'Mama Mia' A Feature By David Evans (Music Through The Ages Feature)
Monday, 26 September 2011
Written by David Evans
Although some mild-mannered parents still pin their hopes on a call for volunteers to do the washing up, when it comes to clearing a room of unwelcome teenagers the sight of a Sounds Of The 60’s CD is a much better bet ...and although my dread-of-acne days are long behind me, there’s every chance I’d be leading the stampede.
That’s not to say the decade didn’t spawn good music: it shames me to admit that the thought of sending my children out to beg for loose change crossed my mind whenever I couldn’t stump up for a Ska or Rocksteady rarity. Even now, I wouldn’t be averse to a spot of panhandling if it meant raising the cash for an original copy of Tommy Tucker’s Hi-Heel Sneakers ...and whether you’re a fan or not, it’s impossible to ignore the impact of The Beatles and The Stones and The Who.
But for every Lennon and McCartney or Pete Townshend classic there was a skip full of dross churned out by the likes of Freddie and the Dreamers and Herman’s Hermits and Billy J. Kramer, with or without his Dakotas ...and that was before the charts came under siege from a legion of charlatans: people like Leapy Lee whose 'Little Arrows' did much to drive up the demand for anti-nausea medication, and if Des O’Connor’s .Dick-a-Dum-Dum. didn’t have quite the same effect, it amuses me to think that the sales of prophylactics must have gone through the roof.
And don’t be misled by those ageing hippies who harp on about the psychedelic sixties. The Grateful Dead might well have been the poster boys for a generation of radicals and idealists and LSD liberals, but when it came to UK record sales, they couldn’t hold a lit spliff to Charlie Drake – a five-foot-nothing comedian whose early-sixties ditties include the immortal, 'My Boomerang Won’t Come Back'.
And here’s a snippet to rubber stamp the now’t-as-queer-as-folk adage: following her 1963 recording of 'We Shall Overcome', Joan Baez was set fair to be crowned queen of the civil rights movement. And yet, although the stirring anthem would become the rallying call for countless anti-war protesters, the British record-buying public were roused more by a twin-set-and-pearls actress named Dora Bryan and her stomach-churning recording of 'All I Want For Christmas is a Beatle' ...It may come as a surprise to those who shelled out for this festive tosh, but there is no record of it impacting on world peace.
So, in the light of my obvious antipathy, I risk being accused of double standards when I say that some of my fondest musical memories stem from the Swinging Sixties ...of course, I could be just saying that because I’m haunted by a fear of reprisals: terrified of being abducted by an irate gang of devotees and forced to listen to a non-stop compilation of The Best of the Bachelors and Cilla Black’s Greatest Hits; but even though I know of grown men who’ve been reduced to sleeping with the light on whenever they recall the Liverpudlian lass’ nasal screech, I can honestly say that I’m lucky to have seen so many of the groups du jour playing live.
Of course it wasn’t all hunky-dorey; in fact, after half-an-hour listening to some of the fresh-from-the-youth-clubs support bands, there were times when you were left feeling just about as lucky as the rabbit’s foot was for the rabbit; but when the Mecca of pop music was right on your doorstep, and admission cost less than a fish and chip supper, no one was complaining.
Every Saturday night, the local civic building would shed its mayoral pomp and open the majestic doors to a screaming, weeping, chanting 1000-strong crowd.
Although a foxy-looking girl group or singer could spur on the male of the species, the first to arrive were the busloads of teenage girls determined to lay claim to their customary spot on a wood-sprung dance floor large enough to garage the fleet of chartered coaches and still leave room for the sea of plastic handbags.
Any time after eight, the single guys would drift in and even then would skirt the dance floor and head for the first-floor balcony, home to a bar stocked with the odd bottle of rum and whisky and gin, and enough beer and Babycham to float the Mersey Ferry. And there beneath the gilded cornices and gargoyles they would gaze down on the dancing girls all dolled up to the nines and dream of getting lucky with a sizzler.
With ten minutes to go before the star attraction, the DJ’s announcement would signal an end to the wishful thinking. Glasses were drained, belches were burped, and like a colony of Gibraltan baboons, the men folk would descend en masse to pamper and preen and pee before finding a spot close enough to the stage to see the cut of the bands clothes, but not so close as to appear girlishly enthusiastic.
And if the encore bought heartache to the hardcore, then there were others who welcomed the final curtain as a prelude to the main event.
Now, given that the pickup/courtship ritual has been enacted to music ever since ancient aboriginal man first started playing with his didgeridoo, I won’t bother you with what might be seen as old hat. Suffice to say that, as well as seeing almost every British band from the Animals to the Zombies, I learned how to jive; learned how to drink beer without shuddering, and after enough times on the sharp end of the hot-tottie’s brush offs, learned to recognise my limitations.
Sadly, the lesson didn’t extend to my drinking habits but, providing I didn’t wake my parents when I came lurching through the door, they wouldn’t have a clue about my goings-on ...and when your mother was raised as a Methodist, that was no bad thing.
Okay, I’ll admit she was wasn’t one of those rod-of-iron bible thumpers, and at only halfway towards her three score years and ten she was certainly no old maid, but she wouldn’t think twice about clipping my ear if I answered back, and even after all these years, I remember thinking I was a gonna when she caught me swearing at next door’s cat for crapping in our yard.
And when it came to my love of pop music, she didn’t exactly turn a blind eye, but for someone who was more at home with Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring than she was with the likes of 'Jailhouse Rock', the chances of us chatting about the music scene were as slim as her telling me all about the birds and bees.
But then a change began to creep across the land: with the Mersey beat losing its cutting edge, my mother – and countless others like her – were warming to the more mellow sounds, and come the time when Mantovani’s recordings of Lennon and McCartney classics could be heard in department stores’ lifts and loos, my mother was joking about joining the Beatles fan club.
But joking or not, it wasn’t long before her hemline rose a tad, and before my dad told her she looked like mutton dressed as lamb, she had taken to sporting a jaunty Ringo cap on top of her Mary Quant-like bob.
She swapped the old walnut-veneered gramophone for a red leatherette Dansette with an eight disc autochanger, and whereas there was a time when she would no more visit the local record store than she would a tattoo parlour, within a month of her renaissance, she was on first name terms with the owner.
At first I thought it was groovy: we sat through all the pop music shows on TV and never once did she ask: ‘Is that a man or a woman?’ She stopped complaining about my bedroom looking like a shrine to the Beatles and when my birthday came around, instead of the usual Fair Isle knitted cardigan with chunky brown buttons, she gave me a long, flared jacket like John Lennon used to wear.
And yet, despite our shared interest, I sensed a void in my life, and as if to prove that the teenage default setting was in existence well before the modern day wordsmiths came up with the expression, I soon came to realise that, unless we were talking about something like the all-new Vesta beef curry and boil-in-the-bag rice, there was nothing groovy about liking the same things as your mum.
Teenagers do not need any justification for their actions – it’s written in their charter – but when the Beatles accepted their MBE’s I shouted about betrayal and sell-out and used it as an excuse to do a Judas.
To the sound of the cock crowing thrice I gave the Fab Four the heave-ho and nailed my colours to The Who’s (small pic) mast; and there amongst the snappy-dressed mods with their Vespas and Lambrettas, I felt like a torch bearer for the spirit of teenage rebellion; and what’s more, there was no way my mother could go around singing 'My Generation' like she did that soppy old song, 'Yesterday'; and when it came to wearing a parka, she might have had a fancy for fur-trimmed jackets but she wouldn’t have been seen dead in that shade of goose-turd green.
But hark at me, winging on as if these family contretemps were a thing of the past when, if my experience at a local bank-holiday rock ‘fest’ was anything to go by, teenagers of today have more than their share of trials and tribulations.
I suppose it all comes down to having parents whose lives span a broad spectrum of musical genre. Couple that with an out-and-out refusal to lose touch with their inner teenage self and you arrive at a situation where the over 40’s are poncing on their kid’s credibility to bolster their own.
Anyway, back to the gig: first off let me say that it wasn’t a big promotion; in fact, as I learned later, it was organised by a Toyota dealer whose pimply-faced son craved a bigger audience for his band than the village hall and his school mates’ birthday party circuit. Quite how the other 8 acts got involved I never asked, neither was I bothered whether any of them were any good. For a dyed-in-the-wool fan of punk music, I’m not put off if youthful enthusiasm overshadows musical talent, and the older I get the bigger kick I get out of supporting young up-and-coming bands.
It was just after 2.00 when I arrived at the venue – a big field, plenty large enough to accommodate a full-sized pitch for the local football team – and judging by the number of cars on the adjacent grass land there couldn’t have been more than 150 in the audience.
Two shiny Toyota Prius flanked the stage ...the two promotional dolly-birds in their skinny logo-ed tee-shirts and micro-skirts were attracting more attention than the cars.
Although the half-a-dozen or so shirtless youths looked the sort to argue the point, at four deep, and only a tad wider than the stage, the crowd gathered at the front could hardly be classed as a mosh pit. But with their mums there to safeguard them, a gaggle of girls jumped up and down and squealed when the first band appeared on stage. Like a quartet of mini-cheerleaders, they waved their arms and chanted the guitarist’s first name ...in the school playground he would probably have told them to bugger off; in front of an audience he tousled his head of curly hair and raised a clenched fist like Marc Bolan.
Egged on by her mother, a pudgy-faced girl held up a heart-shaped placard. I’m only guessing when I say it was daubed with his name. From behind I could see enough to work out it was cut from a giant sized pack of Sainsbury’s back-to-basic Sugar Puffs.
As it was, he turned out to be the lead vocalist, and after a rapid-fire four-song set, the cheers and applause were well deserved.
A thrash-punk band followed the Indie opening and although I couldn’t make head or tail of the lyrics, they did their best to look the part. I doubt very much if Syd Vicious was cheering from on high when the bass player sprayed the crowd with low-cal Orangina, but at least the young lad made a good fist of looking mean and angry.
Apart from enthusiasm there was nothing of note to report about the next two bands, and with the DJ kicking off the intermission with a sales pitch for the Toyota cars, I headed towards the car park for a better view of two pint-sized mongrels running amok amongst a herd of Jersey heifers in the next field but one.
Disappointed as I was when the breathless owners brought the canine cabaret to a close, at least I was well positioned to witness the teenage trauma firsthand.
While their daughters loitered near the portaloos in the hope of bumping into a muso and embarrassed sons skulked around the burger van pretending to queue for something decadently rock 'n' roll, mums and dads were diving into their 4x4’s and people carriers, unloading foldaway chairs and picnic tables and keep-fresh containers of all shapes and sizes.
Now I am not here to poke fun at those who enjoy putting on a good spread, but I question whether a music gig is the place to show case your culinary skill … and when the food was laid out and the families gathered, the kids looked as if they were thinking the same.
If only because his mother was wearing a bright-yellow apron emblazoned with the legend: Yummy Mummy, one young lad caught my eye. Even without his mother broadcasting a description of each and every dish, he looked a disgruntled youth, but what with the Yummy Mummy shouting about her vegetarian quiche being baked with stone-ground flour, and a nearby bunch of his school mates giggling and sniggering in between mouthfuls of hotdogs and ketchup, it was little wonder he looked hacked off … and I can’t say I blamed him for doing a runner when she told him there’d be no raspberry panna cotta unless he ate every last morsel of his quiche and Puy lentil salad.
The last time I saw him he was over by the beer tent trying to give the impression that his spiritual home was the mosh pit and the mean streets, not Meadow View Rise in Merstham.
And yet, as much as I sympathised, he was lucky compared to some of the kids who turned up for the evening set with their parents in tow.
I suppose a lot of folk would say it’s nice to see families bonding at a gig, but if what I saw that evening was anything to go by, I bet none of them were kids.
With the crowd approaching 400, new arrivals were setting up camp on the sidelines. Wherever I looked there was no shortage of bearded men in surfer shorts and festival T-shirts and grown women dressed up like Pixie Lott or Katie Perry. And instead of a smorgasbord of wholesome food, the trendy parents were busy laying out buffets of booze and the kind of munchies that rung of a misspent youth.
And for the first hour or more everything was fine: while their kids jigged about and pogo-ed to a couple of bands that tried to sound like Arctic Monkeys and a punk trio that actually did sound a lot like Rancid, the Peter Pan generation were getting squiffy on New World white wine and imported beer. And as if giving it large would make the youngsters think of them as groovy, they yelled and whistled and cheered at the end of each song, but that apart, they didn’t pay much attention to the music.
A group of men were trying to outshine each others’ memories of the Band Aid concert while their partners and wives compared tattoos and bellybutton studs. A brazen-looking sort pointed to her inner thigh and although I couldn’t hear what she said, the tone of the laughter made me think it was something pretty raunchy.
But all that changed when a Jon Bon Jovi tribute band opened their set with 'You Give Love a Bad Name'. To the sound of their own squeals, a whole swathe of forty-somethings boogied their way towards the stage … and that’s when the fun and games started: a teenage lad, no older than 15, looked on in horror as his mother and two of her equally buxom friends stripped down to their bikini tops and thrust their hips and pouted to 'Its My Life'.
To compound the youth’s misery, his mates obviously thought it was a joy to behold; with jeans and shorts already resembling a row of circus bell tents, they clapped and jeered in the hope of a wardrobe malfunction.
A group of fathers had caught up with their daughters and despite the high-pitched protests launched into their look-at-me-I’m-a-cool-dude dance routine. One by one the girls made their escape. Not that it mattered; the men carried on dancing amongst themselves and when the band broke into an up-tempo version of 'One Wild Night' they were punching the air and body-bumping like the youths at the front of the stage. Judging by the look on one girl’s face, she was wondering how her father held down a job. She wasn’t alone.
It wasn’t long before a fleet of hastily summoned mini cabs was ferrying two dozen or so relieved-looking kids to the local disco.
Although I am not great Bon Jovi fan I stayed on for 'Living on a Prayer', but as soon as the crowd started baying for an encore I headed for home; there didn’t seem to much point in hanging around.
As it turned out, I couldn’t have been more wrong: according to a mate of mine, with their offspring out of sight and out of mind, the party-loving parents were joined by another crowd of wannabe teenagers. They lit camp fires and feasted on warmed up pizza with beer and tequila and danced to a portable CD player on full blast.
In response to a farmer’s complaint about the noise, the Old Bill arrived in force and ended up booking a dozen or so revellers for the possession of Marijuana ...if only because they didn’t know what to charge them with, they issued a stern warning to the two stark naked couples who were getting jiggy in the back of a top-of-the-range Volkswagen People Carrier.
he other day I heard a good joke: what’s the difference between a Brussels sprout and a bogey? When I tell you that the answer is: you can’t get kids to eat Brussels sprouts, you might understand why I sense a certain relevance.
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To the sound of the cock crowing thrice I gave the Fab Four the heave-ho and nailed my colours to The Who’s (small pic) mast; and there amongst the snappy-dressed mods with their Vespas and Lambrettas, I felt like a torch bearer for the spirit of teenage rebellion; and what’s more, there was no way my mother could go around singing 'My Generation' like she did that soppy old song, 'Yesterday'; and when it came to wearing a parka, she might have had a fancy for fur-trimmed jackets but she wouldn’t have been seen dead in that shade of goose-turd green. 
