Tag: music

Mixed on the turntable

The pedestrian crossing on Abbey Road still looked the same. Marrie held my hand and smiled as she said, ‘It’s such a shame I should have stayed with you for more than just a day, but the music was good, wouldn’t you say. I nodded my head. She was still so pretty, and I was paralysed, almost fell into those big green eyes. The girl of my best friend walked past, and my heart skipped a beat. I wondered if I should tell her how I feel, but if she told him so, I could never face either one again, so I looked away, telling her, would be for another day. It was never about fame, because I realised fame comes and goes, and I know I should say sorry because sometimes the beat is inconsistent, which doesn’t help the dancers be more consistent. Apologies only happen at a later date, most times, much too late. There was a busker on the street corner playing ‘Something’, George was so in love when he wrote the music, thought it would last forever, but time changes everything, and before long, they drifted apart, leaving just the song as a memory before it all went wrong. The busker smiled as he strummed the guitar, then a look of sadness spread over his face as the song took him to another place. I was there when his girl left him for someone new and heard him say to himself as she left, ‘If I had stayed true, I know she wouldn’t be with you .’ An old black man sat on a wooden stool his hands were bent and gnarled but but they moved like magic over the strings of the guitar, dancing in front of him was a girl with a dimple on her chin; she was his babe, and he had his eye on you, the words don’t rhyme, but the music stays true almost as good as Mary loo. The beat was hypnotic; you could play it loud, listen to it alone, or in a crowd.

I don’t mind if you forget I am there, or if most times you share, and please forgive me if I make you cry as you think of a friend that’s long past bye, a girl you once knew, and wonder where it could have gone if you had told her she was the special one. I can take you back in time, be the calendar that used to hang on the wall, the mark your mom put on the wall as you started to grow tall. The tears you cried the day your dog died. He was old, but you hoped Kizzie would live longer than you; but think how he would miss you not knowing where you had gone, he would think you had left him not past on. Please don’t sigh, don’t waste a day. I will always be there if you need me, I will lift you up if you’re down, and fill the room with an incredible sound. Because I am ……………….

I am Music.

No sharp edges

  Rough draft of text for song, no melody yet

                                                                 

The music gets louder as I walk towards the door. It’s vaguely familiar, I try to remember who they are; a pretty girl smiles at me, so I don’t get that far. The smile lasts forever, but it does when you’re a teen, I know I shouldn’t, but I look her up and down, she doesn’t seem to notice. The smile is still there, it goes with the mini skirt and long blond hair. ‘My boyfriend’s inside,’ she says, ‘with my other friends.’ Wonder if her boyfriend believes in lend’s. I quickly dismiss that thought, she seems a nice girl, still I wouldn’t mind taking a whirl. The smile returns as if she has read my thoughts, ‘perhaps see you later,’ she says, and her lips sort of pout, if her boyfriend’s six foot six, I will rule the lend’s out. 

I grab a beer and drink it fast, and then another one, as the conveyor belt goes past, I move into the world where nothing really matters, no sharp edges, everything is smooth, life has become easy, problems melt away, they were of my own making anyway. The beers keep coming, girls linger past, they give me the look, but I just shrug my shoulders pretending I am took, I don’t think too deep, why girls find me attractive, without me being too proactive, perhaps it was luck or maybe it’s the genes, but they are wrangler and tight at the seams.

The producer tells me I will be famous when the film is released, but fame might not suit me I quite like who I am. Do I really want to become another man? They say it’s going to be a massive hit, put my name up in lights; make me a star. So I bought a car to go with the image, it’s real fast, especially on the straight not so good if I run out of space. No one can give me the one thing I want, which is to stay young forever, never grow old. I bet there are millions that think that way, but never met anyone who could stay. The girl with the boyfriend suddenly appears and moves in close, I get her a drink, ‘he’s my ex now,’ she says with a grin as she moves onto her second gin, another one follows, then four and five.

I grab a beer and drink it fast, and then another one, as the conveyor belt goes past, I move into the world where nothing really matters, no sharp edges, everything is smooth, life has become easy, problems melt away, they were of my own making anyway. The beers keep coming, girls linger past, they give me the look, but I just shrug my shoulders pretending I am took. I don’t think too deeply why girls find me attractive without me being too proactive, perhaps it was luck or maybe it’s the genes, but they are wrangler and tight at the seams.

She grabs my arm and gets real close, her perfume mixes with the beer and gin as if it’s seeping through her skin, she’s really pretty but very young, if she’s under age this could all be wrong. She grinned and read my thoughts again ‘I am older than I look if you’re worried about my age, and much wiser than many, almost a sage. You could get us a taxi and take me home, much better than spending a night alone,’ We walk outside, the Porsche reflects the neon lights she asks my name and what I do then the number plate comes into view. ‘j Dean’ she says, but doesn’t have a clue who I am and I quite like being an invisible man.

I would never get old, and there is a mystic in thinking what I could have become, but I did more in my life than most people ever do, and was always destined to join the club of the famous few.

Don’t ever forget me

Taken from a story by David Timmins on Amazon Kindle, written with the idea it could be converted into a musical. While it is about three children, it is meant to be read by all ages. The chapter titles are taken from classic records, mainly from the sixties.
Music is far better than having a calendar on your wall or a photograph in an album, and will enable you to recall memories that may be bitter or sweet, but all are part of being human.
So if you read the whole story, mix it with red wine and play the titles, but don’t over-indulge and make an alowance for my poor grammer, as I went to nine different schools and lived in five different houses before I was fifteen

My name is Rebecca. Today is my tenth birthday. It was going to be such a special birthday.
A trip to the cinema with my father who I love to bits, then a party at home with all my friends.
That’s when I would wear that special dress.
Then something terrible happened that changed my life forever.
I would never wear that special dress, and today would not be my only tenth birthday.

This is the end of the second chapter.

That’ll be the day
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
We passed the Aston Villa football ground on our right-hand side. Not that you could actually see much of it from here, but it was possible to recognise the floodlights that marked out the football pitch perimeter and the top half of their club name.
Dad was a Villa fan when he was young, and back then they were a good side, but after several years of poor results his enthusiasm had now disappearing.
He took a slip road that led off the Aston Expressway and swung left at the next island, then as we slowly approached a set of traffic lights a lorry veered violently across the road in front of us and I heard dad shout out loud. ‘Rebecca, look out, for God’s sake, look out.’
But I was frozen in horror. There was a screech of brakes, and I could smell rubber as the lorry’s tyres tried to grip the road.
I remember watching, unable to move as it headed straight for me, and the music got so loud that it hurt my ears and it vibrated in my head, the lorry was right on top of me, and I shouted a single word. ‘Mom.’
Then the whole world spun around and turned black.

Every Day

The next thing I remembered was walking along a pavement which edged a busy road.
I looked around but couldn’t recognize where this was, but it was full of people bustling past. They seemed to move so quickly, and several times I was forced to take evasive action.
I frowned and thought to myself how bad-mannered they were.
Then I remembered the accident and considered perhaps it was me that was moving slowly because I was still in shock.
By now I was starting to panic.
‘Where am I and what’s happened to my dad?’ I sobbed out loudly. But nobody took the slightest bit of notice.
All of a sudden I saw a sign over a building which read ‘Police Station.’ Dad always told me that if I was in danger or in any sort of trouble, to try to find one.
‘If you ever get lost or need help, they will always be there for you, it’s their job, and they are especially good with young children.’
It’s funny. When he got that speeding ticket six months previously, he wasn’t so complimentary towards the officer who issued him with the fixed penalty fine.
I waited until there was a break in the traffic, then I crossed the road and squeezed through the half-open front door.
The building was quite ancient, but to me, anything that was over twenty years old would either be classed as Edwardian or Victorian, although I could never remember which came first and which came last.
I found myself in a large office and noticed it was not very well organized.
Against one wall were several filing cabinets, some of the draws were wedged open because all sorts of documents and ledgers were crammed rather than placed inside them.
Many were bent at the edges with prominent scuff marks on the corners, as if someone with very little patience had tried to shut the drawers without making the effort to sort them out properly.
The room smelt damp and musky, adding to the feeling that this building was quite ancient.
The light was quite dim, but as my eyes adjusted, I started to look around for someone who could help me.
Finally. I noticed the outline of a man sitting behind a large oak desk.
I started to move closer and realized that it was an elderly policeman. On his right-hand side and placed within easy reach was a mug full of what looked like hot tea; so hot that the liquid changed into steam and gently drifted upwards.
I watched as he picked the cup up and sipped hesitantly from its rim, and smiled to myself as the lens of his glasses totally clouded over.
‘Bugger,’ I heard him mutter and his face briefly resembled that of a bulldog sucking a wasp through a Kaylie straw, ‘they never put enough milk in the tea, and how do they get it this hot?
If I drunk this straight away, I wouldn’t have any lips left.’
He put his drink down, then removed his glasses and wiped them furiously on the bottom of his shirt. After replacing them he picked up a pen and continued to write on half-completed forms which were placed higgledy-piggledy on the top of his desk.
His clothes seemed to fit in with the ancient decor and I wondered if he started here as a young man when the building was first built.
I discounted this idea because my teacher was always telling me that Victorians and Edwardians died out a long time ago.
I looked even more closely at his face.
He had not aged well. More wrinkles than a prune I thought to myself.
His hair was pure white, as was his beard, but it did contain small flecks of jet black hair; that’s a strange combination I thought.
By now I was standing directly in front of him. I coughed loudly, but he carried on writing.
Perhaps his hearing wasn’t too good. I coughed even louder.
I waited patiently for what seemed to be several minutes. Every now and again, I coughed increasingly loudly. But he took no notice, I decided to be more forceful.
‘My name is Rebecca. I was involved in a car accident today. I’m on my own and I don’t know what’s happened to my dad.’
I paused as I thought of dad, then added as tears started to form in my eyes, ‘I am only ten years old, and it’s my birthday today.’
I saw his eyes flicker; he raised one hand. ‘Just give me another minute Miss and I will be right with you,’
It seemed a lot longer than a minute to me, but I stayed quiet, and eventually the policeman put his pen down and looked up.
‘There that’s it. Sorry to keep you waiting, but at my age if you don’t complete what’s in front of you it’s so difficult to remember where you got to.
Now, young lady, what can I do for you?’
‘It’s my dog Gertrude. She seems to have disappeared. She has never done anything like this before and I am so worried about her.
She is only two and has no road sense.
I lost my other dog the same way. She got out through the back gate and never came home; I never got over shock of losing her.
I know that I shouldn’t think like this, but I feel as if it could be my fault.
Perhaps I never gave Gertrude enough food, or maybe she didn’t like Sundays when all the other ladies would come around and we would practice singing hymns.
You see constable. Not all the ladies had my vocal range, in fact, some were quite out of tune.
I know Gertrude never liked that, she would show the whites of her eyes and then just howl to show them the correct notes.
Gertrude has a wonderful vocal range.’
I turned around and stared at the elderly woman behind me.
‘But I was here first,’ I told her in what was now a very creaky voice, ‘I have been in a car accident and my dad is missing.’
‘Dogs aren’t really what we are about at the police station,’ the policeman said, totally ignoring me, ‘it’s more a case for the RSPCA.
I am sure that if you get in touch with them, they will be able to help.
I think that I have some leaflets in the cupboard. You could try phoning some of the help numbers on them just in case someone’s handed her in.’
The policeman stood slowly upright, supporting his body by placing his one hand on the side of the desk; he hesitated for a moment to steady his legs and then walked straight past me as if I wasn’t there.
I was now feeling very scared by what was happening. The back of my neck started to tingle, and I could feel the hairs on it move into an upright position.
I know it’s mentioned in a lot of scary films and I never really knew if it was something that had been made up, but now I knew it was true.
I walked towards him and reached for his hand. ‘Please. Please help me. I have lost my dad and don’t know what to do?’ I said with tears now in full flow.
I remember screaming out loud as my hand passed through his arm as if he were a ghost.
I stumbled against the counter, then just run outside still screaming, but no one took any notice of me.
I don’t know how I got through the next few hours, I was in a daze, a trance, and I wondered aimlessly along without any idea of where I was going.
By now I had found out that I could walk straight through people as if they were just holograms.
On one occasions I accidentally stumbled right through the body of a girl who was about my own age.
For some reason it required a lot of effort and felt as if I was wading through treacle, but the really scary thing was that I could see all the organs that were working inside her body.
After that, whenever possible, I walked around people.
What had happened to me?
Was I dead; had I become a ghost?
I sat down on the steps of an old house, it was derelict and the door was boarded up with a sheet of plywood. I pushed my back tightly against it and drew my legs up so that my chin rested on my knees.
Somehow, I felt safer sitting like this. It was as if I were in some sort of impenetrable cocoon.
Then I tried to visualize the events that had happened in the last few hours.
I could still remember that lorry turning directly in front of the car and dad shouting something. What was it he said?
Then I remembered the words he used. ‘Look out Rebecca, for God sake, look out.’ It was not just the words that he used but the way his voice sounded.
It was full of terror.
Something else had changed. I now realised that I could not remember the name of the street that I lived in, only that it was somewhere near Birmingham.
I couldn’t go home because I didn’t know where I lived.
By now it was getting dark and I needed to be where there were lots of people. I would feel safer there even if they couldn’t see, or help me.

Forty Five

My first unfinished attempt at songwriting; just need to add a melody

                                                                    Forty Five

I watched as they danced together and wished it was me but they were just kids and didn’t deserve my jealousy. 

How I wanted him to look at me, the way he looked at her, I wouldn’t expect it right away that wouldn’t be fair but if she knew how much I was part of him perhaps we could share.

I didn’t realize it then but the world was about to change, you didn’t add them up or take them away but those two numbers four and five were here to stay.  The mini dress and jeans were just the start as black and white suddenly became colour and spread across the world changing the perception of boys and girls.

 Presidents got younger, shooting stars were bright, torches shone farther late at night. Parents felt threatened, their kids knew more, they watched in horror as the teenagers moonwalked across the floor.

There was a click and I started to spin round, that’s when I became part of that pulsing sound, part of the bare feet slapping on the ground, part of the guard at the door, part of the music that would never grow old.

Every generation thinks they know more than the one that came before, it’s not something new, it’s always been that way, when teenagers become men they only think about the pay, girls become women and stop taking a chance, most only dance with their husbands, they stop looking for romance.  

The world is always changing it never stays the same.

Just a few months later I heard Eddy had died and even though many years have passed, the tears haven’t dried, I grieve that he left us so young without finishing the prose and notes in his head but eventually realized you can’t if you’re dead.

Not so many people listen to me now because most have forgotten about him, but like me he will never get old and sometime in the future if you listen carefully, you may hear that pulsing sound, become part of the bare feet slapping on the ground, part of the guard at the door, part of the music that will never grow old.    

If you press play I still start to cry because the music’s still the same despite so many years passing by.

You may not find me if you stream but those numbers four and five are still there, if you want to dream.  

Ozzy Osbourne

Ozzy was a rock star with a personality so complex that even he never knew what he was going to do next. Ozzy was born with nitrogen instead of blood in his veins; the only way he could stop his body exploding was to try to suppress it with music, drugs, and alcohol. It seldom worked. He allegedly bit the head of a bat while on stage, thinking it was a toy. Tried to strangle his wife while on a combination of drugs and alcohol. had an affair that nearly ended the marriage.

When he was young, he worked in several jobs and probably hated most of them, but that changed when he heard ‘She Loves You’ on a blue transistor radio he was holding while walking along Witton Road, Birmingham; suddenly, he had a direction in life, something I could understand because music had started to change from black and white to colour. Somehow I missed the music of Black Sabbath, perhaps because I was seven years older, but I always liked the one song, ‘Paranoid.

Ozzy came from the same streets where my Mom lived her early life, a part of the city where I spent some of my teens.

They were made up of rows and rows of small terraced houses without front gardens. His dad was a toolmaker working at a local firm called GEC, only a short distance from where he lived. It was rare back then for most working-class families to have cars, so they tried to get jobs close to their homes.

The day after his death, I caught the metro to Birmingham and walked the short distance to the recently named Black Sabeth Bridge, mingling with an ever-growing crowd. There were People from all genres of life, just there to pay their respects, many not fans of that type of music, but most realised Ozzy felt something more important than music alone. He never forgot where he came from. Or what he came from. Ozzy loved Birmingham

Then I walked the short distance to the art gallery, where an amazing collection of his gold albums and various awards was on display. I couldn’t believe how many he had accumulated over the years. Yes, he was flawed, but we all are. And, of course, Ozzy was fortunate to be married to Sharon, who loved and cared for him despite his many faults.

He must be causing chaos in heaven.

Steve Winwood

Not many people even those who love music would know who Steve Winwood is and that’s probably understandable because he was born in Birmingham UK, not a City associated with the earthy type of music he made. At the age of twenty, I started going to a music venue in Handsworth Birmingham called the Plaza which had a reputation for bringing in the latest musical groups ( It was nearly all groups then rather than single acts and most artists played an instrument or sometimes more than one) One night The Spencer Group performed I was astounded by the voice of the small childlike figure of the lead singer who I later found out was Steve Winwood. It was how I imagined some of the thirties jazz musicians in America.

One of his songs was ‘Dimples’ written by John Lee Hooker, it was popular with all the local pub groups but Steve took it to a new level. He would later migrate to Traffic and Blind Faith, Bob Dillian was amazed by his voice.

This is where you run, sorry that’s Shreck. This is where you listen to Dimples, Keep on Running, Somebody Help Me, Gime Some Loving,

Watch them on YouTube with a glass of Yellow Tail Sharaz and Maybe Rave On Buddy Holly, ‘Glad All Over’ Dave Clark Five.