July 2021 - dedicated to Skipper and Holly with all my love...
  books monthly
    
Growing up in the 1960s... a nostalgic memoir

 




Growing up in the 1960s is continued in this...

In this issue, Episode 6 - jump to the latest episode here...

Episode 1

Time to start talking about music and me, I think. I was born into a musical family - that is to say, my Mum played the piano, my Dad played a variety of stringed instruments - we have a photograph of him in fancy dress as a gypsy, playing a violin, but from memory he was never that good on the violin, although he excelled on the mandolin-banjo; my sister Jean, who passed away last month, played the piano, and I played, firstly the recorder (of which more in a moment), then the violin (until the incident with the violin teacher), and finally the guitar, my basic prowess at which I managed to pass on to my two boys, who are both far superior to me; and finally, my violin playing rubbed off on daughter Samantha who went the whole hog and is a Master of Music.  So, when I say that I come from a musical family, I'm not talking about more than two generations, I'm talking about my immediate family. My uncles sometimes joined in with stringed instruments such as mandolins, but more often than not they were content to sit and listen as we murdered such classics as Suppé's Poet and Peasant, and tunes from motion pictures such as The Wedding of the Painted Doll. If you were to raise the lid of the piano stool, you would find a massive pile of sheet music, all for the pianoforte. We had one in the house, and my Dad occasionally attempted to tune it, often well enough for Jean to practice her Schubert and her Chopin. There was a time when she was the most gifted musician in the house, but I like to think that when I passed grade three Violin I was starting to overtake her, and by the time I had mastered the basics of guitar playing (jazz and skiffle), she was married and living in a caravan in Charlton Kings, near Cheltenham. Of course, playing an instrument doesn't make you an expert in  music. For that, you need to listen. My first instrument, the recorder, was something I was very good at, but it required me to produce a lot of spittle. So much that,  my Mum and Dad, being very good with practical jokes of the variety that didn't hurt you mentally, made a cardboard box from a cereal packet (easy, really, just cut the bottom off) and tied it with string to my recorder. I was so good at the recorder (performing regularly in ensemble at my Primary School), that I was sent down the road a few doors to where Mrs Livesey lived, the piano teacher who had made such a brilliant job of teaching Jean.  But, to my dismay, I was no good at piano. My left hand wanted to play the same notes, an octave lower, than my right hand, and vice versa. Later, much later, after many years of playing violin and then guitar, I taught myself to play The Old Rugged Cross on our old piano, achieving a very commendable left hand accompaniment. But my greatest love was the guitar.

My earliest memories of listening to music are of Listen With Mother. This would have been from 1950 onwards, when I was walking, and looking at picture books by Mabel Lucy Attwell, and learning to read, and when my ears started to tune themselves to the rather pleasant sounds that came out of the box on the small table in the alcove in the front room next to the bay window. The time was 1:45pm, the introductory music was a few notes on the piano, and then Daphne Oxenford or Julia Lang, who both had the sweetest voices on the radio, asked "Are you sitting comfortably?..... Then I'll begin." And they would start to read to me, stories that featured characters such as Larry the Lamb and Dennis the Dachsund and their adventures in Toytown. The programme finished a quarter of an hour later, with Gabriel Fauré's Dolly Suite. The music is beautiful, the stories were especially tailored for us "baby boomers", children born after 1945 celebrations. I was a baby boomer, sister Jean was a war baby, born in 1941. I miss Jean terribly - we spoke often on the phone; she always looked after me in the early days, and we always got on famously, except for that time when I bought the Beatles' first LP, and played it over and over again downstairs on the radiogram, causing her to make her one and only ccomplaint (that I remember) to my Mum, about playing my music too loud. It was different when she wanted to play her Frank SInatra LPs, of course. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Radio was everything in the 1950s. few people had televisions, at least in our street. Our new next door neighbours, the Hughes family, comprising Ida (mother), father  (forget his name), Adrian, Norman and Nigel (the ginger-haired twins) and their sister (forget her name too!), had a television, a nine inch screen which was positioned in the hall, into which we were invited to stand and watch the Coronation in 1953. I imagine they moved the TV into the hall from the lounge, which was always kept shut, except on special occasions (to which we were not privy). The parents were Methodists, very strict, and kept themselves and their home private. They kept up with the Gardners, who lived on the opposite corner, because in their opinion, we were lower in class, probably because we could not afford a television and neither could we afford a car. Both the Hughes family and the Gardner family bought brand new Ford Anglias on the same day... Norman and Nigel, who were rebellious, weren't Methodists, if anything they were unbelievers, never once went in their father's car. At least, that's how it seemed to me. Back to Radio.

In those days, there was The Light Programme, The Home Programme, and The Third Programme. With the relaunch of BBC Radio in the 1960s, these became, respectively, Radio 2, Radio 4, and Radio 3. The bulk of the music was to be found on The Light Programme and the Home Programme, unless you had a love of classical music, in which case you tuned to The Third Programme. I had no knowledge or even a liking for classical music in my formative years - that came much later. As a toddler, I listened to every music programme on the radio: Workers' Playtime, Parade of the Pops, Housewives' Choice, Music While You Work, Henry Hall's Music Night, Friday Night is Music Night, Children's Favourites, Two-Way Family Favourites (which often became Three-Way and even, on occasion, Four-Way Family Favourites). Every programme on the BBC had its own theme tune, of course, and on Children's Favourites I would be regaled with all manner of musical treats, like 'Peter and the Wolf', 'The Ugly Duckling', Gilly Gilly Ossenfeffer, Katzenellen Bogen By the Sea', ''The Runaway Train', 'Teddy Bears' Picnic' 'Nellie the Elephant', 'A windmill in Old Amsterdam', 'Sparky's Magic Piano' and my of course, the Oberkirchen Children's Choir singing 'The Happy Wanderer'. As the years progressed and my musical tastes blossomed, I was exposed to simple folk tunes such as Barbara Ellen, and Bobby Shaftoe at school, and various others to which we did country dancing (one of my favourite lessons at school!). I remember  one occasion when the Headmaster, a terrifying tyrant called Mr Gillow (whom I didn't like and with whose bullying son I had a run-in in about 1955) brought a gramophone into our lesson and played Smetana's The Bartered Bride Overture. I don't know why, but it made me think about listening to other music - it was exciting, electrifying, hugely enjoyable, and I knew that other music existed because, as I said earlier, we listened to every mucis programme going, including Mantovani, who murdered various light classical pieces.

By this time, I had discovered our own wind-up gramophone, which I believe had a built-in speaker, not one of those giant horns you see in the illustrations of the period, and a stack of 78rpm shellac records of performers like Al Bowlly, Harry Roy and his Band, Jack Hylton and his Orchestra, etc., etc. There was a built-in tray holding the needles you needed to replace on a regular basis. In the next road, my Great Uncle Ernie and Aunt Grace lived. He was OK, she was horrible. But he gave me a pile of 78s to play on my newly discovered toy, for which I was very grateful, finding amongst them,, for example, a performance by Django Reinhardt and the Quintette du Hot Club de France. I was delighted to discover later that day that my Dad also had some Django 78s, and these became the flavour of the month for me, so much so that when my French teacher said we all had to give a five minute presentation (in French) to the rest of the class, I chose to speak about the amazing Django Reinhardt. He was Belgian, not French, but the language was the same, wasn't it?

By this time, the world had moved on. To 45rpm single records, and 33-and-a-third rpm albums. On the way home from school in 1958, I went past Currys in the Oxbode in Gloucester. On the opposite side of the road was the massive side profile of the five-storey Bon Marché Department store. But Curry's had what I wanted - a radiogram that not only played all three speeds of record, it also had a radio built in. Our radio, the one that I used to listen to Listen With Mother on, was very old, and past its best. At least as far as I was concerned. Mum, Dad and Jean were happy with it. I was not. I was excited by the prospect of being able to put on an album and not have to get up to change the record, but to sit and listen for anything up to a half hour. In those days I could nag for England, and I nagged and nagged and nagged until Mum caved in and went to Currys and signed a hire purchase agreement for the radiogram. Once it was installed, I had other things on which to spend my pocket money and the money from my paper round besides books and comics. And music was starting to become much more important to teenagers like me. Up till now, we had to get our popular music fixes from Radio Luxembourg on frequency 208. I remember the first LP record I bought - it was a truncated performance of Beethoven's 5th Symphony on the Embassy Record Label, which was exclusive to Woolworths. I'd been with my Dad to a working men's club, which was a smoke-filled room in the middle of Gloucester, where a couple of hundred men stood and listened to a gramophone record recital of the symphony. It blew my mind! And once we had the radiograme, I simply had to have it. Years later I started to buy Classics for Pleasure LPs and discovered that the Embassy 10-inch record missed all of the repeats, and was actually very poor value for money. But at least my record collection was up and running.

Some record purchases were hit and miss in those days. Everyone in the family loved traditional jazz, and in the very late 1950s, we heard a performance of Blaze Away, a John Philip Sousa march, by a new band called "Mr Acker Bilk and his Paramount Jazz Band". There was, in those days, I think, a radio programme devoted to jazz. I was duly sent out on Saturday morning to hunt down a copy. In Gloucester, there was Hickey's Music Shop, of which more later, and the Bon Marché department store. Hickeys didn't have the record, and neither did Bon Marché. What the latter did have was a performance of "Whistling Rufus" by Chris Barber's Jazz Band, and with the money Mum, Dad and Jean had given me to buy Blaze Away, I bought Whistling Rufus. There was much disappointment. But in the end I was forgiven, because my Melody Maker newspaper revealed that Blaze Away was on an album and had not been released as a single. By this time, I was hooked on Acker Bilk, and it coincided with "trad jazz" becoming the hottest thing in British music making. Dozens of new bands surged onto the market, with Dick Charlesworth's City Gents, Terry Lightfoot's Band, The Dutch Swing College Band, Chris Barber's Jazz Band, Kenny Ball's Jazz Men, and Mr Acker Bilk and his Paramount Jazz Band, to name just a few. I don't know if it was the name of the band, or the amazingly different and beautiful clarinet of Acker's that hooked me, but for me his was absolutely the best trad jazz band ever, and I set out to follow him and to collect his records. It was about 1961, when Acker changed record labels from the Pye Blue Jazz label to EMI, and at that point, he appointed publicist Peter Leslie, a literary genius, to handle his promotion and to write his record sleeve notes. There is nothing quite like an Accker Bilk sleeve note, which I am in the process of preserving on a special page in Books Monthly. The trad jazz phenomenon was comparatively short-lived, although Acker did shoot to international fame and acclaim with the gorgeous and very memorable Stranger on the Shore, which ensured he was never forgotten, and must have provided him with adequate funds to keep him in comparative luxury until he passed away in 2014. What followed trad jazz in Britain was quite extraordinary, and changed music forever...


The thrill of finding out about new albums (and even the occasional single record or EP) by Mr Acker Bilk and His Paramount Jazz Band came about by me buying, every week, the Melody Maker and the New Musical Express. As I recall, there were sections on traditional jazz - and modern jazz, which I abhorred, always have, and always will - in both papers, which regularly listed the top bands, as voted for by the readers, and even twenty or so years after Django Reinhardt and the Quintette disbanded, they still figured in the top tens, because people with longer memories still voted for them. In 1958 or so, Ken Colyer's Jazz Men were still dominating the traditional jazz scene; Acker Bilk had played with them for a few months in the early 1950s before forming his own ensemble, and in their early days, they specialised in "jazzed-up" versions of Sousa marches, such as Blaze Away, Under the Double Eagle, etc., etc., which were released as 78rpm shellac records on the blue Pye Jazz label. Then in 1960, Bilk employed Peter Leslie, an up and coming pulp fiction writer, to be in charge of his publicity. He changed labels, to EMI; Leslie had the idea of dressing the band members in fancy waistcoats and bowler hats, about which I have written extensively on the Acker Bilk Sleeve Notes Page of this magazine, and which has been updated this month with a further selection of Acker's album notes written by Peter Leslie.

That same year Acker's single SUMMER SET reached number five in the UK charts, and the floodgates of traditional jazz in Britain were opened. The Wikipedia page says that bands such as Acker Bilk's, Kenny Ball's and Chris Barber's tried to revive traditional jazz in Britain. I know enough about traditional jazz to know that this wasn't a revival - traditional jazz had always been popular with purists, but there was only one Golden Age of traditional jazz in Britain, and that was in the early 1960s. Those bands weren't "reviving" anything, they were playing the music that they had always loved, emulating their 1920s heroes (Jelly Roll Morton, King Oliver, Louis Armstrong's Hot Five etc.), and the British public liked what they heard and trad jazz became the dominant music genre for at least a couple of years, fading away in 1962 as the Beatles wrought the biggest revolution in popular music not just in Britain but all over the world. The 1920s in Britain had seen the boom in "swing" orchestras, like Harry Roy, Jack Hylton etc., and this genre also boomed in Britain in the early 1960s with The Temperance Seven. But the dominant two bands were Acker Bilk's and Kenny Ball's, who had a string of top 40 hits. For me, there was only ever Acker Bilk - or Mr Acker Bilk, as Peter Leslile defined him - and his Paramount Jazz Band. They were far and away the very finest musicians on the trad jazz circuit, and if you listen to Jelly Roll Morton's classic single "Doctor Jazz" and compare it with Acker's "Stomp Off, Let's Go", you can hear what Acker was trying to achieve, and how brilliantly he succeeded.

There is footage on YouTube of Acker and his band playing "In a Persian Market Place", a light classical "bonbon" by Ketelbey, arranged by Acker, showcasing the brilliance of the Paramount Jazz Band in all its glory. I urge you to watch it, it is terrific, and shows an ensemble at the top of its game. The other reason for my choosing Acker above all others in the trad jazz field is the plethora of literature produced by Peter Leslie's BILK MARKETING BOARD, which was the name of the publicity machine that ensured that Acker dominated the trad jazz phenomenon that swept Britain from 1960-1962. When Acker wrote a tune which he called "Jenny" after his daughter, (subsequently renamed Stranger on the Shore to accompany a hugely successful children's TV serial) I was delighted, because it meant that my hero (who hailed from the West Country, just as I did) would still be dominating the charts even though music was changing in Britain. The announcement of the album, with Acker backed by the Leon Young String Chorale, was made in the NME and Melody Maker, with the caveat that it would be issued in the United States about five months before it would be released in Britain. I was by that time a subscriber to a record company - like the Companion Book Club, which sent you a monthly selection which you could keep or return - and they also announced the US release of the Stranger On the Shore Album. I ordered it through them, which meant that I had the precious LP in my hands five months before it was released over here; and I treasured it just like all of the other Acker Bilk albums.

The sleeve notes were again written by the marketing and literary genius, Peter Leslie, and you'll find this on the Acker Bilk page in Books Monthly, too. Trad Jazz, and particularly Acker Bilk's renderings of it, have remained favourites of mine right up to the present day. Most of those brilliant Acker Bilk albums have been released as CDs, but the CD producers have not recognised how important the sleeve notes were and are, which is why I have taken it upon myself to reproduce them in Books Monthly. It is literature, after all. The late 1950s and early 1960s are imprinted on my memory as my Golden Age of music - or discoveries, of passions, of formative years. In 1958 my dear Gran died. I only ever had one grandparent, the other three all died before I was born. She was precious to me - I have only the fondest memories of her. In 1958 I was eleven years old (when she died - I reached twelve later in the year). Mum and Dad decided I might be too young to attend her funeral, and so I was packed off to spend the day with sister Jean in her place of work in Cheltenham, in a Grace Bros., style store called Wolfe and Hollander, where she worked as a secretary. I was given a ten shilling note (a fortune in those days) and told to go and spend it, to buy something I really wanted, so that the day would be remembered as a good one, and not as a dark one, the day they buried Gran. I went first into a branch of W H Smith and bought  THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES, and then into a record shop, where I bought THE BALLAD OF TOM DOOLEY by the KINGSTON TRIO. I was heavily into my music by then, books and music were my principal hobbies. When the weather was too bad for outdoor play, like football, I was happy to sit in the front room playing my records and reading my books.

Like my three children after me, I always maintained that I could do my homework with my music playing in the background. It worked for me, and it worked for them! At school, the arguments raged about who was best - Elvis Presley or Cliff Richard. One of my rivals for being best at Spanish, a boy we called "Pedro" Smith (Smith was his real name, Pedro was his nickname, first name was really Peter), insisted on championing Elvis, but for the purposes of just being different, I championed Cliff Richard - even though he didn't interest me at all. If anything, he was a bit wet for me, but I was happy to debate the various records of the two men who dominated pop music in 1958 and on into the beginning of the 1960s. In 1962, recovering from my abuse at the hands of the peripatetic violin teacher, with whom I reached and passed Grade 3, I was looking for a musical challenge, for the violin had lost its appeal. I found an old guitar in a cupboard upstairs at home, and tuned it so that it played a chord. I spent hours teaching myself to play, sitting in front of the big mirror in Mum and Dad's room, and then realised that I should really be tuning it properly. This I did, and set about teaching myself all over again, sometimes with the aid of the Bert Weedon book, sometimes without. This coincided with my discovery of the breathtaking genius of Django Reinhardt - I even gave a speech in my class about Django, all in French, it was something we all had to do, and I chose to talk about a Belgian! But as well as the 78rpm records Dad had dug out of his collection, there were leaflets, concert programmes, sheet music, many of which had pictures of Django, some of which showed him playing that amazing Macaferri guitar. I had to have a guitar of my own, and it had to look something like Django's. So off I went to Hickey's the big music shop in Northgate, in Gloucester city centre, and looked for a guitar with a cutaway, at a price I could afford. I found one which probably looked more like Roy Rogers's guitar, but never mind. It was a Rosetti guitar, white with a thin dark line all the way round the edge. The one pictured doesn't have the edge stripe, but it's identical in every other respect. My eldest son Martin still has it. My guitar cost £3, and I paid a deposit of ten shillings, the remainder to be paid in weekly instalments, which took most of my paper round money. At last I had a decent guitar of my own, and, what was more important, I could play it!

Episode 2

About this time also, the Light Programme on BBC radio started a programme called Saturday Skiffle Club - an hour-long programme celebrating the boom in skiffle, headed by Lonnie Donnegan, who had previously played with the Chris Barber Jazz Band. In 1960, the programme dropped the word "skiffle" and was extended to two hours, and became a secondary source of finding out about new and forthcoming records in the trad jazz boom. Make no mistake, trad jazz was everywhere for the best part of two years. Every weekly magazine for girls had portrait pictures of those all-important trad jazz purveyors. There was no doubt, the three "Bs", Barber, Ball and Bilk (Chris, Kenny and Acker respectively) were outstanding. There were others who tried to copy Acker Bilk, bands like Dick Charlesworth's City Gents, who also dressed snazzily, but they lacked something that Acker's band had, and that was Peter Leslie and the Bilk Marketing Board, not to mention the outstanding talent of Acker and his fellow band musicians.

When Uncle George came to stay with us in the summer holidays, he calmly announced that Johnny Mortimer, Acker's trombonist, was a nephew of his, which means that I was related to one of the Paramount Jazz Band, if only by marriage! I was thrilled beyond belief at this news!  And with Stranger On the Shore becoming the best-selling record of 1962, he and the Paramount Jazz Band left all the other trad jazz bands behind. Coincidentally, the Beatles were beginning to become known - LOVE ME DO and the issue of their first album, PLEASE PLEASE ME in early 1963 were indicators of something quite extraordinary, and the banter at school no longer included Cliff Richard, it was all about Elvis vs The Beatles, and no prizes for guessing who won! On the Acker Bilk page in this issue of Books Monthly you'll see a poster showing Acker Bilk and the Beatles. This would have been in 1962, when the Beatles played in Gloucester Odeon, a support act for Acker.

I MEET THE BEATLES!

In 1962, this would have been, and I frequently walked through the city after getting off the bus that took us from school on the way home. It was a two-bus journey, the first bus dropping us off in Westgate, and then a walk through to the bus station in King's Square; and I would spend a lot of time in Hickey's music shop, buying the occasional single, of which there was a box in the left hand side of the shop. I went into the shop looking for a copy of Ray Charles (and the Ray-lets) singing WHAT'D I SAY, and found a cover version by Bobby Darin. I was aware of three older youths, all wearing long black overcoats, messing about in the right hand side of the shop, taking guitars down off the wall and playing them, much to the dismay and anger of Mr Hickey, who was an old-fashioned nd rather intolerant shopkeeper. These youths could only mean one thing to him -trouble! I saw them coming towards me out of the corner of my eye, and one of them said "what record are you getting, then", in a deep, gruff Liverpool accent. I didn't want any trouble, so I handed him the single, and he grinned, and said: "Good choice, Kid", and handed it back. I paid for my record and left the shop, realising as I walked to King's Square in order to board the bus home, that it had been John, Paul and George in the music shop, the guys who had asked me what record I was buying! Ringo would have been out in the city with his camera, he was always taking photographs. I couldn't wait to tell the boys in my class the following day - I had been in Hickeys' music shop when the Beatles were there! Wow! Wow! Wow!

Trad Jazz took a back seat when I bought my PLEASE PLEASE ME album. I played it over and over again, as loud as I dared, and Jean still complained, asking my Mum to make me "turn it down". For me, the world of music changed overnight with the Beatles as it did for so many other millions of people. From pooh-poohing rock and roll, preferring trad jazz (and a small number of select classical pieces), I was desperate for Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, Elvis, but first and foremost, the Beatles... and then we moved from Gloucester in the summer of 1963, and within a couple of years, my musical horizons had widened...

Episode 3

For a few months we stayed with Aunt Florrie and Uncle Stan in their little flat above their hardware shop in Prittlewell, on the outskirts of Southend-on-Sea. Mum and Dad had already arranged for me to pick up my schooling at Southend School for Boys - but it would have meant me starting my "A" Levels all over again, having lost a year at the Crypt Grammar School in Gloucester, and I didn't think I could face another two years of "A" levels, even though I would by then have been the right age for them rather than a year too young. I spent the best part of five months traipsing around Southend on Sea, and inevitably found myself in the public library. I had discovered the delights of a large public library in my last few months in Gloucester, and the sheer number of books had inspired my reading. In Southend Public Library, which I was allowed to join with my Mum standing as guarantor, I discovered drama - written drama, that is. I had studied Shakespeare at the Crypt, reading Twelfth Night for "O" Level English Literature, and starting Macbeth for "A" Level, along with Paradise Lost, which I loved, and Under Milk Wood (which I didn't like at all). In Southend, I was in the literature section and chanced upon a group of books which were the collected plays of Noel Coward. Intrigued, I borrowed volume one and discovered the delights of an almost contemporary literary genius, because he was still alive in 1963, of course. It made a change to read plays written by someone still alive, and although they were plays that had had their heyday in the 1920s and 1930s, they captivated me - I lapped them up, so to speak, and when I had read the complete plays of Noel Coward, I cast around for other twentieth century playwrights, and found Terence Rattigan, but more importantly, I found J B Priestley.

I'd already discovered Priestley in the fantasy section of our little W H Smith bookshop in Eastgate, Gloucester, finding a charming and fascinating adventure book by him entitled The Thirty-First of June. Now I found An Inspector Calls, and I Have Been Here Before. For a time, all I wanted to read was plays. I missed my collections of paperbacks, the Saints, Whiteoaks, Tarzan of the Apes etc., which I had sold prior to our move from Gloucester. I don't know who persuaded me to part with my collections, but it's not a choice I would willingly have made; there again, I can't imagine a small suitcase full of precious paperbacks causing a problem with the amount of stuff we had going into storage. I still had my record collection - or rather, my record collection was in storage along with the rest of our furniture and belongings (including my guitar!), but my books were gone. It took me several years to rebuild those collections! In the meantime, the Beatles were really starting to emerge as the primary force in British pop music, and it was while we were staying in Southend that I decided I wanted to see them live. We set off one evening to purchase my ticket, and were horrified to discover that the entire population of Southend were camped all around the town with the same purpose. There were thousands of people waiting for the ticket office to open and I knew, intuitively, that the Beatles were going to become the biggest musical act in the world, and that coincidentally I stood absolutely no chance of getting a ticket to see them for a one-night-only performance in Southend. The following day I treated myself to a Beatle jacket, one of those with no lapels, and I moved on. I continued to buy New Musical Extress and Melody Maker, and one week I filled in the answers to the regular crossword - I forget which of the two magazines it was (or newspaper, as they were then). In December of 1963 I received notification that I had won the crossword competition and my prize, an album of hits by Lesley Gore (all the songs were about Crying, as I recall; such as Cry Me a River) was on its way to me in the post to my temporary address in Prittlewell. I persuaded Uncle Stan to get me a Dansette record player next time we went to the Cash and Carry - I paid for it, of course, with the money I'd been saving which he'd been paying me for serving in his shop. At last I was able to listen once more to my music - albeit just the one album - and not just to the music on the radio.

I don't believe Aunt Florrie and Uncle Stan had a television, but we did play Scrabble together in the evenings, and listened to our favourite radio programmes before the adults (Mum, Dad, Aunt Florrie and Uncle Stan) at last called it a day and went to their bedrooms, leaving me to make up my campbed in the front room. I remember sitting in a sea front café that November, and finding a kind of new-fangled juke box that played special versions of top hits which also carried video, one of which was an Acker Bilk single, On the Sunny Side of the Street. I put my money in the machine and watched Acker and his band on a small screen whilst simultaneously discovering the delights of Coca-Cola for the first time in my life.

Episode 4

And then, finally, we moved to Stevenage New Town in Hertfordshire, at the back end of November 1963, and everything changed. My long playing records (Acker Bilk, the Beatles, Django Reinhardt, Beethoven's Fifth Symphony etc.) were unpacked, I had two record players, the one Uncle Stan had got for me from the cash and carry, and our radiogram. I had a handful of books, and set about rebuilding my collections from the W H Smith in the town. I think it was in 1963 that EMI launched a new, cheap LP label called Classics for Pleasure, and I started to collect some of those. One evening, on my way upstairs to bed (we were living in a three-bedroomed two-storeyed flat above the hardware shop we'd rented in one of the newer neighbourhoods in the new town) I glanced out of the landing window and saw an illuminated neon sign saying "Library". Intrigued, the first thing I did the following morning was to explore the area behind the parade of shops in order to find this branch library, but there was no sign of it, and I began to wonder if I had been half asleep and dreaming. It didn't occur to me that it could have been a travelling library, and I forgot all about it until 1964 dawned and Mum calmly told me that there simply wasn't enough money coming into the shop for them to pay me, and suggested that I look for a proper full-time job. My first impulse involved the local library. I'd seen it at the end of one of the shopping parades in the town centre, and I duly wrote to "the librarian" to ask for a job. Amazingly, within a week, I was invited to attend an interview, and within a  few more weeks, I was offered a job as a library assistant. What was more, they wanted me to complete my "A" levels and then go off to library school and to become a qualified librarian. Why this career choice had never occurred to me before was a source of some amazement to me - I had always loved books, preferred reading to any other passtime, it was what we now call a no-brainer. It had been books like John Creasey's Inspector West series that had made me want to pursue a career in the police force, but in the end it was the books themselves that decided my career. Or so I thought...

At the end of the Easter weekend in 1964 I started working in Stevenage Central Library. There must have been a staff of around thirty people, many senior, qualified staff, and an equal number of library assistants like me, whose jobs included putting books that had been returned the previous day back on the shelves, and using an antiquated card system to issue loans to customers. Being lowly junior staff, we were not allowed to direct customers to the relevant part of the library when they asked for books on specific subjects, but had to ask a qualified librarian to do it, even though, within a few weeks, I knew where every subject was, and had the Dewey Decimal Classification System off by heart, as most of us library assistants did. It was a hierarchy thing. Them and Us. Most of the qualified staff were friendly enough. Two weren't, and never spoke to us unless it was to give us an order. Brian and Patrick. Mr Arnold and Mr Kelly. They never let their hair down, they never socialised with us, even at Christmas time. They kept strictly to the hierarchy. Even the chief librarian, who had interviewed me, John Nightingale, was friendlier than those two. I knew just about everyone I worked with by sight, but there were certain members of staff who worked upstairs on specialised jobs, and we rarely bumped into each other, at least not until after the Rolling Stones came to town.

I was familiar with the Stones courtesy of my best friend James, from our days at the Crypt. I'd stayed for a weekend with him in Harrow on the Hill, north London, and after an evening meal, we went out in search of musical adventure. James had settled into the London night scene very quickly and very well. We ended up in a vast town house with several upstairs rooms being used by various groups of people mainly making music. They were probably doing all manner of other things including sex and drugs, but we were there for the music. We watched people like Alexis Korner forming his seminal group, Alexis Korner's Blues Incorporated, involving people like Clapton, Paige etc. We saw Zoot Money and his Big Roll Band before they were "big", (just a Roll Band!), and before they were even a band. And we saw Mick and Keith, too. And later that year, I went to the nearest record store and bought the Rolling Stones first album. I still preferred the Beatles, but I had to admit that the Stones were good - brilliant, in fact. And when it was announced that they were going to play a concert at the Locarno Ballroom in Stevenage that September, it seemed like the perfect birthday present to myself, and I bought myself a ticket. There was only one type of music for me in the second half of 1964 - British rock and roll - the Beatles, the Stones, Gerry and the Pacemakers... my jazz records, Acker and Django, remained in the LP carrying case, which every self-respecting record collector had in those days. I played my Beatles and Stones LPs ceaselessly. I bought Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis and Chuck Berry EPs, and wallowed in classic American rock and roll, then put my Beatles LP back on and decided they were better - no, they were the best! There was a very slim record store round in the bus station in Stevenage, and one day, waiting for the bus home, I spotted an LP in the window which I simply had to have. It was called "Noel and Gertie", and it was of recordings by Noel Coward and Gertrude Lawrence, and had such brilliant songs on it as "Don't Put Your Daughter on the Stage, Mrs Worthington", "Mad Dogs and Englishmen", and "Parisian Pierrot", amongst others. I treasured it. It brought to life all those plays and reviews I'd read whilst in Southend on Sea... and it was a kind of break from the Beatles, who dominated my musical life back then. But rock was king for me in 1964. The Rolling Stones simply blew my mind - just as in Honky Tonk Women (which came later, of course) - there was a kind of dais in the Locarno, where the dance orchestra would sit, and the audience - hundreds of us - stood in rapt awe as the Stones strutted their stuff.

The following day my memories of that concert were brought to an abrupt halt when three of the young library assistants who worked upstairs in the library came looking for me. Two were girls I had "chatted up", even though both were engaged to be married, when we worked together in the early mornings, shelving books. The third was a thin slip of a girl who looked as though she should still be at school. I later discovered that she should still have been at school but her headmistress at Stevenage Girls' Grammar School had granted her permission to start work in the library. She had been a brilliant scholar, top of her form each and every year in just about every subject; but schoolwork was something she eventually couldn't cope with, and working in the library suited her far better. She hovered in the background whilst the other two did the talking. "Wendy was followed home by a man after she got off the bus last night. As you live near her, we wondered if you might walk her home, make sure nothing happens to her?" they said. Having been brought up to be a good citizen with the kind of manners that meant I held the door open for people, and gave up my seat on the bus for ladies, etc., etc., of course I agreed. In those days Stevenage Central Library closed at 8pm Mondays to Thursdays, 5pm Fridays, 1pm Saturdays. I was on lates that day, as was the little schoolgirl, Wendy. We went round to the bus station, not saying much; we sat together on the bus, and we walked up Hydean Way and into Chertsey Rise, and I saw her safely to her front door in one of the cul-de-sacs.

On impulse, before she closed the door, I suggested that she might like to go for a walk with me on Sunday afternoon, and she readily agreed. You see, reader, in that brief instant before she disappeared into the safe interior of her house, we had fallen in love. Wendy was eighteen months younger than I was, but she was beautiful, and, more importantly, she seemed to like me! In March 1964, just before I met her, she was sixteen years old, and after that day when I had walked her home, we were seeing each other every day (at work) and every night. Eventually the chief Librarian wanted us separated, because we got on his nerves; and he got me a job in the SPCK bookshop round in the bus station; my library career nosedived overnight, but Wendy and I still saw each other every night - I walked the quarter mile or so up to her house in Chertsey Rise, and we sat and watched telly, or else we listened to music. Lots of it. Because Wendy's Dad had an enormous collection of LPs, and the most expensive hi-fi equipment I had ever seen. If books were my passion, music was his. I took my new Beatles LP with me, Rubber Soul, I think it was, and he played it for us - we weren't allowed to touch the turntable, but he was happy to put it on for us to listen to. As the days went by, Wendy and I became closer and closer, and so much in love, they were days of joy for me. We are this year celebrating our fifty-fifth wedding anniversary, and they are still days of joy. But in 1964, Wendy's Dad introduced me to the Reader's Digest Festival of Light Classical Music - a three LP set of the most brilliant music I had ever heard. In fact, some of it was quite heavy classical music, such as Siegfried's Rhine Journey by Richard Wagner, and a scintillating violin piece by Pablo Sarasate, and I loved it. I bought my own copy, or rather "our" own copy, and listened to it every night after walking home from Wendy's house.

It was the kind of music I had used to listen to on the radio, but about which I had simply forgotten. Wendy's Dad introduced me to Beethoven's other symphonies, to Brahms, to Dvorak, to Smetana, to the three great ballets by Tschaikowsky, Swan Lake, Sleeping Beauty and The Nutcracker. On social outings to London cinemas, I was introduced to the music of Richard Strauss (Also Sprach Zarathustra), Johan Strauss the Younger (Blue Danube), to Ligeti (Atmospheres) etc., courtesy of 2001: A Space Odyssey. And then, in 1973, when we had been married for seven years, and with Martin, our eldest son, now at primary school, something happened that changed my life forever, and brought me back to the religion I had cast aside, and set me on another musical journey. Yes, we got married in church, yes, Martin was christened in the same church, but somehow, I had forsaken my Sunday evening church-going back in Brockworth, and the endless nights when I studied the Bible - I was always top of the class in our religious instruction lessons at the Crypt Grammar School. What happened that Easter in 1973 brought me back to God with a bang!

Episode 5

...Easter Sunday 1973... We walked a hundred yards or so from our house in Chertsey Rise Stevenage to Wendy's Mum and Dad's, with Martin, our six year old lad, in order to exchange Easter Eggs. And sat down to watch a special Easter Day broadcast from Ely Cathedral. It was a classical music concert, the like of which I had never heard before - The London Symphony Orchestra and a couple of massive choirs, conducted by Leonard Bernstein, performing Mahler's Second, Resurrection Symphony. At the time I didn't know anything about Mahler, probably hadn't even heard of him, if I'm perfectly honest. I had no knowledge of his religious beliefs, but the title of the symphony, The Resurrection, was fitting for Easter Day, and the music unfolded through majesty, to an overwhelming climax which still makes me cry (in my own way, with no tears) whenever I listen to one of the three versions I have on CD, and, of course, watch the magnificent DVD of the actual concert from Ely Cathedral, with the diminutive Bernstein on top form, conducting one of the greatest symphonies ever written.

It didn't matter that the symphony had nothing to do with Christ's resurrection from death following his crucifixion on what we now call Good Friday. The music had been written by someone who was in touch with God - there are a number of composers who, in my opinion, have drawn their inspiration from a close intimacy with the Almighty - that's what I believed then, listening to this most holy of music on Christ's holy day, and it's what I believe now - that Gustav Mahler, more than any other composer, had been in touch with God when it came to writing his music. Years of not bothering about religion brought my own personal beliefe flooding back. It's possible, of course, to enjoy the music per se, but for me, if it brings tears to your eyes (difficult for me at the worst of times, because I have tear ducts that produce no fluid whatsoever), then there is something special about it. And whenever I hear the Resurrection symphony, I think of all the people and dogs I have had in my life and who are no longer in it - they've passed away, passed out of my life. My Dad used to say that when a family member died, it was usually because God needed them elsewhere, for some other purpose, and their time here on Earth was over. Sometimes it was cut short - he himself died very young, at the age of sixty-four, the result of overwork, sheer exhaustion and a weakened heart because of a lifetime of smoking. God definitely needed him somewhere else, that's for sure - but more than we needed him? Not sure about that. But back to the music.

I remember sitting in the little office that passed for the technical library at Hawker Siddeley Dynamics in Stevenage - Space Town as it was known - where I was the Technical Librarian, and listening to two senior scientist-engineers talking about classical music, about composers like Stockhausen and Hindemith. I knew nothing about them, and after hearing the hideous cacophonies that they had composed, I was pleased to let it remain that way, and managed to forget all about them. I had so wanted to join in with their conversation, but my classical music knowledge was severely limited back then. Now, in 1973, I had more knowledge of classical music than before, and could add Gustav Mahler to my list. I made a point of asking for Mahler recordings for every birthday and Christmas, but I didn't get round to the eighth until a few years later, by which time I was familiar with all of Mahler's work except for the "Symphony of a Thousand". When I eventually did listen to it, I discovered the other piece of music that always makes me cry. The eighth has a finale that to me sounds like the opening of Heaven and all of the choirs of angels begin to sing with a joy that is only described in music by that one composer, Mahler. I've seen it written by people that Mahler's music is sickly-sweet and "schmaltzy". I think those people are blinkered, and don't open their hearts to it properly.

I remember once, when Mum and Dad came to visit us in Stevenage - it would have been in 1980, the year Dad died, and I proudly showed him my LP recording of Mahler's Third, and started to play it for him, telling him how I had "discovered" something quite special in musical terms. Mahler's Third is a giant of a symphony, probably the longest of his symphonies, and contains some of the most glorious music ever written. Dad was totally unmoved by it, and I realised he was not interested in listening to it. His musical interests centred on Bach (especially his Brandenburg Concerti), and Beethoven. Nothing later than Beethoven. I realise now that he had closed his mind to the superb, mind-blowing beauty of Chopin's Second Piano Concerto; to Puccini's magnificent singing in Boheme and Turandot; to Wagner's Ring Cycle and Parsifal; to Bruckner's awesome Seventh Symphony; and to Richard Strauss's Alpine Symphony and the Four Last Songs. I felt sorry for him, but he was unmoved by the romantic composers, and I never got the chance to discuss it with him, because later in 1980, he had a massive heart attack and died. Whilst his funeral was taking place, there was a concert on Radio 3 in which they played Mahler's Resurrection Symphony, which comforted me greatly, and I thought of Dad's journey to the great unknown, and sang the symphony to myself, in my head, as the service progressed. This is something I have in common with the great Liverpudlian conductor, Sir Simon Rattle - there is always music in my head, during every waking minute. It doesn't matter if it's Jeff Lynne singing "Midnight Blue", or Mahler's Resurrection Symphony - there is always music in my head, even while I'm talking to a family member or a shop assistant or a friend with a dog while I'm out with Skipper (who celebrates his fifteenth birthday today, April 15th, as I'm writing this piece. Update: Skipper sadly passed away the following day, April 16th after a gloriously long and happy life with us). But as usual, I digress. Mahler opened the floodgates to my classical music knowledge.

I discovered Shostakovich, Barber, the Chopin piano concerti, (as close to heaven as you'll get!); Rachmaninov (the slow movement of his second symphony is for me [and for Wendy, my wife of 55 years] the most romantic piece of music ever written); to Sibelius (his second symphony and violin concerto are unbelievable!); and when Classic FM started broadcasting, the floodgates opened even further. Nowadays, when I vote for the annual Hall of Fame, my choices are always Mahler's Eighth, Shostakovich's Seventh (of which more later) and Howard Shore's amazing score to the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Of course, other music than classical was still important to me. I never lost sight of my Acker Bilk and his Paramount Jazz Band, or of Django Reinhardt and the Quintette du Hot Club de France, for example. Again in the 1970s, it would have been 1973, I heard Kenny Everett (second greatest ever radio DJ, after the great Terry Wogan) playing Mr Blue Sky, and I got together enough money to buy the Out of the Blue album when it was released. In fact, being a friend of the manager of Stevenage Record Centre, I was lucky enough to get the point of sale material for Out of the Blue, which comprised a six-foot high stand and an enormous out of the Blue spaceship... Nowadays, Jeff Lynne is my top favourite popular musician. I should say here that the Beatles are in a league of their own, a bit like Blackadder when it comes to situation comedy. It goes without saying that I worshipped the Beatles, back in the early 1960s, and still do. Jeff Lynne was the natural successor to the Beatles and for me he can do nothing wrong; the same goes for Bobby Darin, Gerry Rafferty, and Harry Nielsen. Out of the Blue was nothing short of brilliant. And the genius of Jeff Lynne still shines today. For me, popular music stopped dead when ELO stopped playing, and started again when Jeff Lynne resurrected ELO in the noughties.

It was on this day, the day I was writing this piece for the nostalgia page, that my best friend, my gorgeous tricolour border Collie Skipper passed away, and I haven't been in the mood to carry on with it yet, because my waking hours have been all about coming to terms with his passing, with looking through the thousands of photos I've taken of him (and Holly) through the years, and of thinking about him and how he and Holly brought so much joy into our lives. I will be carrying on with my musical reminiscences in the June issue of Books Monthly, and once I've finished that, I have some pieces planned about the books that shaped my life back in the 1950s and 1960s... If you haven't yet got round to reading my piece about Skipper on the front page of this issue, then you won't know how much I've been affected by Skipper's passing... It's knocked me for a loop, to borrow a phrase from Stephen King, but my memories of the fifties and sixties is as sharp as ever and I'll be back with more reminiscences next month - promise!


Episode 6

...June 13th 2021 - Sunday Car Boot sale on Cookie's Field as usual - a lovely day, bought loads of Cosmos plants, and a double CD of The Searchers and Gerry and the Pacemakers, two of my favourite groups from the sixties. But the previous day, at the charity shop next to Tesco in the town, I found a Don McLean CD for 50p, which contained different songs to the ones on the CD I already owned. Both started with American Pie, then Vincent, but on the charity shop one, there were more Buddy Holly tunes than the original American Pie album. American Pie is one of those great, very long songs, like Hey Jude, and Baker Street, that take your breath away. For me, though, the best track on both CDs is Roy Orbison's Crying. This is Don McLean at his absolute, breathtaking best. It's a classic song, and this version, in my opinion, eclipses even the Great Big O's version. There are Golden Ages of everything, and not everyone will agree with me that the 1960s-1980s was the Golden Age of popular music.

All I know is that it was the 25 years that contained The Beatles, The Stones, Harry Nilsson, Don McLean, Buddy Holly, ELO, Gerry and the Pacemakers etc., etc., and when ELO was disbanded, that, for me was the day the music died, heralding an era of Rap (not really music, is it?), punk (disgusting, absolutely disgusting!), Spice Girls (talentless, tuneless, drivel), and for the most part rubbish. There are few people performing now, other than the Stones and ELO who can hold a tune; take Ed Sheeran, for example - I am at a loss to understand what people see in him. The tunes are either soulless, mindless, or dreadful dirges that fail to lift the spirit. One beacon of light in the current era is Gareth Malone - he has the breadth of tolerance to be able to see what I can't in today's music - his "Choir" programmes had him auditioning and championing all manner of modern "music" that I can't abide, and coming away with something extraordinary, something quite triumphant. He is one of the most inspiring and courageous people of the modern era, and it is worth reminding ourselves that his musical background is basically classical. My Golden Age of music is peopled with performers who can sing in tune and harmonise with each other - two peerless examples of this are the Beatles and ELO - their natural feel for harmony is exceptional and perfect - and for that reason their recordings are timeless. I won't go into my top ten popular records right now, I'll save that for a later episode - but it doesn't have anyone born or performing after 1980.

My all-time favourite solo performer is Bobby Darin, but I have a strong second favourite in Frank Sinatra, also Harry Nilsson and John Lennon, not forgetting George Harrison. My two favourite bands are The Beatles and ELO, although I love Gerry and the Pacemakers and worship The Travelling Wilburys, of course. I don't like heavy rock, although I have a soft spot for Aerosmith, Canned Heat, and the Rolling Stones. I can happily listen to Honky Tonk Women over and over. I discovered popular music in the late fifties after being fed an exclusive diet of classical and light classical music on the BBC's Light Programme and Home Programme. We used to listen to Workers' Play Time, Mantovani, Henry Hall, Billy Cotton's Band Show, Sing Something Simple (I used to try to get out of Sunday evensong, preferring to stay home and listen to Sing Something Simple) and every music programme that was broadcast in the 1950s and early 1960s, including the Saturday Skiffle Club, which later became the Saturday Club, and introduced us to Lonnie Donegan, Johnny Duncan's Blue Grass Boys et al. There was very little popular music on the BBC at this time, with the exception of Parade of the Pops, with the Bob Miller Band, who played big band versions of popular hit parade hits.

Not the same as hearing the real thing, of course, but at the time, which would have been 1960-ish, popular music was a dirty word at the BBC. In fact the only time you would hear a pop music hit would be during the two weeks when Housewives' Choice was broadcast direct from the Earls Court Radio Show - the regular presenters, but instead of playing record requests for people who had written in (usually a postcard to the BBC would suffice), the presenters asked visitors to the show what they would like played, and occasionally someone would pipe up with a pop hit. I remember listening to this broadcast every day, because it coincided with the summer or Easter holidays, I believe, and hearing Paul Anka singing "Diana". It was the start of something big, for me, and over the course of that two-week oasis of pop music, I discovered many pop hits, mostly American, sometimes cover hits by people like Craig Douglas and Tommy Steele, but it heralded a revolution in the broadcasting of popular music on the BBC, and during the early years of the sixties, they gradually allowed more and more hits to be played until finally, Radio One was born. The Light Programme, the Home Programme and the Third Programme were ditched in favour of Radio 1, Radio 2, Radio 3 and Radio 4. The "Swinging Sixties" had begun, prompted by the broadcasts from the illegal radio stations Radio Caroline and Radio London. From being starved of pop music, suddenly the airwaves were filled with it. But let's go back to the 1950s first. The Light Programme was home for many comedy shows, such as the Goon Show, Take It From Here, The Clitheroe Kid, Life With The Lyons etc., etc., as well as Housewives' Choice, with presenters such as Jack De Manio, Jimmy Young, and a young but very listenable Terry Wogan; for the children there was Children's Favourites, which was on, I believe, from 9am-10am Saturday mornings, and on which you could hear such "favourites" as Sparky's Magic Piano, The Happy Wanderer sung by the Oberkirchen Children's Choir, and so on; at lunchtime on Sundays you could hear Two-, three-, and occasionally four-way Family Favourites which was a request programme for serving military personnel, so that they could keep in touch with and send messages to their loved ones. You didn't hear pop songs, but you did hear singers like Ella Fitzgerald, Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra and so on, and big bands like Glenn Miller etc. Stalwarts of 1950s mainstream music, occasionally a jazz record, but certainly no pop!

The BBC was peppered with music programmes. Obviously, on the Third Programme, you could hear "serious" music most of the day, and we usually listened to several of the Promenade concerts that were broadcast every year. On the Light Programme you would get a major music programme just about every night: Henry Hall, (I'm Henry Hall, and tonight is my bath night," we used to say, in parody of "tonight is my music night". Friday Night Is Music Night, Semprini Seranade etc., were where I heard snippets of light classical music by composers such as Eric Coates (Elizabethan Serenade, Dam Busters March etc.). During the daytime we had Workers' Playtime with such combos as Cecil Norman and His Rhythm Players, and Parade of the Pops. You would hear records played by the Big Ben Banjo Band, Jimmy Shand and His Band, and many, many others - the BBC must have spent a small fortune on these bands and combos! My own musical knowledge was enhanced by the wind-up gramophone we possessed, with 78rpm shellac records of people like Al Bowlly, Glenn Miller and his Band, Cyril Stapleton and his Orchestra, and, as chance would have it, Django Reinhardt and the Quintette du Hot Club de France. Django Reinhardt changed my musical life. My Dad gave me a leaflet about him which, looking back, may have been a concert programme. I know that my Mum and Dad used to go to see Harry Roy and his Orchestra in concert, and they were keen ballroom dancers in their younger days. But the fact that Dad had these 78rpm records of Django was a source of amazement to me. Django remains, for me, the very best guitarist in any genre, and the sounds he produced were nothing short of miraculous, given his disability.

Those records are long gone, of course, but I have half a dozen CDs showcasing the very best recordings of the Quintette and of Django playing solo. My Uncle Ernie favoured classical music, and from him I inherited several opera sets, also on 78rpm, some of them running to fifteen records, Puccini's Tosca being one example. I don't believe I ever listened to Tosca all the way through in my youth, but I loved hearing Enrico Caruso singing "E Lucevan le stelle", and a soprano singing "Vissi d'Arte". My Great Uncle Ernie gave me records by Jack Hylton and his Band. To my mind these English bands were equally as good as the American bands, like those of Duke Ellington, Count Basie and Glenn Miller. I particularly like one Jack Hylton record on which they sang: "That was a cute little rhyme, sing us another one, do". One of the band members starts to sing "There was a young lady from Ealing...", at which point the band breaks down, coughing, and someone says no, not that one... It was years later that I learned the actual words to "There was a young lady from Ealing". No wonder they didn't complete that rhyme! By the end of the 1950s I had a huge collection of very old 78rpm records from the first forty years of the twentieth century; but no pop records. I remember going to the youth club in Hucclecote, the next village along the road to Gloucester, a ten minute walk from Brockworth, and the nearest youth club available to us. There they had someone with a proper record player, a Dansette record player, on which they played proper pop records, and I remember hearing, for the very first time, the Shirelles singing "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow", written by Carole King and Gerry Goffin, and I recall thinking that this was real popular music.

The song, and the performance, are peerless, and it remains one of my all-time favourites. Today I have a dozen or so CDs of sixties music, and it's on just about every one of them. Brilliant! I would have been thirteen going on fourteen in 1960, when the song was released. There was an opportunity at the youth club to take up a hobby, one of which was to make your own guitar. I couldn't wait for that, although the ginger-haired twins from next door, Norman and Nigel, did take up that challenge. Let's just say that it wasn't anywhere near as good as the one Brian May of Queen made! Instead, I hunted down an old acoustic guitar in one of the upstairs cupboards, bought a new set of strings from Hickeys' Music Shop in the town, sat myself down in front of the dressing table mirror in Mum and Dad's bedroom, and set about teaching myself to play it. After the incident with the violin teacher, playing pop music on a beat-up old guitar was a blessed relief. I was able to play along to Lonnie Donegan skiffle hits, and many of the pop tunes we were starting to hear on the BBC. At this stage we were still buying 78rpm records. One day, on the radio, we heard a new jazz band, Acker Bilk's, playing Under The Double Eagle, a John Philip Sousa march arranged by Acker for his band. I was charged with going into town on the way home from school and buying it so that we could listen to it whenever we wanted. I was unable to find it in either Hickeys, Boots, (yes, Boots the chemist sold records and books as well as medicines and toiletries in those days, in fact there was a Boots lending library in our branch of Boots in Gloucester!) or Bon Marché. Instead I bought a copy of Petite Fleur, which had Chris Barber's band playing Whistling Rufus on the other side.

I later found out that Under The Double Eagle was only available at that time on a ten-inch LP. We wouldn't have been able to play it anyway, as it played at 33 and 1/3 rpm, which our wind-up gramophone wouldn't accommodate. I solved this problem by getting Mum to buy a proper three-speed radiogram on hire purchase, which we installed in the bay window of our front room. The radio wasn't up to much, nowhere near as good as the one on which I listened to every music programme going on the BBC and on Radio Luxembourg, on frequency 208. But the record player was brilliant! Soon I was buying every Acker Bilk album going, new LPs of Django Reinhardt, and eventually, in 1961-2, the Beatles...

Footnote to Episode 6 - Father's Day came and went on June 20th. One of my gifts, from my daughter Samantha, was a Blu-Ray of the Beatles's first film: A Hard Day's Night, which we watched that same night. It's a shining example of a musical group at the top of their game and provides an insight into why the Beatles have dominated popular music for sixty-odd years. The Beatles are timeless, and the Blu Ray is a brilliant memento... thank you, Sam!

Next month: the books that inspired my life in the 1950s/60s



The small print: Books Monthly, now well into its 24th year on the web, is published on or slightly before the first day of each month by Paul Norman. You can contact me here. If you wish to submit something for publication in the magazine, let me remind you there is no payment as I don't make any money from this publication. If you want to send me something to review, contact me via email at paulenorman1@gmail.com and I'll let you know where to send it.




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