2016 is almost over: Getting ready to exhale.

Almost everyone died this year. Many of the people who slipped away were talented musicians, actors and comedians.  Many were still young. However, in Blackpool there is one diminutive lady who just keeps on going.  My Mum had a nasty brush with a thrombosis three weeks ago. She is 96 and despite the specialists who shook their heads, she has once again defied medical opinion. They say her kidneys are remarkable. Her spirit and sense of fun is unshakeable. Her capacity for love is boundless. And she has renewed incentive - a telegram from Her  (or His) Majesty.  

I will miss the phenomenon that was David Bowie.  I will ‘Listen without prejudice’ to George Michael in my car.  I will laugh at re-runs of The Royale Family and Victoria Wood. I will remember Muhammed Ali, who floated like a butterfly and stung like a bee. But I will remember most the joy on my Mum’s face at Christingle and her delight in sharing our Christmas. I will treasure the comedy of seeing her small frame completely obscuring the television screen, as she wrestled to adjust her hearing aid, while trying to read the text. 

I will miss all the others but I get to keep Mum a little while longer.  For 2017 I hope that you will keep the ones that you love close to your heart.  Love keeps us strong.

This is a 'found poem' in tribute to the ultimate performer, singer, song writer who died on 10^th January 2016. I hope to see his next incarnation.

 

 

 

This is the beginning.

A Black Star turning supernova.

It’s a Space Oddity, oddly befitting of

The Man Who Sold The World,  

The Man Who fell To Earth,

sending shockwaves through our culture.

David Bowie brought Changes.

He worked hard, like A lad Insane,

getting down with

The Diamond Dogs,

making it Hunky Dory for the rest of us.

Ziggy Stardust and his Spiders from Mars

were our Pin Ups.

Bowie became the Buddah of Surburbia

and when Scary Monsters threatened,

he made us feel like Young Americans.

He told us that we could be Heroes.

He said, “Let’s Dance,”

so we put on our red shoes and danced the blues.

He was the Glass Spider,

in Black Tie, hidden deep in the White Noise,

in two Tin Machines.  

We followed him from Station to Station,

Dancing in The Street.

He Never Let Me Down,

though I was an Earthling.

Ashes to ashes,

Funk to funky.

Bowie is on A Reality Tour

And back on Stage … The Next Day.

 

Enjoy the rest of 2016.  Thanks for reading and for all your support. Adele 

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Generation Gap? More like techno-overload.

I have never really acknowledged a generation gap.  My parents were pretty open-minded.  They had to be.  There were four of us born between 1947 and 1958. My Mum and Dad were big jazz and swing fans. They met in Blackpool in 1945 at the end of the war, so they had a lot to dance about. My paternal Grandfather, Fred Robinson, played tenor saxophone in Jack Hilton's band and transposed the music for Dolly Hilton who sang with them. My maternal grandmother taught classical piano and dance.  She lived with us until I was eleven.

My bothers and sister felt the generation gap more acutely than me.  Lesley was a big Beatles fan and in 1962, the Fab Four came into my Dad's pub. They wanted some food and  Dad refused to serve them.  He said that the kitchen was closed.  Lesley was devastated. He told her that he had no intention of serving those, 'long-haired louts.'  That was one bad move, Dad.  Think what the signed photo's would have been worth.

My two brothers loved Cream, Hendrix, Who, Dylan, Free, Pink Floyd, Tangerine Dream. The flat above the pub was often more raucous than the bar downstairs. Every so often Dad would come up and switch off the record player and make remarks about head-bangers but really he took it all in his stride. God knows what my Grandmother thought.

My own music choices were more to Dad's taste.  I was the little one.  I loved to sing his kind of music. When I was three, we all went to see Can Can (a musical with Frank Sinatra, Shirley McLane, Louis Jordan and Maurice Chevalier).  Dad already had the LP and as soon as it started, I stood on my seat and sang every song, word perfect.  I started ballroom dancing in 1966 and have loved big band, swing and Latin American rhythms ever since.  For me, Carlos Santana is the greatest musician in the world. 

My son is 27 now and often plays tunes from a Sting album that I like.  A neighbour tells me that he also does a mean Sinatra at the local pub karaoke nights. My 24 year old daughter and I share a love of The Script and Brian Adams.  It is just fun music and we blast it out in the car just as much now, as we did on the way back from gymnastics when she was ten. We all share a respect for the myriad personas and musical styles of David Bowie.  So although I can't confess to a musical generation gap within my own family, there are other gaping issues.  I do worry for the rest of humanity.

Ch-ch-ch-changes.

In my childhood summer days,
there were picnics by the sea.
I thought they called them sandwiches
because they had sand inside.
It got in your mouth and was grit when you chewed.
We got goose-bumps splashing around,
then a rub with a rough old towel.
No fabric softener – just love by the bucketful.

Up on Winter mornings,
banging feet on the lino floor,
watching the kindling sparks in the grate,
socks on the guard but you couldn’t be late,
so you ladled in thick sticky porridge,
burning your mouth in your haste.
Nights were warm and cuddly,
hot-water bottles and bedtime stories
tucked under eiderdown.

Now it is faster.
Rewind, replay, regurgitate.
Plug in, switch on, don’t hesitate.
Instant access, instant messaging,
no time to ruminate.
Ting dinner, ten minutes from frozen,
clothes washed and dried in ten minutes.
HG Wells would think it impressive.
Fibre optics speed communication,
before you have time to think what you say
it’s broadcast to the global Nation.

Some change must be for the better.

Yet I hold onto the pen for sincerity,

to the thrill of receiving a letter.

Not an email that’s not interpersonal
or a text often clipped and severe.

Automatons at the checkout,

designed to speed up the queue,

don’t even try to brighten the day.

They don’t ask the elderly 

“ …and how are you?”

 

Please don’t even mention the satnav,

I don’t need a nag on my dash.

A map gets me wherever I need to go,

Techno-free reading taught me what I know.

I appreciate lifestyles are different

Home workers are virtually free,

to stay all day in pyjamas.

I should say at this point that I know a guy

who has virtually worked since 1993.

 

We’ve been to the moon and back,

photographed Mars. We've spoken to stars,

Still no-one has been in touch,

So why not stop pushing these buttons

and try saying ‘let’s do lunch'.

Let’s go to the Lakes and go boating.

Let’s crumble the credit crunch.

Let’s cancel the Facebook and twitter,

Switch off the mobile phone.

Hold hands with the people who love you,

Take pleasure in knowing we are not alone.

 

Technology has succeeded

where extreme ideology fails

We’ve a worldwide community network

yet everything rotten, that should be forgotten

invades every home. 

It infects. It exhales. 

An innocent non-believer is demonised by using new-media.

A mid-eastern woman is still stoned to death

for an act of adultery,

while we in the West, free to do what we like,

can watch it unfold on real time TV.

All too much or is it just me?

 

Thanks for reading.  Adele

 

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