Anyone who loves music can never be quite unhappy.
Franz Schubert
This last Reflection of 2022 continues the ‘Desert Island’ theme of last week, but I've gone back to the traditional formula of eight pieces of music I would take with me.
The first piece is Intermezzo from the opera Cavalleria Rusticana by Pietro Mascagni. I was seven years of age when I first heard it as part of my grandparents’ record collection. That collection was my introduction to recorded music. My first listening to Pirate Radio would come a year or so later. Radio One would not broadcast for another few years from then. The material used to make the records I first listened to was Shellac. The forerunner of Vinyl. Such records also carried the nickname ‘seventy-eights’ because they played at 78 RPM. My grandparents’ record player formed part of a Radiogram — a substantial piece of furniture, and as a small boy, I prized that my grandparents allowed me to play some of their seventy-eights. I saw this as a rare treat. I now look back on those occasions as golden moments in my grandparents’ company as they coaxed me to be gentle (no mean feat for a 7-year-old) with what were fragile treasures. I would gently place the pick-up needle (that needed replacing every thirty plays or so) into the first groove. Then, accompanied by a gentle background hiss, the music would emerge. I’m not alone in enjoying this piece of music, as some report it as the most well-known piece of classical music in the world. From my travels over the years, I have fond memories of the Villa Monastero’s botanical garden in Varenna on Lake Como. As the Villa’s name suggests, it was once a monastery. Thoughts of that garden trigger the Intermezzo to ‘play’ in the back of my mind. The music perfectly complements the floral beauty and calls to mind a loving memory of my grandparents.
The next record is from ‘my’ decade of music, the nineteen-seventies. A decade that saw, among other music types, Glam Rock, Punk Rock, Heavy Metal and Reggae and, as the decade came to its end, Disco. I never did ‘gel’ with Disco. That’s another thought that springs to mind. While I enjoyed a lot of the seventies music, most of the nineteen-eighties music left me cold. Is that the same with others? That the music decade following ‘their’ decade is something of a turn-off? My favourite band at the beginning of the seventies was Lindisfarne, and they've remained one of them. It’s no longer the original line-up. The passing of time has sadly seen the passing of some members. Alan Hull wrote many of Lindisfarne’s songs, and for a brief period after the release of the band’s first album, ‘Nicely out of Tune’, many hailed Alan’s songs and Lindisfarne as the next ‘big thing’. Much of Alan Hull’s writing was of an area, people, and social outlook that I readily recognised and identified with. I’ve chosen ‘Clear White Light’ from Lindisfarne’s ‘Nicely out of Tune’ album. Alan Hull wrote it while working as a psychiatric nurse at St Nicholas Hospital in a Newcastle suburb. He also wrote, ‘We Can Swing Together’, ‘Fog on the Tyne’ and ‘Lady Eleanor’, at that time. Sadly, Alan died in 2011, although his music inspired the play, ‘Clear White Light’. A moving and evocative piece set in St Nicholas Hospital against the backdrop of Alan’s music.
In the past, I’ve shared what happened on the morning of my first working day, at Cornwall House, in London. Of not yet knowing, on a July morning in 1974, my best walking route from Embankment station to Cornwall House. It wasn’t long, however, before I discovered the shortest way was to cross the Thames by Hungerford Bridge. In the 1970s, Hungerford Bridge was a narrow footbridge. Dating from Victorian times, it spanned the Thames on one side of the railway lines that run to Charing Cross station. The replacement to that bridge is now two wide modern walkways that sandwich the railway lines. To reach Hungerford Bridge, one turned right out of the Embankment station on the riverside and climbed some steps. On taking that route for the first time, I came across a lady of ample size and mature years sitting on a chair in the gap between the station exit and the steps’ foot. Her clothes had seen better days and at her feet were two large bags of indeterminate content. Alongside her stood a large stack of newspapers. The morning editions of the Evening Standard. These pre-internet days saw multiple editions of newspapers as the day progressed. They were also the days before London’s free papers, and trade from passing commuters was slow for the lady, so I decided to buy a copy. I received in return both a newspaper, a winning smile and, in the strongest of cockney, a “thanks, dearie”. Little did I know at the time that a morning ritual had begun. On most working mornings over the next four years, I bought a copy of the Standard from Elsie, as I later learnt her name. Our transaction never lasted long, but I discovered she was “down on her luck”. The money from paper selling helped with living costs. Elsie had no permanent place to live, so she frequented Salvation Army hostels. As Elsie would say, at least it saved her from ‘Cardboard City’ in the Bullring near Cornwall House (now the site of the Imax cinema). Elsie had married, but her husband was now dead. She had no children or wider family. In truth, I preferred the Evening News to the Standard, so I bought from Elsie in the morning and purchased a News, from a different vendor, on the way back to my ‘home’. Coincidently, my' home' was a hostel for the first few months in London. But one that had a little more to offer than Elsie’s. One thing the Standard did have over the News was the classified ads for rented accommodation. When flat hunting, you'd buy the Standard morning edition as early as possible, then scour the ‘flats-for-rent’ section and ring to make appointments for viewings later that day to view any that caught your interest. Decent places at reasonable rent went quickly, so early bird and all that. One morning, not long before I left Cornwall House to begin a career in the Defence Industry, Elsie was not in her usual spot. I asked at the station, but no one could explain. This piece of music is for all the Elsies out there.
Many people misinterpret the meaning of Robert Frost’s poem, ‘The Road not Taken’. A while back, in conversation with a close friend, he offered, “why does it matter? Surely what makes a great poem great is that people can reinterpret it from the author's original meaning. Giving it a new life and new understanding". On reflection, my friend is correct. And this song, ‘Fields of Gold’ written by Sting, is a reinterpretation by me. For what’s true of poetry is true of any art form. The reader, viewer, or listener brings their own emotions, experience, or belief to bear. Although Sting first recorded the song, I prefer the Eva Cassidy version. There was a purity to Eva’s voice; I find it both haunting and engaging. I write ‘was’ as sadly Eva died from cancer in 1996, aged only thirty-three. Sting’s inspiration for the song was the Barley fields that surrounded his then house. That inspiration developed to underpin the theme of the permanence of true love, from the first meeting to death and beyond. I recognise all that. However, in my interpretation, I see a late August day from many years ago. A harvest-gold sun burning in an azure sky clear of clouds. A young family on holiday. They are walking a pathway through a barley field and traversing an ocean of shimmering bleached yellow. Two small children are almost lost within the tall stalks. Boisterous, happy laughter fills the air. It's a fleeting golden moment. A memory across decades, kindled by a song.
I’m fortunate to have seen many wondrous sunsets in beautiful locations worldwide. There is one sunset, however, which always captures my heart more than the rest. And as far as I’m aware, the only one that has a song. I’ve shared that I started working as a Forensic Chemist in a Lab in Cornwall House on the south side of Waterloo Bridge. In the evenings, the area around Waterloo had a vastly different feel than now. It was not a place to find street food markets, enjoy riverside dining, or take a romantic stroll by the Thames. Instead, it was a far more edgy place to be. One of the local celebrities was the Great Train robber Buster Edwards. His flower stall on Waterloo Road was a stone’s throw from the Lab in which I worked. The film ‘Buster’ shows his stall in front of the Festival Hall. A more scenic location than its actual one under a railway bridge. A burger van now occupies that spot. Opposite Buster’s stall was the cramped fish and chip restaurant where a couple of colleagues and I had lunch if funds allowed. I recall a TV high up in the corner of the place that offered our entertainment. Lunchtimes coincided with the children’s TV show, ‘Rainbow’. So, over the years, we became remarkably familiar with the exploits of Zippy, George and Bungle. Interestingly the place is still a fish and chip shop. However, the TV and Rainbow have long gone. My colleagues and I avoided socialising in the evening around Waterloo, preferring the more ‘refined’ pubs on the north bank. Our after-work strolls across Waterloo, Hungerford or Westminster bridges depended on our ultimate drinking destination. Whichever we used, we often found ourselves looking towards the Houses of Parliament to see the sun sink slowly behind that gothic edifice. It was a sight of which I never tired. It was a Waterloo sunset.….
I’ve always enjoyed the singing of Édith Piaf. Over the years, I’ve seen and enjoyed several staged productions of her life. No singer can match Édith Piaf’s voice. Most use laryngeal vibrato than Édith’s hammer vibrato, but all the singers I’ve seen gave creditable performances. It isn’t just Édith’s voice (Jean Cocteau described it as being “like black velvet”) and the songs. Her life makes for a very watchable story. Her real name was Édith Gassion. Édith from Edith Cavell, a British nurse executed by the Germans in 1915 for helping French soldiers escape. There are many legends about her early years. But what is fact is she began singing on the streets of Paris as a young teenager. A mother of seventeen (the child died aged two), Édith’s ‘discovery’ came two years later from a nightclub owner, Louis Leplée. Being so small (4' 8" with a size three shoe), Louis gave Édith the stage name La Môme Piaf (Parisian slang for ‘The Little Sparrow’). The stage name stuck. Her fame began to spread through her nightclub singing, and records followed. But unfortunately, so did notoriety, as the belief was that she was involved in the subsequent murder of Louis. In 1940 she made her first film, and her career flourished despite the German’s occupation of Paris. She ‘walked a tightrope’ of performing for the occupiers and POWS, helping some of the latter escape. After the war, her fame spread around the world. There were many men in Édith’s life, but her great love (despite the fact he was married) was Marcel Cerdan, a famous French boxer who died in a plane crash. Edith struggled with alcoholism and drug use all her life. It was not helped by the tragedy of the death of her lover and the car accidents that severely injured her. She died aged forty-seven. Several Piaf songs are now known around the world. La Vie En Rose is her most famous. Indeed, it was the song that marked the entrance of my daughter-in-law to her marriage ceremony (although sung by Satchmo, not Édith). Then, there’s Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien, Milord, Padam Padam… My choice, however, is this, the song that Piaf wrote in memory of Marcel Cerdan. What a voice ….
I could not complete this without referencing my other significant music influence through the 1970s, Bruce Springsteen. I do not wish to get morbid or upset anyone, but I do wish to touch on the music played at funerals. Many wish a funeral to be a celebration of someone’s life. Yet, despite best efforts, sadness at the loss of someone usually overwhelms the occasion. Not helped by the glowing tributes paid by friends and family. The choice of respectful music. The sombre dress code. Fingers crossed that my funeral is many years from now. But when it comes, I want it to feel like a good singalong that I’ve missed—well, not missed. I’ll be there. Just not an overly active participant. I’m unsure how many people watched a TV series called ‘Finding Alice’. Harr’s ‘coffin’ is a brightly decorated box with his name emblazoned, and I’d love something like that. My name upon it, and lots of other drawings, comments, and the like. The sort of stuff people might write on a card when someone leaves work or retires. “Sorry to see you go”, “Enjoy your new challenge”, “Hope the future brings everything you wish”. And about wearing sombre clothing, well, I’d instead wish for a profusion of colour. For mourners, undertakers, and pallbearers. A cacophony (that one is for you, Sarah) of colour as vivid as a van Gogh painting. I would not ban black. But mourners must wear it alongside white, as in black and white stripes. I would welcome other football tops too. Yes, even Sunderland. I wouldn’t want any mournful tributes. As Meyer Wolfsheim says in the ‘Great Gatsby’, “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead”. I want funny stories told of my adventures. Of the day I went sledging, the night I went ‘blind’, or the mystery of Harry’s kebab on the doorstep. Even my ‘Are you nervous?’ tale of a particular operation. I will be well past embarrassment, and how lovely it would be to hear laughter ringing around the crematorium. I see my entry song being Blaydon Races, with everyone singing along. I envisage one of those screens used at pantomimes or karaoke with the words written to help people join in the singing. I would love it if there were a place for ‘Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye’. Again, people can sing along with the words on the big screen. But turning to Bruce Springsteen, there’s ‘Cadillac Ranch’ that I think is very apt. Anyway, who knows? I won’t be the one to choose any of that stuff, so I’ll hand it over to Bruce. If he doesn’t get the mourners going, nothing will
Most sons are close to their mothers, which was true of me. However, we were not tactile. I have no recollection of hugs or kisses from my mother. Although, when I was young, they must have happened. Yet we got on well. I was always able to share anything with her as I grew up. She taught me much about life and relationships. Especially that you should never wake up one day to find yourself at the end of someone else’s life; she was a fiercely independent woman all through her life. She sued her first husband for divorce at a time of less equality when such an act could ‘tarnish’ a woman’s reputation. In my mother’s mind, happiness was far more essential. From her telling, her first encounter with my father was when she ran errands at the age of fourteen. He was the then manager (and much older at twenty-eight) of a poultry and fish shop. She recalled she found him intimidating. Little did she suspect that some 20 years later, that intimidating man would become her second husband. My father did indeed have a temper. However, my mother was no pushover. I recall my parents having ‘boisterous’ verbal interchanges at times. The two then left the field with honours even and afterwards laughed over those interchanges. My mother was no academic. She lost more than a year at school to Diphtheria and Scarlet Fever; many didn’t survive those illnesses. As to her ‘career’, it was varied. A seamstress, laundry worker, housekeeper in a boy’s home, cleaner and in the war, a ‘Canary’, the nickname given to the munition’s girls. She had wished to join the ATS, but flat feet ruled that out, so she opted for the hazardous occupation of making artillery shells. It would be fair to describe her as a ‘character’. She was an inveterate smoker who enjoyed an active social life (her flat feet never stopped her dancing) and a drink or two (or three). As a teenager, I much enjoyed listening to her youthful exploits. Indeed, she added further to the catalogue as the years went by. In later years she began every morning with a cigarette, a glass of ‘medicine’, courtesy of Captain Morgan, and a pot of tea to ‘set her up’ for the day ahead. My mother was an excellent female role model and an inspiration to me. She lived her life on her terms, and the saddest period of my life was watching her become the ghost of the woman she once was. Ageing is a ruthless process. This song, ‘The Parting Glass’, written around 1600, was discovered by Sarah, my wife, and to me, it perfectly reflects my mother. It's inspiration, the tradition in Scotland (and other countries) of a parting glass being the final hospitality offered to a departing guest. Usually, once they were on horseback for fortification on their journey. The belief is that this farewell song was the most popular in Scotland before ‘Auld Lang Syne’ came along.
So, with the mention of Auld Lang Syne, I close these posts for 2022. I trust you all have a year ahead that brings all you wish for yourselves. Onward to 2023 …
A fascinating read (as always) Harry. I must take issue however with not liking the music of the decade following’ my’ decade. For me, the 90’s of Radiohead, Massive Attack, Portishead, Blur and Pulp matched the 80’s of The Smiths, The Cure, New Order, Talking Heads and Echo and the Bunnymen.