Memories Are Made Of This : The Golden Years of The Sixties
Music Revolution
Notes from an era of true free expression where we were "spoilt
for choice" with the newest musical innovators. Before the
onslaught of the digital age and the polarisation of modern
music we experienced a cultural revolution which, in my humble
opinion, has yet to be equalled in successive generations ...
I suppose my first realisation that music was something more
relevant than learning the words to carols for the school
Christmas concert was appreciating my Dad's collection of 78s'.
He was a man with unusual tastes in music. My contemporys'
parents listened to American crooners, like Bing Crosby, Dean
Martin and the like, or the big band sounds of the day.
But my Dad had individual tastes which included Eastern European
folk music, Scottish bagpipe ballads and Welsh miners choirs;
plus my first introduction to classical such as exciting pieces
like Aram Khachaturian's "Sabre Dance".
My Mother, a dedicated Crosby fan, disliked these strange sounds
to the extent that she banished any playing of the
'caterwauling' to our barn, a large wooden structure at the back
of the house. This suited my Dad, and me, just fine.
He would mend bikes and tinker with machinery in one corner,
while I would curl up on a battered leather sofa looking at
pictures in old movie magazines, giggling at jokes in back
copies of Lilliput and reading girlie type books (Little Women,
Black Beauty etc.) while the haunting strains of Bulgarian
womens' voices, Highland airs or the overwhelming sound of
Welshmen giving it their all emanated from the old wind up
gramaphone; memories are made of this.
Musically I've come full circle. with the increasing popularity
of 'world music' I am, once again, enjoying Bulgarian women's
harmonies and Welsh folk songs along with the exciting newcomers
from African and Latin American roots.
Every generation, mostly, think that they have experienced the
'best' period of topical music, but I do feel that the sixties
were a special case. Consider this; any weekend my friends and I
had a difficult decision to make. Did we go 'up town' to Ken
Colliers to see American blues stars like Big Bill Broonzy or
jazz giants like Dizzy Gillespie; or perhaps to the Marquee or
100 Club to listen to the up and coming Britishers like Paul
Weller in the Jam, Eric Clapton and the Yardbirds and Georgie
Fame with the All Stars.
Or did we stay closer to home and go to the Riki Tik in Windsor
and risk asphyxiation in the tiny room listening to an exciting
new group called the Rolling Stones. And that was only the
start; what about Osterley where you could hear John Lee Hooker,
Sonny Terry and Brownie McGee and any number of other Southern
American blues stars; or Windsor Drill hall where, on a Friday
night you could enjoy the best of Cyril Davies and the All
Stars, which usually featured one of my favourites, Long John
Baldry.
And, if you were willing to risk parental wrath, it had to be
Eel Pie Island in Twickenham, a den of iniquity where you could
hear the best of new rhythm and blues; smell strange substances
burning in the air and where I first encountered psychadelia in
the shape of Pink Floyd whose innovative light shows of coloured
lava lamp blobs popping and forming ever different shapes were
the precursor of the giant video screens of today. To say we
were spoilt for choice is not to overwork a phrase.
I haven't even mentioned the many folk clubs sprinkled about
which I visited with my friend Lucy as a guest singing duo,
where we shared stages with the likes of Bert Jantz, Duster
Bennett, Cat Stevens . . We would travel to isolated venues in
the heart of the Berkshire countryside and find ourselves in a
barn somewhere, with people sitting on hay bales and listening
to the stirring voices and lyrics of Sandy Denny, Davy Graham
and John Remborne, or even the Wurzels (bring your own cider!).
If you wanted to dance, but strictly not ballroom, you could
stomp the night away at a selection of 'trad jazz' clubs. Bands
of various styles were always on tap; Dick Morrisey, the
aforementioned Ken Collier, Acker Bilk; It really was a golden
age for live music of every kind. And it didn't cost an arm and
a leg to indulge yourself. If we paid more than a couple of quid
to get in we felt hard done by. Even special occasions, like
seeing the Who or Cream at the Hammersmith Odeon were cheap at
the price.
Wherever we hung out with our mates there was music. This was
the age of the coffee bar, always with a juke box in the corner
belting out such classics as 'Dock on the Bay', or Buddy Holly's
latest or Aretha Franklin, Jimi Hendrix, Joan Biaz; where to
stop! Before the fashion for 'personalised music' (catered for
firstly by the Walkman and now in it's newest incarnation, the
ipod) the latest tunes brought like minds together. A normal
Saturday outing was to the local record shop where friends would
crowd into a booth together to hear the latest in the 'charts'.
Maybe it was all just 'fashion' but, as the years race by, that
sixties music has stood the test of time. Many of our heroes are
still household names. Our children still appreciate such giants
as Bob Marley, Jimi Hendrix and Otis Redding. The likes of Paul
Weller, Rod Stewart, the Rolling Stones still tour all over the
world. Am I showing my age when I find it hard to appreciate
modern day offerings? Of course I am but no more than any other
person who has let music into their life.
>From the moment the first cave man (or woman) discovered how to
make musical 'sounds' from reeds or rocks, water or wood, we
have enjoyed the privilege of a great gift. How to explain the
catch at the back of the throat when we hear a familiar song or
melody? How to describe the pure feeling of exhilaration and joy
as many human voices come together to sing some particularly
uplifting work. I dare anyone to say they have never felt that.
And if some hardened souls insist that is the case; well I feel
very sorry for them.