Music - Saved by the Music

“If music be the food of love, play on…” Twelfth Night, William Shakespeare.

 

Lots of us have an ‘Our Song’ or a piece of music which is meaningful and special, above and beyond all others. I find it uplifting when something significant comes on the radio and transports me back in time. If that particular time was happy, it’s nice to re-live that fond memory. If it belongs to a dark time, it’s good to reflect on how we coped and what changed. Challenges and experiences make us who we are.

I love music. I grew up with Sing Something Simple on Sundays long before the contents of the pub juke-box became important to me. My mother listened to the wireless Light Programme or played records, so I was effectively drip-fed her favourites. Tommy Steele’s Little White Bull, Acker Bilk’s Stranger on the Shore, Anthony Newley, Billy Fury, Neil Sedaka, Dusty Springfield, Joe Loss and his Orchestra, Elvis, and of course Russ Conway, amongst others. This was before The Beatles. She was young and trendy, my mum. I still have her record collection and just looking at them brings back childhood memories. There are lots of Russ Conway, singles and a couple of LPs. I don’t know if they were called albums in the 1950s. I think I’ve mentioned before that Russ Conway was responsible for me longing to learn to play the piano. I wanted to lift the lid on the old upright in the concert room and make music come out of it, not the out of tune honky tonk sound that someone knocked out of it on a Saturday night. What a blessing a juke-box was in later years.

I had years of classical training but I do not have musical talent. Occasionally I play on our electric piano, a cast off from a very talented nephew with a music degree. Our son can play piano, keyboard, guitar and bass, all perfectly well by ear. He’s amazing at that. Our daughter has a beautiful singing voice.

The first album I bought was The Rolling Stones, Through the Past, Darkly. The second was The Moody Blues, A Question of Balance followed quickly by In Search of the Lost Chord as I discovered there was MBs stuff I needed to catch up with.

The pub juke-box and The Moody Blues was and is the soundtrack to my life, as it constantly grows. No juke-box now, but the radio is always on, or a CD, YouTube or MP3. Music will always surround me, in any form.

When I was fortunate to meet Moody Blues bassist, singer, song-writer, John Lodge, I took the opportunity to tell him how glad I was that he had included ‘Saved by the Music’ in his solo tour. It is a song that means so much.

Hymns have their place amongst my favourites. As a child I was more than happy to sing in church. As an adult, I enjoyed teaching my Sunday School class new songs or hymns. It was a small group but they were enthusiastic and we had lots of fun.

 

When I started to write this poem, it seemed to grow legs and run off taking with it all the thoughts that were buzzing round my head. As a result, it is more personal than I intended, but what it is, is me.

 

 

My Music

 Music, my music, my loud surround sound,

I smiled and sang as my nemesis frowned.

Her eyes swept my room, not an inch unexplored,

But for now, my feelings were carefully stored.

I’m with The Moodies In Search of the Lost Chord.

 

I made that room spotlessly clean and sparkly

While the Stones carried on, Through the Past, Darkly;

Then busied myself with the next task to hand

And wasted no effort to understand

Her jealous resentment or what might be planned.

 

I’d given up wond’ring what she even means

As I sewed fabric flowers on my old jeans.

And Stevie belted out For Once in my Life

And I join in fully, like he knows my strife.

We could have slashed the atmosphere with a knife.

 

All I was saying was Give Peace a Chance.

I’m off at the weekend to spend time in France,

Away from that border-line aggression

When she hits the drinks in rapid succession

Attempting to cover her sick obsession.

 

Music, my music, my means of survival

And sanity, with her hasty arrival.

Bad mem’ries and nightmares, too much have amassed,

But those times are now long since gone, in the past,

And I’m Saved by the Music, myself, at last.

 

PMW 2019

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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The Colour Purple - Red Hat?



“When I’m an old woman I shall wear purple…”

My friend and I said this in unison then giggled like girls. We were in the back of our friend’s car, picking up another friend to go out to dinner. The four of us had previously worked together for at least ten years until the fourth friend, older than the rest of us, had moved away. It was always lovely to meet up again. This time she stepped out wearing a purple coat and a flowery patterned mauve scarf.  My friend and I didn’t mean to be rude, we simply shared a thought out loud.

I’m becoming increasingly fond of the colour purple, so maybe I’m already there age wise. My favourite used to be a deep, berry red, not quite burgundy. I considered it to be rich and warm looking, where purple was flat and made my complexion very pale.

 The purple thing started with my hair, ages ago. I wanted a bold colour under my longish three shades of blonde. I wanted to be very trendy for a forthcoming Moody Blues tour, so my first choice was blue. It would only be seen properly when I wore my hair up, and the colour would just peep through when my hair was over my shoulders. My hairdresser put me off, explaining that the blue would quickly fade to an unflattering grey. Red, then, I’ll have a deep red, to match most of my wardrobe. I liked it until someone was concerned that the back of my neck must be bleeding. Someone else suggested chestnut brown was very classy under blonde, but everyone has brown and I wanted individuality, not classy. Somewhere down the line, purple turned out to be perfect. It was very me, the flash of purple in my long hair and my red shoes, always red shoes. I kept this fashion going for years, until the approach of my sixtieth birthday.

I wanted a new look to mark the occasion and there were other things happening that year including the birth of our first grandchild. I was beginning the next era of my life, being someone’s nanna. There are now three beautiful grandchildren to dote on, but this was then.

The main decision, or rather, mistake, was the short hairstyle. Goodbye to long, blonde locks and goodbye to purple. It seemed a good choice at the time, but the next day I was back in the hairdressers, unhappy that it wasn’t right, and then a few days later I was in another salon with my tale of woe and having some improvements done. Reminder to self, I cannot style my own hair so keep some length and keep it simple.  I’m a few years on now and wonder about having the purple hair again. Who said ‘With age cometh wisdom’?

I have some purple boots, which I love and some purple-ish jeggings which don’t match with them but I have my eye on some dark red pixie boots. I think I’m ready for a red hat now, as well.

 

Jenny Joseph's poem,

Warning

 

When I’m an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick flowers in other people’s gardens.

And learn to spit.

 

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickle for a week

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

 

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

 

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.

 

Jenny Joseph (1932 – 2018)

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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