' 'I've lost just what it takes. To be honest,,,'
I'm off on a roadtrip in a couple of days. Down South. Well, I live in Newcastle. Roadtrips generally entail going South for me. Seeing a number of important friends and catching up. Culminating in a short stay in a Cornish village with an interesting guy I haven't seem in almost forty years. The guy who lived in the room opposite mine in the corridor. First year at university. September 1985 to June 1986.
My first year at university is an interesting one. I've long thought of it is as the great unwritten novel of the Eighties. What happened then and what happened next. I'm not brave enough or foolish enough to write it. I don't have time or energy. Or drive to do so. Maybe I'll leave it to James the fellow I'm going to visit. He's a great writer. Or Rod. Or Ben. The other guys who had the rooms next to ours. A long way back in the mists of time. A corridor like no other in my memory banks.
The four of us. Rod, Ben, James and I bonded in that incredible, unrepeatable way you only do when you're young. Rushing into life with your arms wide apart. Making mistakes wherever you go. Speaking too loud. Searching for love. That search never ends .Nor should it.
We went to lectures. Sized up girls in our different ways. Tried to impress them though really we weren't too impressive. Spoke too loud. Drank too much. Then at the end of most days we returned to Rod's room. He boiled his silver kettle and dispensed tea and coffee.
An indelible image in my memory banks. That kettle. Vapour rising from its spout. And we listened to records together and babbled. We tried to impress each other. But I wonder if really we were hoping to impress and convince ourselves first and foremost.And we listened to and talked about records. About life.
The Velvet Underground, Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson, The Smiths. Lloyd Cole. Crystal Gale. The Undertones. Talking Heads. The records call back to me. Across mists of time. Incredible thing memories. Magical! Like something from a film.
And then there was Prefab Sprout. Steve McQueen. It was good, different, and people recognised that it stood apart somehow. It came out that year and made an impression. It feels like a central record to that golden span of months.My first months at university. Going out into the world.
I'm listening to Steve McQueen now. It's a record that grows in my consciousness and imagination over the years. I confess I found it a bit wet at the time. What did I know. Someone asked me recently 'Spotify, what more do you need?' No you need the records. I insist.
Spotify has no soul. Records have compressed soul. Compressed lived experience. The memory of your former selves. The time you spent with others in the different chapters of your life. . The people you listened to music with. Sometimes kissed while listening to a particular song. Lay down with in sheets and blankets. And drifted into blissful sleep in one another's arms as the music played. This stuff matters. And we should venerate it.
Steve McQueen is a marvellous record which asks the questions that matter . The ones we can never answer, no matter how hard we try. The ones about Love. I've been listening to the record while I've been writing this. Sometimes there is no substitute for this experience. The best way to listen to a record is to give it your undivided attention. This specifically applies to the albims that are most central and fundamental to you. Allowing your imagination and memories to roam.
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