend much of her time in the UK, which was great because she enlivened any number of British pop programmes in 1989. She sounded pure London on ‘Buffalo Stance’, especially in the delicious dialect ‘break’:-

“What is he like? What's he like anyway?
Yo' man. What do you expect? The guy's a gigolo, man
(giggling) You know wha’ I mean?!”

Yet this wasn’t my favourite Neneh Cherry song. That was the magnificent ‘Man Child’. The melancholic chord changes and melody, plus Neneh’s sassy rapping, gets me on an emotional level which few songs ever do. I remember seeing her perform it some years later at Glastonbury, and she was sensational then, too. A host of twenty-first century American stars owe so much to Neneh Cherry’s trailblazing as credible feminist musician, writer and performer. Forget Nikki Minaj et al; listen to the real deal.

According to my diary, ‘Manchild’ was my favourite ‘Slow/Ballad’ record of the year, edging out ‘The Living Years’ by Mike and the Mechanics. As my entry of 10^th February records:

            “At last, Mike Rutherford has merged from the shadow of 

            Genesis colleagues Collins and Gabriel, taking his Mechanics

            Up to number two in the singles and album charts. It’s one of 

            those ballads with (a) rousing choral chorus which has ‘classic’

            written all over it!”

With words by BA Robertson and the voice of Paul Carrack, it is such a sad song about a son's reflective regret over unresolved conflict with his now-deceased father. If it came on the radio, I always needed to keep a tissue handy for Angie. Now, having lost my own Dad, I find it a tough listen myself. 

There were other big ballads that year. The Bangles lit their ‘Eternal Flame’ which illuminated the charts for much of the Spring. Ah, what man couldn’t hold a candle for Susannah Hoffs?! Phil Collins received a cacophony of criticism for his tale of a bag lady, ‘Another Day in Paradise’. The gist was that instead of just writing a song, why can’t a millionaire pop star just give all his money away to the homeless? That was just lazy journalism. Why shouldn’t he do what he does best, enable us to enjoy the music and encourage the rest of us to “just think about it” and do our bit? Bob Geldof and Bono have endured similar belligerent brickbats over the years, but none of them justified. 

Gloria Estefan and The Miami Sound Machine were very popular in the late Eighties, bringing Cuban-influenced Latin rhythms into the mainstream. I wasn’t so struck by them. However, in 1989, the lead singer went solo and enjoyed success with slowies ‘Don’t Want to Lose You Now’ and the re-released ‘Can’t Stay Away From You’. Estefan didn’t endear herself to me with her anti-Castro rants, but back then she did have a wicked way with a ballad. 

I must confess I’d completely forgotten The Eurythmics’ sultry ‘Don’t Ask Me Why’ and Richard Marx’s ‘Right Here Waiting’ despite them being amongst my favourites at the time. I do have lasting memories of ‘Belfast Child’, which gave Simple Minds their only UK number one single. I thought it had been a re-working of an Ulster folk song but that proved to be only half correct. Apparently, Jim Kerr borrowed the tune but wrote entirely new lyrics “trying to relate to people in Northern Ireland who lost loved ones”. It’s a blistering record, from Kerr’s unaccompanied intro to the powerful second half. Finally, the easing back at the end, surely designed to allow the listener to sit and contemplate the sadness and emptiness created during the Troubles which were very much alive and kicking in 1989. 

The legendary Roy Orbison had died of a heart attack the previous December. I had come to love some of his Sixties classics, and his voice is an eternal wonder.  Enjoying a renaissance as part of tongue-in-cheek super-group The Travelling Wilburys at least in the States, he was more popular than he had been for two decades. It’s a shame therefore that he didn’t live to see the Jeff Lynne-penned ‘She’s Got it’ go to number three early in February 1989. Actually, I preferred the Bono/Edge composition ‘She’s a Mystery to Me’ even though it failed to make the top 20. 

Roy’s ‘She’s Got it’ was stalled behind another fifty-something singer, Gene Pitney. I’d remembered the original version of ‘Something’s Gotten Hold of My Heart’ but it was quite a revelation to hear it given a big production sound twenty-one years later. It complemented Marc Almond’s soulful voice beautifully, so the decision to reunite the song (from the aforementioned Cook-Greenaway partnership) with the now silver-haired Pitney was brave. Fortunately it worked spectacularly. However it didn’t lead to more UK hits although he continued performing up to his sudden death in 2006 after a concert in Cardiff, a few miles down the road from where I am writing this.

Sixties guitar hero and shock-haired singer Joe Brown had been part of my childhood thanks to constant playing of Mum’s 7” EP featuring ‘Picture of You’. I was to be reminded of this when his daughter Sam Brown enjoyed success of her own with the bluesy ‘Stop’. For some reason, I really liked it. Apart from Sam’s voice, it must have been the gentle strings which clinched the deal. Since then I have spotted her doing backing vocals for various bigger stars like Dave Gilmour, and she has been one of Jools Holland’s go-to singers performing with his orchestra. She has shown that you can make a career as a supporting artist and has even taught the art of backing vocals at the Academy of Contemporary Music. 

When it comes to heavy rock ballads, there are few stronger than ‘Sweet Child o’ Mine’ by Guns ‘n’ Roses. Axl Rose still looked startlingly feminine back in autumn 1988 when this was originally released, but Slash was already enigmatically hidden behind his distinctive long black curls beneath that towering hat. The guitar is just as towering but, for all the record’s enduring iconic status in rock history, it originally reached a paltry 23 in our singles chart before getting a new lease of life in 1989. An unforgettable five fab minutes.

Then in the summer it was surpassed by the roaring return to form of Alice Cooper. I recall first hearing the searing feedback-laden intro to ‘Poison’ while sitting in the car at a rain-soaked West Bay on holiday that August. Alice seemed such an anachronism as the Eighties entered their death throes, but amidst all the crap emanating from the likes of Kiss and Aerosmith, this remains a rock classic nonetheless.

Another record that conjures up memories of that summer fortnight in Dorset is Martika’s ‘Toy Soldiers’. Written about a cocaine-addicted friend, it had a different atmosphere to it, partly because of the childlike backing chorus (featuring, amongst others, future Black-Eyed Pea, Fergie) and also the haunting vocals of Martika herself. She has done all sorts of stuff since, as writer and performer, but this remains the only song I’ve liked.

In October, the Rotaract club travelled en masse to Sussex for a youth hostelling weekend at Alfriston. In addition to savouring the delights of the beautiful village, Eastbourne pier and the Seven Sisters walk, the trip brings back memories of the newly released Tears For Fears album, Seeds of Love.  Three years and a million pounds in the making, it wasn’t the masterpiece everyone was hoping for. Indeed it was panned for obvious echoes of The Beatles’ Sergeant Pepper in the title track which, for all its rambling excesses, I quite enjoyed listening to. The following March, another large group of us went to see the band at Wembley Arena. Recognising the criticism of the Summer of Love overtones, Curt and Roland had the cheeky temerity to include in the set list a singalong ‘All You Need is Love’.

The only pop concert I attended in ’89 was Elton John, also at the big barn Arena as part of the ‘Reg Strikes Back’ tour. I’ve already alluded to it in respect of Nik Kershaw’s supporting role, but the abiding memory is not of Elton doing his thing belting out hits like ‘Philadelphia Freedom’ or ‘I’m Still Standing’. Unfortunately it is of boos ringing out when it became apparent that Elton wasn’t reappearing for the encore, thus depriving 7,000 people who’d paid at least £17.50 from hearing ‘Candle in the Wind’ and other faves. Reg wasn’t striking back, he was just on strike! 

On Radio 1 the next morning, there were whispers that Elton had had one of his notorious hissy fits and left the building and George Michael waiting in the wings, where he’d been preparing  to duet on ‘Don’t Let the Sun Go Down On Me’. I have no proof of this rumour but the show’s conclusion did leave a sour taste and made for a despondent trudge back to Wembley Park Tube station. Nevertheless the four of us tried to compensate by singing the missing songs ourselves. Apologies to the fellow passengers who had to hear it. 

One of the biggest and most controversial tours was Madonna’s ‘Blonde Ambition, taking in three nights at Wembley Stadium. To my chagrin, I missed out on this one, but not out of choice. I doubt that her sweet Christmas hit ‘Dear Jessie’ reached the set list, which was absolutely laden with hits past, present and future. Her only number one single that year was ‘Like A Prayer’, one of her attempts (successful!) to antagonise the Catholic church hierarchy, especially with the video’s depiction of burning crosses and kissing a black male saint. At least she covered up her Gaultier conic bra and stopped simulating sex on a bed for this memorable concert performance. It’s by no means my favourite Madonna track, with its gospel choir sections, but definitely an example of the Eighties megastar in her pomp.

Well, I’ve reached this far in my 1989 journey without including those initials SAW. They can’t be ignored any longer. If Madonna was at the peak of her creative powers at this time, so was the Hit Factory and the writing of Pete Waterman.  They were on the credits of no fewer than seven number one singles, and heaven knows how many other top tenners.  

Jason Donovan took centre stage from Kylie Minogue. He sold 1.5 million copies of the Ten Good Reasons album, and topped the singles charts with ‘Too Many Broken Hearts’ and the Brian Hyland ballad ‘Sealed with A Kiss’, as well as with Kylie on ‘Especially With You’ and a host of others familiar from the S/A/W roster (plus Cliff, Lisa Stansfield, Bros et al) on the Band Aid 2 Christmas fundraiser. He wasn’t, though, on the SAW-produced Hillsborough disaster charity song ‘Ferry ‘Cross the Mersey’, a number one featuring a ‘who’s who’ of Merseyside pop stars like Gerry Marsden, Holly Johnson and Paul McCartney, and which was actually quite good. 

The twinkly-eyed, delectably-dimpled, red-headed Scouser Sonia also hit the big time with ‘You’ll Never Stop Me From Loving You’. Another typically rousing chorus but a forgettable verse melody. I’ve just listened and, er, no, it’s gone… S/A/W also revived the career of Donna Summer in the Spring with my favourite Waterman composition of 1989: 'This Time I Know It’s For Real’.

For all the above, probably the most successful ‘artist’ of the year was not an Aussie soap star, a Euro-dance phenomenon or an American female style icon. No, it was a – cartoon rabbit! Under the banner of Jive Bunny, a bunch of Yorkshire mixers and producers came up with the not-entirely-new idea of sampling a load of old hits for a new generation of partygoers. It proved extraordinarily, and infuriatingly, successful.

Starting in July, Jive Bunny and the Mastermixers spent a total of nine weeks at number one, with their segues of songs from the rock ‘n’ roll era, plus a soupcon of Glenn Miller. ‘Swing the Mood’ dominated the summer, returning to the top in October with ‘That’s what I Like’ and again in December with a medley of Christmas hits. That blasted bunny was everywhere!

And so the Eighties came to an end. Yuppies were on the up, the Berlin Wall came down. A decade remembered largely for its excesses, I have fonder memories of the music, from Madness to Madonna, Jam to Jacko. It was a great decade for me personally, representing the journey from shy, naïve student to more socially aware public servant. I would mature further in the Nineties and, as you will read, my musical tastes probably became a little more eclectic.

1972: All alone without a telephone, oh yeah

Looking at the first few months of the year, the charts are chock-full of songs I can remember as if it were yesterday. 1972 also marks the first time I can with certainty associate songs with a particular place. I think this has much to do with my first encounter with the technical phenomenon which was the car radio!

Not our own family car, of course. The trusty Ford Escort 1300, DPU 958G, had no such innovations. However, when I was introduced in February to trainspotting by my friend Mark Chillingworth, we would travel up to London to note the loco numbers at Old Oak Common, Kings Cross, Willesden and Cricklewood in his dad’s car; I think it was a Capri. The important thing is we could listen to music as we travelled or while we waited for the next ‘Peak’, ‘Brush’ or ‘Deltic’.

As a consequence, there are a few songs from the early part of the year which are forever linked with those hours spent lineside: Jo Jo Gunne’s adrenalin rush of slide guitar rock-blues boogie ’Run, Run, Run’, America’s trippy ‘Horse with No Name’ and Lindsfarne’s folky ‘Meet Me at the Corner’ spring to mind. I also recall listening to Neil Young’s gorgeous acoustic ‘Heart of Gold’ in my Uncle David’s car watching trains at Hampton-in-Arden. I remember just that song, no other.

Back in January there was no escaping ‘I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing’. It was the second number one for The New Seekers, an inoffensive five-piece outfit who became international stars for a year or two. The success came largely on the back of this song which itself originated as a Coca Cola commercial, famous in its own right I wasn't particularly enamoured of the song: all those "apple trees and honey bees and snow white turtle doves" were a bit too cute for me even then. Nice harmonies, though.

Pretty soon, The New Seekers had become so big, they were selected to represent the UK in the 1972 Eurovision Song Contest. BBC TV viewers had a choice of several songs, and selected the up-tempo ‘Beg, Steal and Borrow’. An excellent choice, it ticked all the boxes to bring us our first winner since ‘Puppet on a String’. Unfortunately it found itself up against what I think was the finest Eurovision winner in history, ‘Apres Toi’ by Vicky Leandros.

Even Dad liked it, or was it that he just fancied Vicky?! Whatever the appeal, it was re-recorded in English as ‘Come What May’, and followed ‘Beg, Steal and Borrow’ to number two over here. One of the songs which didn’t make the cut for Eurovision, ‘Circles’  gave The New Seekers another top five success that year, with more hits to come in 1974. By that time, the superior singer Eve Graham had been relegated (disgracefully in the view of this twelve year-old!) in favour of the more photogenic blonde Lyn Paul who subsequently went solo. That was that, but they are very much part of my 1972 musical experience.

I was unaware of Cat Stevens as an album superstar and sex god but when he released a version of my favourite hymn ‘Morning Has Broken’ he became a household name, even in 14 Marks Close! Cat’s distinctive voice and Rick Wakeman’s wonderful ivory-tinkling, fingers flowing like a waterfall, certainly grabbed my attention. The result made even something we had to sing in a school assembly ‘cool’. Probably the first and last time that ever happened!

Orchestral recordings of TV themes were also popular early in 1972. ‘The Onedin Line’ was a must-see on, I think, Sunday nights on BBC1. For all the period costumes and storylines combining nautical commerce and family relationships, the series became synonymous with Khachaturian’s ‘Spartacus’, so a top 20 single was almost inevitable. Around the same time, ITV’s ‘The Persuaders’ theme made number thirteen. However, my favourite was ‘Sleepy Shores’, the beautiful piano melody accompanying BBC1’s early evening ‘soap’, ‘Owen MD’. Performed by TOTP’s orchestral supremo Johnny Pearson, it peaked at number eight.

These were by no means the biggest instrumentals of the year. Neither was ‘Morning Has Broken’ the only hymn. The top-seller was ‘Amazing Grace’, a bagpipe-fest performed by the Pipes and Drums of the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards. A novelty hit, perhaps, but it was pretty stirring stuff. For many, the pipes are an abomination but I found the sound of a full ‘pipes and drums’ remarkably powerful and, of course, different from anything I’d heard before. It’s still the only kind of military band music I can stomach. Watching the be-kilted hordes performing ‘Flower of Scotland’ at Murrayfield before a Six Nations rugby international can almost make me support the men in blue. Almost. In my opinion the pipes section was also the best bit of ‘Mull of Kintyre’, which came five years later.

The second most popular single in 1972 was, apart from a few vocal interjections of the title, also a novelty instrumental, and one which can still bear repeated listening. Lieutenant Pigeon’s ‘Mouldy Old Dough’ was a real slow-burner, taking nine months to fly to the heights, eventually selling almost 800,000 copies in Britain alone. Apart from the instantly recognisable drum and penny whistle intro, the song was basically honky-tonk style piano, with the main man’s 60 year-old mum Hilda playing the basic keyboard rhythm. Many turned their noses up at it, but ‘Mouldy Old Dough’ was another of those (almost) lyric-free records which make you smile. A guilty pleasure? Definitely not; I feel no guilt about expressing my pleasure at listening to it whatsoever!

Pianists who could sing (and write) were also starting to appear. Listening to the charts, I’d never have identified Elton John with the controversial rocker or tantrum-prone gay activist with whom we have become familiar in recent times. Back then he was a young bloke in silly glasses who sang slow songs at a grand piano. They were good songs, of course, with ‘Rocket Man’ one of my favourites, and ‘Crocodile Rock’ later illustrating he could do the up-tempo stuff, too. Lynsey de Paul also stood out. Not only with her attractive face, trademark beauty spot and blonde hair, but ‘Sugar Me’ boasted an unusual blend of rhythm piano and a solo gypsy violin section. Apparently we have her then boyfriend Dudley Moore (yes, as in Dud ‘n’ Pete) to thank for her singing her own composition. She was also partly responsible for one of my 1973 favourites, of which more anon…. 

Another Top of the Pops regular at the piano in the early Seventies was Gilbert O’Sullivan. His early image comprised a pudding basin haircut, cloth cap, braces or skinny tie and shirt emblazoned with a giant letter G, and it was with this appearance that I first remember him performing ‘Alone Again (Naturally)’. Like Keith West’s ‘Grocer Jack’ in 1967, this song made an instant impression not because it was a happy pop foot-tapper. Quite the opposite, it has always stirred me to the brink of tears, and that was before my own mum died. It made number three in the UK and, although eclipsed in terms of chart position that November by the merrier ‘Claire’, ‘Alone Again’ is my definitive Gilbert O’Sullivan song.  

I remember Mum buying one of those ‘Best of’ LPs featuring a session singer recording Gilbert’s early songs. I hadn’t realised he had already written so many agreeable tunes with likeable lyrics, like ‘We Will’ and 'Ooh Wakka Doo Wakka Day'. There were more to come, and I clearly recall a car journey down to Nan and Grandad’s in Southampton in 1973 singing along to ‘Get Down’. 

Slow songs, then and now, tend to be like Marmite. I’ve mentioned ‘Apres Toi’ as one of the good examples from 1972. I could also list David Cassidy’s ‘How Can I be Sure?’, Don McLean’s ‘Vincent’, Nilsson’s all-time classic ‘Without You’ and Peter Skellern’s ‘You’re a Lady’. The latter was extraordinary thanks to the singer’s obvious North East accent and generous helpings of ‘Hovis’ ad-style colliery band backing. A glorious crescendo of piano at the end, too. 

Two years after ‘Back Home’ demonstrated that football fans could and would by records by their heroes, Chelsea and Leeds United got in on the act. ‘Blue is the Colour’ can still be heard at Stamford Bridge and is probably the most enduring club pop song in history. Shame it’s a rather dull military march and it was released as I was switching my allegiance to QPR, but it made three in the charts. Leeds brought out their own single to drum up support for their FA Cup Final appearance in 1972. Name-dropping all the squad (very small in those days) and manager Don Revie, it sounded more tuneful than Chelsea’s hit. It worked insomuch that Leeds beat Arsenal at Wembley (always a plus in my view!) but failed to reach the top ten. 

With no obvious contenders for my favours, I still held up The Bee Gees as personal favourites, even though they had been absent from the charts for a year or so. To my relief, they were back together again in 1972 and took ‘My World’ into the top twenty. Boasting one of those plaintive Robin vocals, it’s a sadly neglected Gibb Brothers ballad. History has been kinder to the brilliant follow-up ‘Run To Me’ but it’s ‘My World’ which I remember listening to that Spring. Weirdly it was another three years before The Bee Gees next ventured into the UK charts.

Although the rock/pop era was still in its relative infancy, the record-buying public were already going retro. Cliff and, with much greater success, Elvis were still going. Neil Sedaka and The Drifters were enjoying a renaissance. Fifties compilations were outselling most contemporary artists and re-releases of early Sixties hits were doing well. Even my toddler-era twister, ‘Let’s Dance’ returned to the Top Ten that autumn. Nevertheless, it was Don McLean’s thoughtful paeon to Buddy Holly on ‘the day the music died’ which grabbed the attention. I watched only the abbreviated version of ‘American Pie’ on TOTP but you really should see the full-length acoustic tour de force recorded elsewhere on the Beeb.

Don McLean stalled at two but a genuine rock’n’roll icon went all the way. Chuck Berry found a new fanbase at the end of the year but it was hardly rock’n’roll! Instead he topped the chart with a novelty singalong, ‘My Ding-a-Ling’. It didn’t really appeal to me, but then I probably didn’t appreciate the ‘double entendres’, at least not at first. Mary Whitehouse and chums inevitably attempted to get the song banned. They only part-succeeded. TOTP was forced into a compromise solution.

Apparently the main objection was to the showing of young audience members exuberantly singing along to the chorus so, hilariously, I remember those shots replaced by cutaways to Rolf Harris using a marker pen to draw the ‘silver bells hanging on a string’ in scenes appropriate to the lyrics The literal words, of course, not the sexual interpretations! In the end, Chuck managed to get it up to number one, penetrating the December market but was knocked off the pinnacle in time for Christmas by a nine year-old Little Jimmy Osmond bragging about being a ‘Long Haired Lover from Liverpool’. That was deemed perfectly acceptable. Eh?!

1972 saw the rise of the ‘teenybopper’. Mass hysteria at the merest suspicion of a pop star hadn’t been experienced since the early Beatles heyday. Suddenly we had not one, but three young icons sending girls into raptures. Michael Jackson had solo singles backed by his brothers, and it was a similar story for 14 year-old Donny Osmond. It was also the year when David Cassidy emerged from his TV ‘Partridge Family’.

When I moved up to the Mayflower School at eleven, I noticed that most of the girls seemed to be pinning large badges on their blazers. A few may have featured groups but, in the main, they advertised their favours for either Donny, David or Michael. The school soon cracked down on this disgraceful act of rebellion but couldn’t stop them buying their records.

Cassidy was by then in his twenties but I think that was played down at the time. While he could easily pass as a teenager, David certainly had a more mature voice than his contemporary teen idols, and he achieved his first UK number one with an excellent cover of ‘How Can I be Sure?’ Jackson was a mere 13 when he wowed the girls with ‘Got to Be There’ and ‘Rockin’ Robin’ and, like the Bee Gees, he was to be a near-constant on my musical soundtrack for the next two decades.

However, in 1972 and 1973, The Osmonds stole the show when it came to wowing the teenage girls. Already well-established in the USA, they really took the UK by storm, with 14 year-old Donny at the forefront. Personally I could not understand what the fuss was about but many of my female schoolfriends certainly did! ‘Puppy Love’ topped the charts for five weeks and there followed several similar covers of early 60s love songs. In contrast to Neil Reid’s experience, not even the inevitable voice breaking stemmed the young Mormon’s popularity. Unlike Jackson and Cassidy, Donny has somehow avoided the decline into personal disasters, and good on him!

He still recorded with his older brothers and, before they settled for prototype Westlife status with decent ballads-on-stools, they released the one Osmonds song it was acceptable for boys to like. They may have sported some awesomely daring flares but ‘Crazy Horses’ was a rare foray into rock for the Utah Mormons. Unusually Jay sang lead vocals, assisted by Merrill, while Donny appeared to play keyboards. I just have to forget that it’s The Osmonds and enjoy a cracking rock song!

August 1972 marked the momentous period of my debut trip abroad. Travelling on a Monarch Airlines Boeing 720B from Luton to Gerona (as it was then spelt under Franco’s anti-Catalan edict), we enjoyed a fortnight on the Costa Brava. In addition to the unaccustomed heat, sights and smells there were also the foreign sounds to savour. 

Amongst those was the music blaring out from the hotel or any number of neighbouring bars and cafes. The music wasn’t necessarily Spanish but inevitably repetition breeds familiarity and certain songs became inextricably linked with the location. Yes, I was experiencing for the first time the phenomenon of Euro Pop, the Summer Holiday Hit!

At Lloret de Mar, it was definitely the futuristic synthesiser rock instrumental, ‘Popcorn’ by Hot Butter. It reached number five over here but topped charts all over Europe, presumably after all the French, German, Dutch and Swiss returned from their summer hols by the Med. Whenever I hear the ‘pop-pop-pop’ melody I see the view from our hotel balcony and smell the Ambre Solaire. 

The following summer we remained in England and there were no discos or bars around Marazion to leave my ears with sonic imprints of Euro dance. Instead, it was left to whatever was riding high in the charts. If there was one Holiday Hit it would have to be Gary Glitter’s ‘I’m the Leader of the Gang (I Am)’. In 1974, we headed for Spain again, where it was proved that the Holiday Hit doesn’t always equal Summer Classic. At Salou, the over-riding musical memory was of Sylvia’s awful ‘Y Viva Espana’! A year later in Mallorca, it was The George Baker Selection’s version of ‘Una Paloma Blanca’, a definite improvement. Good or bad, they were never to be forgotten, just like the holidays themselves. 

Despite all of the above, the principal musical influence of 1972 had to be Glam Rock!  

Having missed most of 1971’s TOTP, T Rex’s rapid rise had passed me by. With Marc Bolan’s transformation from fey folk hippy to shaggy-permed rock god, there was no escaping them in ’72. I wasn’t too keen on ‘Telegram Sam’ but I have always loved their next single. ‘Metal Guru’ was near-perfect, with a genuine melody, an instantly attention-grabbing intro and superb production. My only criticism is that, at barely two and a half minutes, it’s much too short. 

T Rex really were in their pomp that year, but ‘Metal Guru’ proved to be their last number one. On the other hand, David Bowie was just starting to make a huge impression. Despite his androgynous ‘Ziggy Stardust’ persona, I don’t particularly remember him in 1972. Roxy Music’s ‘Virginia Plain’ was for some reason more memorable. Brian Ferry’s sparkling black suit and distinctive vocals plus Andy Mackay’s rippling tenor sax (or was it oboe?) stood out for me. For others it may have been Brian Eno’s synthesizer (and ludicrous hairstyle) but for me his thunder had already been stolen. 

While we were soaking up the rays and ‘Popcorn’ in Lloret, a landmark record had soared to the top back in the UK, with a title guaranteed to appeal to every schoolchild in the country: ‘School’s Out’. The guitar riff chimed with the Bowie/Ronson sound but Alice Cooper’s slightly scary image and growled vocals stood out from the rest. Along with the words, of course. I was between junior and senior schools that summer so Mum was stocking up my bag with the required paraphenalia. ‘No more pencils, no more books’? Far from it! Nevertheless, it all made for some joyous playground singing, ironically once we were all back in school which had not, after all, ‘been blown to pieces’.

I’m not sure whether Chicory Tip count as a Glam band, but their number one single ‘Son of my Father’ certainly fitted in with the prevailing stompy dance beat. What set it apart, however, was the innovative electronic keyboard sound. An early composition success for Eighties Moog-meister Giorgio Moroder, it was a brilliant slice of early Seventies pop. I remember first seeing the group on TOTP and thinking the lead singer was Barry Ryan. An easy mistake to make, as Peter Hewson’s hairstyle and pouty pursed lips made for an obvious comparison. But the music was very different and I loved the growling intro and bouncy synth bridge. It still sounds good today.

Also on an upward trajectory were Sweet and Slade, who were evolving into top-class pop groups. Sweet were beginning to benefit from Chinn and Chapman’s writing and, by the time ‘Wigwam Bam’ hit number four in October ’72, the familiar ingredients were in place. Brian Connolly was in silver, there were liberal sprinklings of glitter and guitarist Steve Priest’s flamboyance threatened to steal the show every time they appeared on TOTP.

Talking of glitter, the summer offered our first sighting of Paul Gadd in spandex and platform boots. Already 28, Gary Glitter was well on his way to UK superstardom thanks to ‘Rock and Roll (Parts 1 and 2)’. It was the largely instrumental Part 2 which proved more popular, although it stalled at two in the charts.

Like Sweet and Gary Glitter, Slade were yet to have their finest hour. Nevertheless, they had already topped the chart in 1971 with ‘Coz I Luv You’. In ’72, they released a sequence of loud stompers which settled into a familiar formula of guitar riff, crowd choruses, Dave Hill’s ferocious fringe and Noddy Holder’s vocals. Then there were their deliberately mis-spelt song titles which sent shivers through the education system with each new Slade release! I think their TOTP performance of ‘Mama Weer All Crazee Now’ (sp, punct., see me…) provided us with our first sighting of Noddy’s famous mirror-studded hat, one of the most enduring images not only of 1972 but the entire decade.

Glam rock encompassed a look, sound and, above all, sense of fun which was to light the fuse for my renewed and revitalised love of pop in the following twelve months.