We once drove from an island SW of Greece all the way to Latvia via five other communist countries.
No work there so we decided to drive SW till we ran out of land.
Got some domestic and restaurant work at an outpost in Spain - till we were sacked for incompetence - and drove on down to an island SW of Portugal.
Ahhh, no work there either so back via Spain and France and up to Scotland this time.
From John O’Groats we caught a flight to London, and that was the start of my love affair with Europe - real Europe.
Dear Cloggo, I thought for your birthday we’d do a bit of time travel.
I nipped up to the attic while you were asleep and brought these pix back down - all surely full of memories for you, ancient or more recent.
So get into the driver’s seat and off you go.
Start where you want; I will be your amanuensis.
And Happiest of birthdays and New Years to a living treasure!
xoxo
Pic sources:
1. Carpark Austin Seven Cockpit, 2. brothers in arms, 3. Dutch winter carpet, 4. Snow House, 5. www.flickr.com/photos/photimages/5229941708/, 6. Kahlila with Dragline, 7. Piping, 8. Beamish Tramways - in action no matter what the weather!, 9. Waiting for the End., 10. The command post, 11. Thomson Boeing 767-200, 12. Similarity, 13. Journalism BC: Before Computers
You young Tumblers — and some of you are barely out of short pants, as we used to say — probably have no idea that back in the early 70s (the last days of rock music), bands often travelled from town to town by bus, with a small crew.
It was gruelling. At the end of a long day or night everyone would just lazily sing along with a record — and Tiny Dancer is a song that still makes me shiver with pleasure.
Elton John sang poignant folk ballads in those days. He was not a showman; he was quite melancholy and his songs, with lyrics by Bernie Taupin, were often poignant and emotional.
I love Cameron Crowe’s movie and story Almost Famous because it closely matches my own experiences of that time, or at least my passions. My life, too, revolved around writing about music, interviewing bands and hearing the next bunch of LPs to be released.
In New Zealand we were more British-oriented — I would read every word of Melody Maker, for example, then get on the phone with friends who were musos and we would discuss EVERYTHING! We must have been walking encyclopedias on the contents of Melody Maker (and to a lesser extent NME, which had the same info presented with less flair).
By the mid-70s — back in New Zealand from a time on the road and living in London — I was part of a household full of musicians (including my then husband) and it was open house most of the time. The usual residents were a gay man, a lesbian couple, a cat and a dog plus me and hubby but friends were always coming and going.
I worked at a newspaper during the day, wrote a music column for it in my own time and still went out to the band’s pub gigs at night, because that was the loyal thing to do.
The wives and girlfiends always occupied a table in front of the stage; there was never a case of “I don’t feel like it tonight”.
~ ~ ~
The first time I realised those days were over was when I heard the Sex Pistols.
I knew instinctively what it meant; the sound was nasty. It wasn’t just that it was a harsher sound; the whole implied attitude was different. There had been a coup.
Punk bands were sometimes aligned with right-wing ideas (remember bovver boys?) and svengalis like Malcolm McLaren who discovered and manipulated Johnny Rotten and Sid Vicious were opportunistic and cynically motivated — though I don’t doubt quite inspired.
Well that’s my simplistic take on it.
I can still wallow in the music of the early 70s and sometimes do!
And Tiny Dancer gets me every time.
