Letter to My Twelve Year Old Self

Hey there you!

Yes, it is me you can hear, and no, you're not going completely mad and I am not a ghost talking to you.

It's actually you yourself talking to you, but from the future - 2026 - to be precise, and I'm desperately hoping that you will be able to trust and believe what I am about to say to you. Because, despite pretty much everything going wrong and causing you devastating heartbreak right now, you are going to be alright. In fact, you are going to be even better than alright, you are going to be... wait for it... thriving.

I know it's going to be almost impossible for you to trust me about this, but I so fervently wish that you can hold on to this thought. I'm trying to picture you at this exact moment. Where are you? What are you wearing, and what records have you listened to today? I'm guessing 'I Love Rock n Roll' by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, and 'Feels like Heaven' by Fiction Factory will be certainties. Is it a weekday and if it is are you in school or is it half-term? I'm imaging it's half-term and fortunately, our step-father Martyn is at work, and you are at home with mum and our beloved dog, Gelert. He's already saved your delicate soul, hasn't he? On many occasions. Remember when we got him? He was tiny, only around eight weeks old, and when we went to look at all the puppies to decide which one we were going to get, there he was, the disgracefully named "runt" of the litter, smaller and weaker than his brothers and sisters, just like you are smaller and weaker than your class mates. When we arrived they were all confident and boisterous, barking incessantly and scrapping with each other and not taking much notice of us. But then, this beautiful, gentle puppy started the trek towards us with a look of longing in his deep brown eyes. With each few steps that he came closer he was knocked over by one or two of his energetic brothers or sisters. Two or three times this happened. But, each time, he immediately got back up on his feet and was absolutely irresolute in his desire to get over to us. Finally, he was right in front of us and practically sank into our arms when he finally made it. The connection was magnetic and instantaneous. Somehow we both knew we desperately needed each other. Our souls connected. As mum said, we left the house that day thinking we were going to choose a puppy to bring home. None of us realised that he would actually choose us. He will bring you immense joy and much needed comfort and solace in the days and months to come, and I know you are going to love and treasure him with all your heart. One day he won't be physically around any longer, but both he and you will be okay, I promise you. He'll be with you always. Another fighter that resides in your heart, just like the resilient Edwards heart you were born with.

I wonder how you are coping with the CF diagnosis. It was terrifying when it happened, wasn't it? And the process was just as bad. Unpleasant medical procedures, being made to do things that hurt and you didn't want to have to do. You're probably still wondering why it's happening to you, pondering whether you're being punished. You're not, it's just a cruel hand that Life has dealt you. And then there's the tablets and revolting orange medicine you have to take daily, which makes your teeth feel like you have an old sponge in your mouth, and which completely ruins the taste of tea that you love so much. I have some very good news for you. In a couple of years that medicine will be changed to a tablet, and you will be able to forget about drinking any foul-tasted medicine for a good few years, until 2024 to be precise. The words themselves are scary, aren't they? Cystic Fibrosis. CF. They are cold, clinical, and sound dreadful although you can't understand what they actually mean. How could you?

And home life has become an impossible mix of love, happiness and safety on the one hand, but confusion and misery on the other, hasn't it? Until five years ago your home life was surrounded by femininity, grace and gentle joy. Mum, Nain and Taid, and your mum's sister and her three daughters, your cousins Carolyn, Claire and Angie. But now, a masculine force has invaded your life, on every angle. You are being forced to play rugby, a brutal game you utterly despise. And even your beloved football games have been less enjoyable recently. You now have to play on the school fields rather than on the indoor five-a-side pitch, and you are smaller than the other boys, who seem like vicious giants in their studded football boots, eager to rake your shins at every opportunity. But, I promise you, things are going to improve in ways you can't even imagine right now. That ache in your heart, that dreadful confusion running riot in your soul, making of you a stranger from who you were until a few short years ago when mum married Martyn, is going to be subdued and relegated to the back of the classroom. And although you aren't aware of it yet, your love life is going to finally, after a few wrong turns, take you to the promised land, where you will feed on honey-dew and drink the milk of paradise. For you are going to marry the most incredible woman, and each day you will feel like the narrator of a very famous poem that is one of your favourites, although at this moment you aren't even aware of its existence. There's going to be unbearable loss and grief, too, as there is for every human being, but joy and beauty will pull you through, and every day you will know in your heart that you would pass Nietzsche's 'Eternal Recurrence' test with flying colours, if that question was ever posed to you. For all of life's trials and tribulations, you will flourish, even to the extent that the psychologist who helps you as part of the CF team at the hospital, during a terrifying lockdown during a global pandemic, caused by a respiratory virus that you are clinically extremely vulnerable to, is going to tell you that your joie-de-vivre is your super power. I promise you, this is true. I even wrote it down when it happened to remind myself. And you still have Oscar Wilde, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Shakespeare, Suede and The Manics to come into your life, nine precious words you probably don't even know yet, but they are going to mean so very much to you. You have Espresso Martinis to discover as well. I'm so envious!

I'm going to have to leave you now, though, as your future is currently playing out through me, and I want to make sure it's the best it can be for us both. And, you never know, but the next time you are flicking through your Thomas The Tank Engine books, or The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, try to imagine what it would be like to know that in the future you are a professional writer, a published author. I can already imagine the tingle in your soul as you read this. Well, you never know, it might well be a genuine possibility, and I want you to know that I'm currently trying to put the wheels in motion to make this our reality, as with a little help from professional mentors, and with extra funds, time and space, I fervently believe our story deserves to be told to a far greater audience than we have currently. Remember to ask the butterflies to bring me luck in my endeavours!

Be strong and give my love to Mum, Nain and Taid, and remember... I love you.

An Appreciation of Rufus Wainwright

As I ponder the wondrous news that I have managed to secure tickets to see Rufus Wainwright perform his Judy Garland tribute for one last time at the Albert Hall later this month, I thought it would be nice if I jotted down for posterity just how much I love and appreciate his work (and, of course, THAT voice), and discuss his music along with some personal anecdotes - as is my way on this blog - and even possibly encourage some non-fans to go and explore his work. Sometime pleather-clad glam rock n roll star, sometime torch singer, opera writer, cabaret and burlesque inspired performance artist, and all round dandy, there are few genres that Rufus doesn't have a toe tipped in, and his work is a rich, technicoloured tapestry. I first discovered him through his Want 1 and Want II albums back in 2003, and each album was a revelation. His beautiful, emotive voice enraptured me from the first moment I heard it, and the swooning strings, the glorious arrangements and the theatricality and wittiness of the lyrics were like gold dust. This is the first thing I ever heard by Rufus and it was a life changing moment. Just listen to this voice...

- Rufus Wainwright, Agnus Dei

And then there was the first time I saw him perform in concert, which was at the Apollo in Manchester in 2004. From the very first second he started singing on 'Oh What a World', I knew I was in the presence of someone who had been blessed by the invisible hand of the divine. For this live experience was like bathing in sonic honey, purple-hued and jam-packed with feeling. His voice was as rich as velvet and yet, at random moments, would crack and rasp with deep emotion, just like Frank Sinatra's did. The closest analogy I can offer is that I actually felt like I was listening to a pre-Raphaelite painting. And if, as the novelist Thomas Mann observed, all art aspires to the condition of music, perhaps what I actually was experiencing was this idea in full, and, sitting just behind me, the ghostly spirit of Dante Gabriel Rossetti was, unknown to us all, drowning in the glory of his own pictures being turned into ecstatic melody, whilst no doubt making a million observations of my fine lady at the same time so she could be his next portrait study (what a masterpiece that would be). Anyway, it was a supremely magical moment. And Rufus also looked every inch the perfect pop star, for he is a consummate dandy, and you can pretty much rest assured that never will he take to the stage looking like a run of the mill indie singer/songwriter who has just finished doing an oil change on his car. No, Rufus oozes glam and showbiz, darlings, and thank the Lord above that he does!

Another occasion I recall was when I saw him live at Liverpool Philharmonic Hall in 2010, where, surprisingly, he invited fans up to join him on the stage during his encore. Because my CF was particularly bad that day, I couldn't make it onto the stage. But a young man in a deep velvet jacket who looked a lot like your very own Nocturnal Butterfly, did get onto the stage, and my eagle-eyed observation caught Rufus checking him out. Now, dear reader, although I may appear calm and composed in these words, if it had been possible for the world to see the depths of jealousy and fury that my burning heart experienced at that moment, I would imagine that many of you would have to go and have a lie down after witnessing it! Oh, to have been cruised by Rufus Wainwright! Ah, the tears and sighs I emitted in the car on the journey home, and all because of The Man Who Got Away!

But hardly had my love affair with Rufus become established when tragedy struck both him and me, almost at the same time. For both our beloved mothers passed away. Out of this heartbreak came one of his most astonishing albums, All Days are Nights: Songs For Lulu, and it sound-tracked my own grief in a way no other piece of music could. He performed this album in its entirety at the Apollo in Manchester in April 2010, and it will remain in my memory forever as one of the most profound musical experiences of my life. The album consists of Rufus singing whilst being accompanied only by his own piano playing, and this was what he recreated on stage that night. With placards placed throughout the auditorium requesting silence and no applause from the audience until Rufus had exited the stage after the first set, it was clear that this was going to be something very different to a usual concert experience. He entered the stage, dressed in a long black dress with a long train flowing behind, sat down at his piano, looked up at the sole spotlight, paused for a few seconds, before proceeding through fifty minutes of the most heart-wrenching, healing music in a manner that remains beyond my ability to accurately describe. Hearing the songs 'Sad With What I Have', 'Sonnet 20' (with words by Shakespeare), 'True Loves', and the closing, devastating 'Zebulon', are still some of the most sacred moments I have ever had in my life. And although there was talk of many disgruntled audience members leaving the concert and not returning after the interval, I can only say I pity them if this was indeed the case. Rufus was incredibly brave performing in such a naked, vulnerable way, and it helped me enormously with my own grief, and brought me so close to my mum that at times I felt like she was sitting in the auditorium next to me. I suppose many people merely expect to be entertained when they attend a concert. Fortunately, most people attend for the art.

A year or so later, Rufus announced that he was going to marry his partner, Bjorn (see picture above), and incredibly, his timeline was almost exactly the same as mine and my good lady, for we ourselves were just putting the finishing touches to our wedding and the celebrations, after deciding to finally take the plunge after being engaged for almost ten years! We were tying the knot that December 2012, and, once again, Rufus was on hand to soundtrack this most glorious happening in my entire life.

Because of this, one of my deepest, everlasting memories of Rufus is his Out of the Game album, which had been released about a month before me and my fine lady got married, and to ensure I was in as tip-top a condition as possible, my routine fourteen days intravenous antibiotic therapy in hospital was arranged by the consultant, in the weeks leading up to our marriage. Some of the best days of my life, strange though it may seem, were those days I spent in hospital in the week before Lydia and me got married. For listening to that wonderful album, so sweeping and romantic, both lyrically and sonically, in a time of intense anticipation of the magical realisation that I was actually marrying the great Love of My Life in a couple of weeks' time, was actually sublime. It was utterly delicious, and although I desperately wanted the big day to arrive, another part of me would have liked to hold on to that intense feeling forever. There were many, many songs that fitted my elated mood, but perhaps this one was the closest to the mark, containing these fabulous lyrics:

So baby welcome to the ball
Don’t worry all about nothing at all
I don’t know how you made it in
But since you have arrived
Let it begin

'Cause something in your eyes has made this room a much more brighter place
The chandeliers and fireplaces all seem jealous of your face
Something in your smile has left a light that has left a trace
Come and take my hand and let you lead me to the promise land

- Rufus Wainwright, Welcome to the Ball

And then, there is his love and knowledge of opera, which, in turn, nurtured my love of opera in turn. I hardly need to emphasise how important a trusted, knowledgeable, guiding hand is when it comes to the myriad, divine world of grand opera, with all its passion, lust, romance and tragedy. And, along with Freddie Mercury, who could be a better Virgil to hold my hand through the dark wood of opera, so savage and harsh and dense, and the thought of which renews my fear, to paraphrase Dante.

And, so, in great anticipation I look forward immensely to next week's concert. How magical it will be. Rufus, with his extraordinary voice, and with an astonishing full band, recreating Judy Garland's famous 1961 comeback concert, which Rufus himself described as being "the greatest night in showbiz." What a dazzling treat it will be, a feast for the ears, eyes, soul and senses. As good as it gets, actually.

Modern Life Is (Still) Rubbish

 Dear Reader, let's face it, if Blur thought this was the case back in 1993, when they released their Modern Life is Rubbish album, it's difficult to argue that things have improved. We've got greater wealth inequality since then, our public services have been all but decimated by a seemingly never ending austerity, we've had a global pandemic which claimed the lives of millions of people, social media has exploded into our lives, dividing people more than ever, and we are on the brink of a global depression because of the war in the Middle East, and, like a sparkling icing on the top, we face the ever closer threat of ecological disaster due to climate change.

Ace. Just bloody ace.

 

I very recently discovered the work of the artist Rebecca Lightbody, and I responded to her work in a very positive way, as she seems to sum up so much that is fiercely irritating about our culture, but with a dark sense of humour at the same time:

There is something about this particular image that really amused me. Designed in the style of the hundreds of business cards that used to be found in telephone boxes in London, by ladies (and gents) of the night in the 1980s and 90s (and perhaps still do, who knows), but with a fabulous twist: "Call For Pain - I'll send you straight to voicemail." I don't exactly know why but I actually laughed out loud when I read that. For me, it just seemed to sum up so much about our current society. It used to be so very easy, if you wanted something from officialdom, or had a query about a venue or an electronic device you were interested in buying, or wanted to make a doctor's appointment, to just pick up the phone and call somebody. But now, it is practically impossible to do this. You either press the numbers requested when the phone answers, only to reach the end of the options with the instruction to email your question. Or you will be put on interminable hold, with Vivaldi blasting your eardrums, which is then periodically interrupted by a voice saying that the company are experiencing an unprecedented high number of calls, and advising that there will be a long delay. Thirty minutes later you are still waiting and have to hang up as you have other calls to make as well. I don't know about you, dear reader, but I despise this part of our society. And it doesn't have to be like this! It's a choice by the collective people who run the show.

This T-shirt design by Rebecca also caught my attention...

Albert Camus and the existentialists, eat your heart out!

With all this in mind, each day I become increasingly grateful (and reliant) on the simply priceless website that is the Internet Archive. And my latest discovery has really fired my imagination. For, instead of perusing through our dreaded contemporary newspapers or magazines on a weekend, I can now pretend that I am sitting in the lounge of The Cadogan Hotel, in 1896, sipping Earl Grey tea whilst reading The Savoy magazine of literature, art and criticism (which was published by Leonard Smithers and who was a friend of Oscar Wilde), with piano concertos by Chopin and Liszt playing away softly in the background or on my headphones.

I am currently two-thirds of the way through the 1st issue of The Savoy (which was published in January, 1896), and I have enjoyed the articles immensely. Here are its literary contents:

I am eagerly anticipating reading Aubrey Beardsley's Under the Hill, which is the last story in the collection, but so far my favourite has been The Binding of the Hair by W.B. Yeats, which has a strange, ghostly ending that I was not expecting. The piece by Havelock Ellis on the novelist Emile Zola, Zola: The Man and his Work, was intriguing and informative, as was the piece entitled Dieppe by Arthur Symons. This article had extra interest for me as I spent some time in Dieppe circa 1990/91, and although I don't have any recollections of any of the places Symons discusses, it still brought me closer to the time I spent there, and I could feel the warm heat and hear the soft sound of the sea as I read his evocative descriptions. 

- Dieppe, Illustration in The Savoy (1896)

I have been enjoying perusing The Savoy as if I'd discovered treasure that had been buried deep at sea for over a hundred years, and, in a sense, that is an accurate description. Of course, this find doesn't make me richer from a financial perspective, but the richness of its contents from an intellectual and emotional standpoint, and the way it has fired my imagination and allowed (nay, encouraged) me to find a way to extend my reality to how I would have felt if I had been living in 1896, has been priceless. To imagine myself reading this rather risqué, brand new decadent publication in the lounge of a beautiful London hotel, whilst sipping Earl Grey tea, in 1896, is an added delight. We all have many possibilities in us, so why not explore those myriad selves if the opportunity present itself? And not only that, it has given me a space where I can ignore some of the things in modern life that I described above which drive me to a barely concealed fury. The other fabulous news is that all eight issues are available to read on the Internet Archive, and I fully intend to make the very most of this situation by leaving the same interval between each edition as I would have had to do when they were published back in 1896, rather than just devouring all eight as soon as possible. A rather dandified and dignified way to go about this particular experience, I would suggest.

Anyway, gentle reader, with that in mind, I am now going to make myself a fine pot of Earl Grey tea, settle down in a chair in the lounge, put a Liszt piano concerto on in the background, and read what's remaining for to me to read in Issue 1 of The Savoy, whilst pretending I'm sitting in the lounge of The Cadogan Hotel, wondering if at any moment Oscar Wilde, Arthur Symons, Claude Debussy, or even Pierre Louys will walk through its famous doors, and join me for tea. Maybe you should do the same?

And yes, in my opinion, modern life is still rubbish.

 

The Savoy Magazine at Internet Archive:
https://archive.org/details/sim_savoy_the-savoy_1896-01_1

I'm a Weirdo: My Experience of Max Richter's 'Sleep'

"Ah God! that it were possible

For one short hour to see

The souls we loved, that they might tell us

What and where they be."

- Alfred Lord Tennyson,

Last year, I discovered that Max Richter's Sleep had been performed, live, in concert, with the audience members offered beds to sleep on during the performance, which began at 10pm and finished at 8am the following morning. Immediately, this struck me as inspired, and I was rather saddened that I had missed it. When I told my wife about the concert, she came back with an inspired suggestion: we would recreate it at home and have the album playing (the album lasts 8 hours) from 10pm until 8am the following morning. That sounds great, I thought. Let's do it this weekend. The timing was increasingly perfect for us, as the weekend we decided to do it (December, last year), fell on a New Moon, which from a Daoist perspective is the best time to do something of this nature. 

With the date confirmed, we arranged our diary so we had nothing we had to do the next day, and made sure everything was done, including all my time-consuming late evening medical treatments, so that we were ready and prepared for bed, with lights out, to start the Max Richter album, Sleep. 

At 10pm exactly, I pressed play on Spotify.

Now, dear reader, just to bring you up to speed, I had read some wonderful reviews by people who have listened to Max Richter's Sleep, whether that be on album or the fortunate people who had experienced it live. Almost unanimously they waxed lyrical about how incredibly relaxing it had been, many saying they had experienced the best, most refreshing night's sleep they had had in decades. A few compared it to Brian Eno's ambient albums. Well, let me prepare you in advance: my experience was anything but relaxing and rejuvenating.

During the first ten minutes there was something profound about the feelings that the music created, and I recall my wife and I clutching hands during this time. Gradually, though, we both disengaged our fingers from each other and changed positions as partners do when falling asleep. And then suddenly, in the pitch darkness, memories began to invade my consciousness from many different episodes of my life. And these weren't just fleeting memories. These were intense, and it was like being back in those situations. I saw my life as a boy in the little terraced house in North Wales where I lived until I was seven. Crystal clear memories (more like a lived vision, in all honesty), of things I loved as a boy: my train set, my pet rabbit, train memorabilia that I had collected but which has long gone, my Flockton Flyer book, my uncle, and, of course, my Mum and my Nain and Taid. I recall sobbing and asking them for their forgiveness, asking them if they knew how much I loved them, hoping beyond hope that they did. Oceanic feelings of guilt swept in, leaving me shattered. I hope I returned your love, was about all I could say.

I then recall Lydia woke suddenly and needed a drink, which I helped her to do, and after doing this she very quickly fell asleep again. I knew this as I could hear her gentle purring and feel the change in her breathing next to me.

The next stage I experienced intense feelings and visions of death; my own, the people around me who I love, even the death of the animals and the universe. I could feel myself breaking at this point, and just when I thought I couldn't take much more, a complete change came about in my thoughts and memories. In what seemed like an instant, I was then recalling vividly some of the most ecstatic and euphoric happenings of my life. Some of mine and Lydia's favourite places, being on stage in Les Misérables, and most intriguingly, memories of mine and Lydia's date nights, with her wearing some of her clothes that I love her wearing. But, just then, something changed. It was as if a force, an energy, was trying to deceive me. Deep inside my psyche I knew this was not now Lydia making me feel these things, and this sudden knowledge helped me break this particular spell. I managed to force myself to wake and sit up in bed. But, as I lay back down, things changed again. We have deep green velvet curtains over our windows and it was pitch black in our room, except for the slightest chink of light coming from the speaker that was in the floor in the corner and which was mostly hidden by the ottoman. I desperately tried to get to sleep, changed position a few times, but found it impossible. Richter's haunting music enveloped the room and completely invaded my body, mind and soul. In an attempt to sleep - even though by doing this I knew I was letting the side down - I put my headphones on so I could listen to the TV series Auf Wiedersehen, Pet, a tactic which usually works very well for me when I am struggling to get to sleep. But it was no use. I could hear the bass and haunting singing above the headphones, and the eeriness was utterly  overwhelming. I now felt like there were most definitely spirits in the room with me. In the dark corner by the mirror, the small speaker light was barely shining but I was too petrified to look in that direction even though my attention was constantly trying to do so. I contemplated sitting up and having the courage to just look brazenly into that specific corner of darkness and see if anything happened. But I simply could not do it; I could only glance nervously and then quickly away. Once again I swapped positions multiple times. I did some photo art on my phone to try and distract my mind as it was all becoming too much. I was caught completely between desperately wanting to see somebody like my mum, Nain or Taid, yet at the same time being gripped by the fear that it might actually happen. I was completely torn between feeling terrified that they might be upset with me over the kind of things my mind had been thinking of earlier, yet wondering if this might be my one and only opportunity to connect with them again in this world. It was an intolerable impasse and I was now exhausted beyond words. I looked at my phone and saw that it was now 5.30am, and I knew that I simply couldn't take any more. I decided I had to turn the Max Richter album off as it was all becoming too distressing, and I knew that if I continued there would be no chance of me getting any sleep, and I was already utterly physically and emotionally shattered. So I turned off what remained to be played of Max Richter's Sleep album, and very hesitantly found the small light on our landing, and turned it on so I could go to the bathroom. I recall thinking how I could never have gone into our bathroom had everywhere been in pitch darkness, so thank goodness for the immediate convenience of that small night light. After this, I came back to bed and, eventually, managed a restless doze. At 9.40am our doorbell rang (which I answered) and then at 10am (the time Max Richter's Sleep was scheduled to finish) Lydia's alarm went off and she woke up. When I came back into our bedroom, I felt a very real need to open both our windows and let some fresh air in, and Lydia said later that I must have intuitively known what to do, as, through her knowledge of Daoism, that is what she would have suggested. She also asked me to bless the corner of the room that I had found so mysterious and haunting, just to make sure that if there were any supernatural happenings occurring there, especially if it involved loved ones, to let them know that everything was fine and that there were no bad feeling towards them, and which would also, at the same time, clear the space if unwelcome and uninvited spirits had been hanging around, which, due to my experience, was most likely to be the case.

And with that ended my "relaxing and rejuvenating" experience with Max Richter's album, Sleep. I have read many more reviews of this album, since then, and, as far as I can tell, no one who has written has had an experience even remotely similar to mine. All of their reviews tell of a similar tale: relaxing, rejuvenating, deeply soulful, a spiritual awakening, etc. Lydia, too, remembered very little of the night and she slept very well. But no, this wasn't what occurred with me. My experience had been the complete opposite. It was incredibly difficult at times, but I don't regret doing it. Perhaps I conversed with spirits in the otherworld, or maybe I connected in a very profound way with memories that are usually hidden so deep that I can't reach them (or they me). I guess I will never know for certain exactly what happened. But, either way, my experience, when compared with everyone else's, confirmed only too well what I am already painfully aware of:

I'm a weirdo.

- Henry Fuseli,
The Nightmare (1781)

Lord Byron

"For a man to become a poet he must be

in love, or miserable."

- Lord George Byron

Born on this day, in 1788

MTV: (1981-2025) The End of an Era

 

Although I haven't watched MTV in over twenty-five years, the news of its closing down has had me reflecting on what a sometimes brilliant, sometimes infuriating TV channel it was. I was about twenty when I first saw it, circa 1991/92, and it was a channel I watched a great deal initially, but then turned away from completely around 2006/07. Part of the reason for this was that my fiancée and I didn't have satellite TV in our very first flat, but even before then I had stopped watching the actual channel MTV because there was hardly any actual music on it. The last time I watched it (well, recorded it on VHS at my mum's house, actually, which was then watched over the next few days on our video player) was MTV's 120 Minutes programme, which was on around midnight and during which far more obscure, less mainstream-heavy music videos were played. It was through recording this programme that I discovered the likes of The Long Blondes (see a previous post), The Dresden Dolls, Ladyfuzz, New Young Pony Club, The Bravery, and quite a few other rare gems as well. But this was the last bit of my time with MTV.

It was very different from when I first started watching it, circa 1991/92. Initially, it was, almost inevitably, incredibly exciting. Whenever I had my mum's house to myself I would put it on. And even the videos to some of the songs that were incredibly mainstream were fascinating and well worth watching in those first couple of years. Some of my main memories are of the repetitive nature of a lot of the videos, and it seemed that the likes of Dire Straits, Billy Joel, Yes, Phil Collins, Genesis, and REM must have been included by rota during each passing hour. But even this was great. Dire Straits' Walk of Life' video was hilarious, as was 'I Can't Dance', and 'Jesus he Knows Me' by Genesis. And the video to Phil Collins' 'I Wish it would Rain Down' was actually a masterpiece, and I enjoyed watching that video very much. Here are the links for anyone interested...

Dire Straits, Walk of Life:

Genesis, I Can't Dance:


Genesis, Jesus He Knows Me:

Phil Collins, I Wish it Would Rain Down:

It was also on MTV that I first saw my very favourite promo video (still to this day), and the most heart-breaking one, too. My favourite, is 'I'm Going Slightly Mad' by Queen. In the video, Freddie (who was very ill at this point), wears a great black fright wig, and proceeds to ham it up spectacularly in a wonderfully theatrical, German-expressionism styled video. I doubt if it will ever be bettered...

Queen, I'm Going Slightly Mad:

And, then, there was the devastating 'These Are the Days of Our Lives', which was the last video Freddie ever appeared in, and which was heart-breaking to watch. Shot entirely in black and white, there is no fright wig or costume to disguise how ill Freddie was, just him and the band, performing this achingly beautiful song with class and dignity. The final "I still love you," from Freddie, complete in the original video (see below) that includes him signing out to the viewer, turned out to be his final goodbye, and the first time I saw it I was in floods of tears, as I have been on many consecutive viewings.


Queen, These Are the Days of our Lives:

But the main memory I have of MTV now, when I reflect back on those times, is actually the presenters. There were many of them but three remain in my mind. The first one was Paul King, a kind of laid back, indie "cool" guy who didn't go in for some of the insanely irritating "zany" shenanigans that used to drive me to a fury. The only reason I really remember him is because he introduced an MTV U2 weekend special in 1992, which I was so excited about and recorded quite a lot of. Unbelievably, his intro is on YouTube...

Another presenter that I recall was the exotic, Italian (I presumed), Kristiane Backer. She was rather easy on the eye (and ears compared with some of the brash American presenters!), and was so much better than all of the other female presenters, who were so obviously reading their lines from an autocue, and seemed to have little genuine interest in pop/rock music...

The third one I recall the most, however, Ray Cokes, I remember for all the wrong reasons. He was one of those infuriating, "zany" types, a kind of prototype Chris Evans, or Johnny Vaughan from the nauseating The Big Breakfast programme, and here he is for you to savour (and be haunted by from now on) in all his "glory":

But, all in all, it's a shame that MTV has finished as a channel. Although to most intents and purposes it ceased being an actual music channel many moons ago, it still signals a shift in culture and signifies the end of an era. It accompanied me through much of my early twenties and into my late twenties, and I am very grateful for its existence during those years, not to mention the gratitude I have that my mum was able to have SKY TV so I could watch it.

It was far from perfect, but served a very important pop music lifeline for many years.
I raise my glass: to MTV, and the end of an era.

And my absolute Favourite MTV moment, Nick Cave & Kylie Minogue, interviewed, sadly, by Ray Cokes, although both Nick and Kylie lead him on a merry dance, which is fabulous.

Enjoy, darlings!

Cover Version: Let's Spend the Night Together

The subject doing the rounds on social media today has centred on cover versions. Many have been posted, some of which I'd deem to be good, some dreadful, but, in the main, most have been fantastically dull. Anyway, for me, there can really only be one choice today on what would have been David Bowie's 79th birthday: his cover of Let's Spend the Night Together' by The Rolling Stones. I've never really been able to listen to the Stones for long periods of time as Jagger's voice brings me out in a rash but I deeply love many cover versions of their songs (Echo and the Bunnymen's 'Paint it Black', for example):

My favourite, by a country mile, however, is Bowie's version of 'Let's Spend the Night Together.' It simply pulses with passion, sex and vitality. One review on a Bowie webpage says, "In this song, Jagger sounds hesitant and wry, whereas Bowie is manic and confident, as though he's so sure of his conquest he's already got his eye on another one." Well, quite! 

Before we savour Bowie's pulsating version, let's remind ourselves of the pedestrian and plodding original by The Rolling Stones:

And here, in sharp contrast, is Bowie's scintillating, life-affirming, go and grab the night by the nipples (copyright Fleabag) version of 'Let's Spend the Night Together', which, for my money, makes the Stones version as drab as drab can be:

Don't you agree, darlings, that this wham bam, thank you, ma'am, glam thunderbolt knocks the Stones version into a cocked hat? And, as a humorous aside, I think I may have unintentionally 'sexted' my still-to-be future wife in our early courting days because of this song, for I clearly recall texting her the message, 'Let's Spend the Night Together, Now I need you more than ever!" one afternoon when I'd been discharged from a hospital admission. I guess Bowie would have smiled and considered it job done, in any case, as he inspires us both to embrace life and be anything but coy, darlings! 

So, which one do you prefer, kind reader? I'm sure you have your own favourite and greatly disliked cover versions. They certainly make the musical landscape a far richer tapestry than if they never existed, don't they?

"Let's Spend the Night Together,
Now I need you more than ever...

Let's spend the night together Now!"

Dedicated to the lady I texted, Lydia, who also took me to see Bowie in 2002 on a night I will never, ever forget, and who then became my wife, a little while later, in 2012.

"Our love comes from above... OH!
Let's Spend the night together, now!"
xxxx