1974 – Well, I know I'm not super hip

Ah, 1974. The year when I entered my teens. I may have had some unforgiveable strops at home but at school I was all sweetness and light. I associate a lot of June and July pop with summer lunchtimes on the school field. Weather permitting, we’d have a kickaround (I was cheekily nicknamed Johan after Dutch maestro Cruyff whose ‘turn’ thrilled us all in the World Cup). On Tuesdays, we’d then sprawl on the turf listening on somebody’s tinny tranny to Radio 1’s revelation of the new charts. There was barely time to hear the number one just before 1pm, when we had to scamper back to class.

Whenever I hear tracks such as R Dean Taylor’s ‘There’s a Ghost in My House’, Cockney Rebel’s ‘Judy Teen’ or Showaddywaddy’s debut ‘Hey, Rock’n’Roll’ I can almost smell the new-mown grass and post-football sweat!

Another big hit in the summer term was ‘This Town Ain’t Big Enough For the Both of Us’ by Sparks. Back then, it had mere novelty value but now I regard it as a Seventies classic. Russell Mael’s frantic falsetto and the peculiar piano poses of brother Ron – dubbed by us ‘the Sparks loony’ – made for an unusual act. Nevertheless, the song left me breathless, and still does. Later, they turned down the pace for ‘Never Turn Your Back on Mother Earth’ but the result was also highly entertaining. They’ve never stopped working either. While not often troubling the charts, they’ve been consistent darlings of UK music journos. American-born, maybe, but surely approaching the status of British national treasures.

A young Scottish group called The Bay City Rollers were beginning to win the hearts of schoolgirls, with four top ten singles. Some long-haired art-rockers with a really ugly lead singer also released some interesting records, the best being ‘Killer Queen’. We were to hear a lot more from them! Leo Sayer’s career began at the start of the year in clown’s costume and make-up, performing the engagingly quirky ‘The Show Must Go On’ then the character was discarded for another entertaining top five single, ‘Long Tall Glasses’. However, there were also some appealing songs from performers more commonly linked to the previous decade.

Lulu took an unexpected change of musical direction with David Bowie’s ‘The Man Who Sold the World’, The Rolling Stones were back on form with ‘It’s Only Rock’n’Roll’ (the one with the promo film featuring the boys being slowly submerged in bubbles!) and The Hollies brought out possibly their best single, ‘The Air That I Breathe’, featuring a brilliant guitar intro and haunting vocals from Allan Clarke.

Paul McCartney & Wings had huge success with their album ‘Band on the Run’, and I enjoyed the title track. It was one of those singles with three distinct sections which works a treat. The album cover was also memorable for featuring Paul, Linda and Denny dressed as escaping prisoners posing with a very mixed bunch of celebrities, from Michael Parkinson to film star James Coburn and boxer John Conteh! Only The Carpenters’ ‘Singles 1969-73’ sold more albums than ‘Band on the Run’ that year.

Coincidentally, Alan Price and The Scaffold each made the top ten simultaneously with songs celebrating the towns of their birth. Not earth-shattering, but both the autobiographical ‘Jarrow Song’ and ‘Liverpool Lou’ were very catchy tunes, also heard and hummed on the Mayflower School field.

The American heartthrobs were starting to lose their grip. The Osmonds showed Louis Walsh and Boyzone the future with ‘Love Me For a Reason’ but there were no chart-toppers for Donny, Jimmy or David Cassidy. Britain was crying out for a teenybopper idol of our own, and he emerged in the form of David Essex.

He was unusual, possibly unique in progressing from musical theatre to pop. The previous year, ‘Rock On’ had been dark, dangerous, moody and mysterious, hitting number three.  While playing on Essex’s curly-haired photogenic looks, it was not pop as I knew it. ‘I’m Gonna Make You a Star’ changed all that. The Eastender became a fun entertainer with a winning smile, and, contrary to his lyric, definitely became ‘super hip’ and not at all ‘out of style’! 1975’s ‘Hold Me Close’ took him even closer to his London roots.

On the other hand, the glorious era of Glam was dissolving, but not before a few last hurrahs. Suzi Quatro and Alvin Stardust topped the charts early in ’74 with ‘Devil Gate Drive’ and ‘Jealous Mind’, respectively, while Slade narrowly missed the top spot with the semi-acoustic ‘Far, Far Away’. Gary Glitter did manage it with ‘Always Yours’, but his backing group emerged from his silvery shadow as The Glitter Band and out-sold it with the drum-heavy ‘Angel Face’. 

Away from Wizzard, Roy Wood released some solo stuff (sans wig), most notably the excellent ‘Forever’, on which he inevitably sang, wrote, produced and played all the instruments. Thereafter, whether on his own or with the band, his new music never really connected with me again. Rediscovering his Move material from the Sixties, such as the dreamy 'Blackberry Way', provided adequate compensation. 

Despite the more flamboyant costumes and ear-rings of Rob Davis, I’m not sure whether Mud were truly Glam rockers. Yes or no, the group were definitely the most successful singles artists of 1974. ‘Tiger Feet’ was fun from start to finish, as this TOTP performance proves, topping the year’s sales chart. The dance moves also live on to this day! ‘When the Cat Crept In’ provided more of the same and then in December there was Les Gray’s unashamed Elvis impression on ‘Lonely This Christmas’. I’ll never forget the TOTP performance with the spoken section mimed by a ventriloquist’s dummy. A sad, mawkish song which made you smile; only Mud could do that. 

From an early age, if you’d asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I’d have said a drummer. Even in the Sixties, when TOTP came on I’d take the fat wooden knitting needles from Mum’s case, arrange the cushions on an armchair and away I’d go! I don’t recall having a particular role model. Not Ringo, Charlie Watts, not even the manic Keith Moon of The Who. 

I suppose I paid more attention to drummers who sang; Dave Clark and The Tremeloes’ Dave Munden spring to mind. In 1974, there was another candidate in the bearded form of Phil Wright from Nottingham’s finest, Paper Lace. No ‘Britain’ Got Talent’ or ‘X Factor’ in those days (hallelujah!) but the Seventies equivalent ‘Opportunity Knocks’ produced a few chart-toppers of its own. Paper Lace enjoyed a year of success, starting with ‘Billy, Don’t be a Hero’. A pleasant enough song, with words we could all sing, it was the third biggest-seller of 1974, but not exactly stuff to make young boys determined to buy a drum set! 

Cozy Powell was a different kettle of fish.  Here was a genuine rocker: dark hair, pointy face and studded, leather wristband. At the start of ’74 he reached number three with what must have been the first drumming (near-) instrumental hit, ‘Dance with The Devil’. I even have the 7” single somewhere! ‘Na na-na-na’ was a more conventional pop-rock song from Cozy’s band, but I liked it, too. I don’t remember him troubling the charts again, other than as rent-a-drummer for Whitesnake, Rainbow and others. Probably the last time I pulled out the knitting needles, too.

Drums were not particularly prominent on ‘Seasons in the Sun’ but, hot on the heels of ‘Billy, Don’t be a Hero’, it gave us another number one we could all sing along to. The lyrics had undergone various transformations from Jacques Brel’s harsher, sardonic French original, but Canadian Terry Jacks’ version was a sentimental ballad which went on to sell millions worldwide. What I remember was TOTP spending weeks trying to locate film of Terry Jacks performing the song, having had to make do with endless re-runs of Pan’s People swaying to the melody. They finally tracked down a performance of Jacks just before it was displaced by the Eurovision winner. 

And what a winner that was! Held in Brighton, the Contest resulted in a first triumph for Sweden, the first by a band and the first sung in English by a non-UK nation. The victors were, of course, ABBA; the song, ‘Waterloo’. I recall first the conductor dressed as Napoleon, then the foursome seemed even more outlandish in glam-rock outfits. Cliff Richard, it wasn’t! If the Swedes weren’t sufficiently different, heaven knows what the continental audience thought of The Wombles as the interval act! 

Although it signalled a dramatic sea-change in the competition, I didn’t especially like ‘Waterloo’ at the time. Yes, I preferred it to Olivia Newton-John’s old-style jolly Eurovision stomper but then who didn’t?! The ’74 Contest also stands out in my mind because no fewer than four of that year’s participants made the UK top ten. They were all very different, too, each with their own appeal. Besides Abba and Olivia, there were oddball Dutch duo Mouth and MacNeal (‘I See a Star’) and Italian Gigliola Cinquetti (‘Si’) who’d won ten years previously. It was probably the first and last time our charts had such a continental look, and had so many Eurovision songs I liked. 

1974 also brought us a couple of chart-toppers which played on social and cultural flavours of the day. For some reason, the practice of people stripping off and enlivening/ruining* (*delete as applicable) sporting events by ‘streaking’ (i.e. running around naked) had gathered momentum, mainly in the States. The versatile, tongue-in-cheek American Ray Stevens knocked up a cheeky novelty song ‘The Streak’ which duly sold plenty on both sides of the Atlantic. It amused schoolkids like me of course, but fortunately none of us was tempted to streak ourselves! 

That autumn, it was kung fu’s turn to hog the UK pop spotlight. Bruce Lee had died the previous year but I wonder what he’d have made of Jamaican Carl Douglas and ‘Kung Fu Fighting’. More martial farce than martial arts, it was nonetheless a catchy chunk of funk-pop which caught the zeitgeist. Huu-hh! It wasn’t really “a little bit frightening” but Douglas and his producer/co-writer Biddu certainly “did it with expert timing”. Hahh! 

Another Jamaican chopped ‘Kung Fu Fighting’ from the top spot. I had, and still have, a soft spot for Ken Boothe’s smooth ‘rock steady’ cover of David Gates’ ‘Everything I Own’. Or ‘Anyting I own’, as Boothe insisted on singing. Until Bob Marley hit the mainstream, this was my favourite reggae-ish song. In fact, it probably still is. 

Another beautiful slow number was Hot Chocolate’s ‘Emma’. The group famously enjoyed a top ten single in each year of the Seventies but it wasn’t until this tear-jerker that I sat up and took notice. Most of their hits were more up-tempo but the rhythm and lyrics of ‘Emma’ were absorbing. Watch this clip and I dare you not to be moved by Errol Brown’s performance, especially his eyebrows. Somebody, just give him a hug! While this was the year of classic ballads ‘Candle in the Wind’ and ‘Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me’, it was Errol, not Elton, for me. 

Back at the lower end of the spectrum of ‘cool’, two other acts caught my ear and eye. The Rubettes sprung from nowhere to pop royalty status in 1974 thanks to ‘Sugar Baby Love’ and that piercing falsetto intro by early lead vocalist Paul da Vinci. I actually preferred their December hit ‘Juke Box Jive’ by which time their much-parodied (mainly by The Goodies!) white berets and jackets were losing their novelty value! Also, what use was our brand new colour TV if the costumes were black and white?! 

The other ‘band’ had their origins not in a studio but in a series of children’s books and subsequent TV series. Yes, folks, I’m talking about those cuddly litter-pickers from Wimbledon and Eurovision entertainers, The Wombles. Their debut was simply the programme’s theme tune: “Underground, overground, wombling free….” and seemed destined to be a one-hit wonder. After all, what can you do with a bunch of imaginary furry creatures? The vocals sounded to me like Bernard Cribbins who’d narrated the TV animation, but of course in reality the music, production and singing were all the responsibility of Mike Batt, then still in his early twenties. How was I to know that Batt was a talented composer and musician who would turn The Wombles into one of 1974’s biggest-selling acts? The second single, ‘Remember You’re a Womble’, proved his pedigree. Indeed, it had all the hallmarks of Roy Wood and tongue-in-cheek 10cc, which is high praise indeed: a nod to rock’n’roll here, a burst of folky fiddle there and a catchy chorus. Of course, the lyrics were hardly awe-inspiring. You didn’t want to be heard walking to school singing: 

            “When it's foggy on the common and you just can't see
             And I womble into you and you womble into me”! 

Yet it was a genuine pop-rock song, and the magic formula also took ‘We Wish You a Wombling Merry Christmas’ to number two. Why it’s rarely played or featured on Christmas compilations is beyond me. It’s neglect on a criminal scale! In between they even introduced audiences simultaneously to Mozart and waltz via ‘Minuetto Allegretto’. Fun, educational and, thanks to their tidying exploits on Wimbledon Common, environmentally-friendly icons, too. The Wombles were way ahead of their time! 

For all the likeable chart entrants I’ve mentioned, at the time I felt there were few stand-out songs. My contemporary favourite was ‘I Get a Kick out of You’, which Australian folkie Gary Shearston took to number seven. I’d no idea it had been a Cole Porter composition from the Thirties; I just loved the acoustic rhythm and the violin bit in the middle!

Meanwhile, the charts were starting to fill with a new American sound. Motown had been everywhere for a decade but now we were hearing danceable records featuring lush production with strings (e.g. Barry White) and brass (including Hues Corporation’s ‘Rock the Boat’). I particularly recall being struck by the piercing ‘whoooos’ on the fast and furious ‘Queen of Clubs’ by KC and The Sunshine Band. Then there were the stuttering vocals on Bachman Turner Overdrive’s ‘You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet’, forever linked in my head with Harry Enfield’s Nineties DJ comedy creation ‘Nicey’: “Let’s ROCK!"

Yet perhaps the most enduring song from 1974 was another co-written and produced by Harry (KC) Casey, and recorded, purely because he happened to be in the studio at the time, by George McCrae. ‘Rock Your Baby’ lured you in with that sexy shuffle beat, followed by that keyboard melody and disco guitar, before George’s stunning falsetto took you to a different place altogether. It sounded like a love song but with such an infectious rhythm made you want to dance at the same time. It has been retrospectively labelled the first disco number one but at the time it was just a delicious record with the falsetto, open shirt and keyboards pre-dating the Saturday Night Fever Bee Gees by three years. Disco had arrived!

 

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.