The Changing Face of Music

Music has always been an important part of my life. It is central to many of my experiences and at the core of my memory bank. It is difficult for me to make a withdrawal from said bank without hearing a snippet from “The Soundtrack of my Life”.

Today is Sunday, and thirty-odd years ago the whole day would have been planned around making sure I was in the bath for the all-important “Top Ten”. My younger brother and sister would have their baths before me. House rules. My sister would go first and then my brother would follow. They would use the same bath water. I was allowed fresh water. If you could see the state my brother would get into at the weekend you would understand why.

 

My brother, fully aware of my plans, would stay in the bath as long as possible. At that age his sole mission was to do nothing more than to make my life a misery. Only a yelled threat of punishment from mum would drag him from the waters.

 

Eventually, and usually with seconds to spare, I would close the bathroom door on the world and settle down into a bath more bubbles than water. Water levels were parentally controlled and letting the taps run a little longer was not worth the penalty. I was in my late teens before we had the luxury of a shower.

 

Full of anticipation at the upcoming countdown, my cassette recorder was strategically placed beside the bath so that I could press record on all ten songs without having to stretch too far. With ease I would cut out the cheesy ramblings of Tony Blackburn et al and over the following seven days play the well-worn cassette non-stop.

How things have changed.
 

There’s no waiting anymore. No anticipation. The kids of today have instant access to an infinitesimal amount of music with the touch of a fingertip. And yes, it’s a good thing. My own kids introduce me to a variety of weird and wonderful songs that would never make the mainstream. Not for a lack of talent that’s for sure, as those they listen to are the real artists of today, but more for a lack of supposed commercial appeal. Image is as important, if not more so, as talent these days.

At least YouTube and other on-line platforms give these non-commercial artists a platform. Here’s one of my favourites:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vsvlsuLau5c

Last night I went to watch my son’s band play at a local pub. They were anxious about the gig as they were supporting a heavy metal band and felt their indie tunes would be met with a stony wall of hostility from the baying crowd of rockers. They launched into their eight-song set, only one of which was a cover, with gusto. With each song, those at the back of the dimly-lit venue moved forward, heads bobbing with appreciation. By the end there were people up dancing to songs they’d never heard before. 

For me, the joy was in seeing how much fun my son and his two bandmates were having on the stage. Even though they announced with disgust afterwards that it was the worst they’d ever played. 

The short poem I have written today was inspired by an article I read online yesterday. If you’re interested to read it, here is the link:

http://i100.independent.co.uk/article/the-hidden-meaning-behind-this-sad-poem-will-blow-you-away--b1Nmlv1PXg

 

Artist vs Celebrity

I just want to play

To make music

I don’t want

A life in the spotlight

I crave

Meaning in the words

I don’t need

To sell a million records

But I need

To write a song that moves you

I don’t have

An agenda

I have

Me

(Now read from bottom to top)

Thank you for reading,

Fiona

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Journey to Otherness

My journey to otherness began at a young age. I was seven when my parents decided the state-run village school I attended wasn’t good enough for me. It didn’t matter that I was happy there, or that I would miss my two best friends – Victoria, a graceful, pretty, blonde girl I thought could have been a princess, and little Alex, a funny, feisty tom-boy. I have fond memories of the three of us performing ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” to anyone who cared to pay attention in the playground at break times. 

With apathy masquerading as best intentions I was shipped off to a Catholic school in the nearby town. I doubt I put up too much of a fight. My father, a stern disciplinarian, would have had none of it. He thought the strict environment of a religious institution was just what was needed to help me grow into the best possible version of myself. It is ironic that, to this day, he remains a staunch atheist. 

It started as soon as I arrived. I’m not sure why one particular classmate took an instant dislike to me but she did. I was introduced to the class as “Fiona Catrina Maclaren” and by the time I was seated at her table, just seconds later, she had labelled me with a cruel nickname. Derived from the Scottish roots of my name, it haunted me for the four years I spent at that school. 

I was ostracised before I’d been given a chance and I quickly became used to my own company. To be honest it was a good lesson to learn, together with developing a heightened sense of danger. I became very good at spotting potential situations that would be better for me to avoid. I would have made a good candidate for ninja school. 

It wasn’t until a couple of years later when another new girl started that I made a friend. Angela didn’t need a nickname as she came with her own. Her surname was Burke. “A Burke” and I found comfort in our little bubble of exclusion. We bonded over a love of Adam Ant and swapped tales of authoritarian fathers. She even had me singing in the playground again, though this time around it was “Prince Charming” and “Kids in America”, with ABBA consigned to the bin. 

I don’t think about those days often, though I have to say they left their mark. Like a little tattoo somewhere so discreet that only a few would ever get a glimpse. 

Through the power of modern technology I am in touch with “A Burke”. I’ve since moved hundreds of miles away whilst she still lives within a stone’s throw of our old stomping ground. Until recently the last I’d heard of my tormentor was that she was at university studying law. I imagined a glorious career as a hard-nosed defence lawyer. The kind that gets the guilty off scot-free. 

A recent conversation changed that. An opportunity presented itself for me to nonchalantly enquire about the lawyer during a “Whatever happened to ...” discussion. 

“Oh, didn’t you know?” Came the response. “She died of breast cancer in her late twenties.”

It’s hard to know what to feel about news such as this. Fifteen-year old news about someone who shaped my life in the way she did. 

But I’ll work it out. I always do.

 

Black Sheep

Black sheep, don’t cry

Your rainbow will shine

In a gentle heart’s presence

 

Black sheep, don’t ask why

Walk your path with purpose

You weren’t meant to follow the flock

 

Black sheep, fly high

Break the chains of judgement

Soar above the clouds with your dream

 

Thank you for reading,

Fiona

 

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Scent - the closest thing to time travel

At times a scent can be the closest thing we have to time travel. It can instantly transport us to a point in our past when we are least expecting it. It can dust off a long forgotten memory and make us laugh aloud, seemingly for no reason, confusing those around us. It can awaken a pain as raw as though experienced yesterday, causing us to reach for the tissues to stem the tears. 

This is what opening a jar of Sauerkraut did to me recently. 

Nanny

Standing at the kitchen sink

Jar in hand

I’m mesmerised by hail stones

As they batter the window 

From somewhere in the house

I hear revelry

The kids are home

Their laughter makes me smile 

I twist the lid, it doesn't budge

So I give it some elbow grease

And the lid flies off with a noisy pop

My wrist aches from the strain, my elbow is fine 

As the smell of pickled cabbage fills the air

It picks me up and takes me on a journey 

I'm ten years old

And I'm running up the path

Because I want to be the first

You envelope in a bear hug 

As I launch myself through the door

I drink in the smell of potatoes roasting in the oven

And sauerkraut simmering on the stove

You turn and exclaim in delight 

I throw myself at you

"Just a minute" you say, holding me at bay

And you pat your damp forehead with the hem of your apron

Then you pull me into you and I sink into your arms 

I nestle into your Lily of the Valley scented neck

I close my eyes

I feel loved

I feel wanted 

Next stop on the journey

I'm fourteen

And the best treat of all

I get to spend the weekend with you 

Just the two of us

No brother

No sister

No mum and dad 

It's chilly and the night is drawing in

We put a few logs on the fire

The Sound of Music is on BBC1

Your favourite film 

You settle into your armchair

With me on the rug in front of the crackling fire

I have my eye on the sideboard

The special place you keep the treats 

"Go on," you say, "help yourself"

I rummage but can't decide

"Have two," you say, so I do

I feel lucky, I feel content 

And then I'm seventeen

We move away and leave you behind

My eyes fill with tears, nothing is the same

I feel confused, I feel lonely 

But the raucous laughter in the house

Brings me back to today

I hug the jar tightly

Because now you're gone 

Yet I still feel your arms around me

My security blanket

Your apron wiping my tears away

Sad tears

Happy tears

 

Thank you for reading,

Fiona

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Escapism

For as long as I can remember, I’ve only had to look up into the night sky to escape the daily grind. Trundling through the day-to-day, I sometimes forget that what is decreed as “living” by the puppeteers in power is not the true reality of our existence. When I lose myself in the spectacle of the heavens, I am grateful for the reminder that our planet is a mere speck of dust in the swirling spirals of a galaxy which, in itself, is insignificant in the depths of space.

The sheer scale of the universe is both grounding and wondrous. It reminds me not to concern myself with what car I drive or how many i-gadgets weigh my pockets down. Yet it screams at me to dream big, to believe in the impossible. Most weeks the impossible is as simple as making it to the weekend with my sanity intact. But every so often I journey out of my comfort zone.

Recently, I enjoyed “A Night of Astronomy” at the Lawrence House Astronomy & Space Science Centre based at Rossall School, headed by the enthusiastic and engaging Dr. Lister. I was a teenager the last time I indulged my inner-geek in this way.  At fifteen, I joined a local astronomy club and have fond memories of times such as being huddled on a dark hillside with my fellow anoraks as we gazed in awe at Halley’s Comet racing past the earth.

When I was that age I wanted to be an astronaut. So much so I wrote to Mary Cleave for tips. She was a real-life N.A.S.A astronaut who flew two Space Shuttle missions and I wanted to be her. I’m unsure how long we exchanged letters for, but it felt like Christmas each time a pale blue Airmail envelope landed on my doormat. What I remember most is the smell of the cellotape she used to seal her hand-written letters. The opaque American sticky strip had a strong, yet fragrant, plastic aroma that I thought was so much better than our clear, odourless version. Every so often I catch a waft of something similar and I’m transported back to being that excited child devouring every word in those letters.

Here’s a Haiku I wrote about the moon:

Beacon of the night

Inspiration beaming down

Captivating me

Thank you for reading,

Fiona

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