‘Music was my refuge. I could
crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness’
-
Maya
Angelou
If I could pinpoint when I first heard music, I would
say somewhere in the late 1970’s.
Judging by the light and political mood, possibly 1978/79. My Dad is a van driver; I’m with him in a
Commer Van, something that is ugly and utilitarian. It’s a step down for him - he usually drives
8-12 wheelers, big, greasy dirty things that carry us to the airless corners of
Britain. A job for him, a holiday out
for me.
We have the radio on.
AM, Radio City. The local
independent station. Now, I’m used to
music. But this is something
different. Something urgent, joyful,
bright and brash. Like someone has
opened a door to sunlight and is trying to shut it at the same time.
“What’s that Dad?”
“That’s The Beatles, lad.” Lady
Madonna, to be precise.
I’m hooked in. From this point on, I become slowly
obsessed with music. As I’m say, I’m
used to it. My Dad sometimes plays
Country and Western at home, in the car, in the lorry. I find this music a little too sad for my
nine year old tastes. My brothers play
heavy rock. Prog, something maybe a little bit literate like Steely Dan. Saturday night, my parents go to the parish
club, a peculiar Catholic tradition of piety and getting pissed at the same
time. At home, I’m slightly terrified of
Yes; slightly enthralled by Donald’s Fagin’s Burroghsian hatchet jobs of hipsters,
druggies, shaggers and lovers.
I become one of those kids who tape the Top 40. It becomes one of my Sunday traditions. Mass, an hour of smoke, guilt and hypocrisy. With some music. Lounging around the house till teatime. Sometimes a ride out with my Mum and
Dad. Music in the car. Home to Sunday tea (Spam butties and cling
peaches with evaporated milk). And then
me, sitting on the floor taping the songs I liked from The Top 40. I develop the eclectic taste in music that
has stood me in good stead/infuriated people ever since.
I now consider cassette tapes are an archaic
format. I bought the cheapest possible
(four for £1, Kirkby Market), which generally means they unravelled after a few
plays. I binned a load of tapes when I
moved, not having either the equipment or the inclination to play them. See also the large donation of vinyl I
donated to the charity shop during a house move. I’m not a vinyl junkie. It’s an inflexible format. Admittedly, it displays cover art to its best
extent. But it’s as outmoded a way of
delivering universal messages as handing someone a scroll.
And then, I experienced the mystical process of
learning to write and read music. I have
a musician friend’s son who can do this.
I’d love to be able to do it - but in the same way I’d love to be able
to fly or play in midfield for Liverpool FC.
It’s an aspiration, not an essential component of living. Music in school was played on Casio VL-1’s.
Thirty five years later, you can’t turn one on, without hearing Da Da Da by Trio. Occasionally, we sang music. A hipster teacher made us sing I Am A Rock by Simon And Garfunkel and Eleanor Rigby by The Beatles. I can remember struggling to get through both
without crying.
In that respect, Music became an interior life for
me. A safe world, where fucking no-one
would laugh at me. And occasionally, I
would let someone into this secret garden.
A friend, a lover, a colleague.
Maybe I was desperate to share it with someone. Like I’d ordered the most sumptuous meal of
my life (which I had in a restaurant in Dublin – I doubt it still exists) and
asked someone to be seated, take a fork and join in. This was a facile process, like a prayer with
to an empty universe. And yes, I had
relationships. I offered my heart, my
life to a few people and got jackshit in return. And then, completely in media res, my wife turns up.
My previous relationship was completely toxic, like
plugging my circulatory system into a gigantic lake of shit. I spent a few years, literally hiding in a
quiet corner of Liverpool. I used to
walk on the beaches, within the easiest reach.
It was the obsession with music that kept me going, kept me warm on cold
winter nights; when the windows of a flat in a Victorian house I lived in, used
to become opaque, ghostly, cradling me from the world and all its slings and
arrows of outrageous misfortune.
My wife, when I met her on social media (I know, very
millennial) saw something in me that I didn’t immediately (and even now, sometimes
still don’t) see in myself. I had to
learn the language of love, like a character in a Shakepeare comedy, a kitten
on the keys. Music was the easiest means
of communication. We used to literally
send each other YouTube clips of songs sometimes, the words being so distant
and the emotions themselves becoming so overwhelming.
When we actually met, it became a buzz in the
background. I remember coming home from
work late one night, as autumn was sliding into winter and everything seems to
lose a bit of buzz and rez. Inside the
rough Scouse boozer that approached where I turned off to my flat, Sweet Love by Anita Baker was playing. It had become my earworm, as I realised I was
falling in love with someone I’d barely knew.
I recorded it on my phone and sent it to my partner.
Later on, we got married to it. My wife walked down the aisle, a symphony in
green as Anita Baker twisted the air conditioned breeze into shapes that Wyndham
Lewis would be proud of.
My wife, to her credit has introduced me to a lot of
music. Not all of it I like, but that is
a relationship in a nutshell. We spend a
lot of our time in the car, travelling from our home on a Devonian hill for an
equal variety of both short and long journeys.
She’s introduced me to a lot of stuff I was aware of, and have since
gained a grudging, growing and grumpy acceptance of. This includes early Elton John, Abba, and
Billy Joel. This is a continuing
process, happily. When Apple uses the phrase ‘Family Sharing’, I’m not sure
this is what they had in mind.
However, I had a dayjob slowly twisted the knife. I used to listen to music on the way to
work. You could say that about a good
75% of the population. It was the way of
inuring me for another eleven hours in that job. I was using music to deafen myself to what
was really happening, what I was really feeling. And it was only later, when I left that job I
realised I was suffering from depression.
Loss of Interest in Things You Once Found Pleasurable doesn’t really
cover a mechanical obsession with music, a sort of middle ground between
listening and not listening.
And then came, the real crash. My wife became pregnant. Our twelve week scan revealed our daughter;
River McCready had died. I became
emotionally numb; I can remember every single detail of that day. I can remember buying a takeaway deal from
Marks and Spencer, feeling numb and separate from a shopping centre on a Friday
afternoon. I can also remember a lyric
from Let Me Show You The Way by
Thundercat, buzzing and bouncing around my head:
Just hold
your face, into the light
Though right
now, you might know why
It made sense, on a day when little else did. I think I am still processing it, now. My mind is still buffering it, loading the
files on a mental cloud. What I did
notice was the buzz that music gave me; I was still listening, floating
somewhere between 6Music and Radio 2.
Recognising, but not enjoying it.
It was that moment before a car crash, where you can vaguely recall the
moment before it happened. I was in one when I was five – I can remember the
car approaching us. It was like the last
tangible thing, before I wondered why the car was upside down and blood was
pouring down the windows.
Events continued, both internally and externally. My wife needed some extra support, plus I had
reached the absolute and utter limit of what I was prepared to accept in my
job. I applied for a sabbatical, but this
wouldn’t take place for three months. I
made the decision to leave. Then as
quickly as the ink on my resignation letter dried, we had the opportunity to
move to Devon. As we say in our house,
it would be rude not to.
We spent the next few months, travelling across the
country from Liverpool to Devon. That
buzzes of music again, in the car as I became acquainted with cheap hotels and
motorway services. And I could feel my
ears and soul opening to something beautiful.
I could feel music, pulling me close, pulling me under again.
And then, the actual epiphany. Like most epiphanies, it took place in the
place you least expect. Equally, like
the actual root of the word, it took place on a road. Not the one to Damascus, but the one to
Exeter. I got on the bus, turned on the
iPod, and scrolled to the last compliation I did. I enjoyed every song – it utterly made sense,
this insane, unconditional love, returning and renewing itself on an hour long
bus journey.
I am a heart a hopeful human being. There’s always one Beatles album I’ve never
heard, there’s always one Shakespeare play I’ve not seen. Perhaps music itself is a reminder of the
hopeful nature of the human condition. Perhaps, it’s emblematic of the
transient nature of things you love.
Well, most things anyway.
I’m back where I belong. In the space between the notes, but no longer
lonely.
