THOSE WERE THE DAYS (MY FRIEND)
Do you remember when you were a teenager and music really meant something?
You would adopt a certain style of dress, (let’s call it a uniform) a distinct and divisive haircut, and you would hang out more or less exclusively with people who looked (and felt) the same as you.
You would study the lyrics of your favourite bands, finding meaning where there was none, and convincing yourself that you connected with the songs, and by extension with the band, in a way that no-one else could.
Obviously, your heroes were the band members. You would faithfully copy their every fashion choice, mimic their gestures and patterns of speech and adopt their views unquestioningly as your own.
If someone dared to play something that fell outside your very narrow field of musical tastes, you would leap to the attack, pouring scorn and derision on their poor judgement and ignorance.
Then you would set about trying to change their mind - playing your choicest songs in an effort to save the poor benighted heathen from a lifetime of sub-standard tunes.
Naturally, with them being as passionate about their music as you were about yours, there was zero chance of a conversion.
Perhaps inevitably, a stalemate ensued. Frustrated with their patent inability to grasp the simple truth that your band was better than theirs, you would begin throwing insults.
You would mock their tunes, jeer at their fashion choices and laugh incredulously at the mere idea that anyone could prefer Metallica to the Mission, or Spandau Ballet to Sisters of Mercy.
If they were a person of spirit, then they would counter with insults and observations of their own.
At this point, proceedings would move to the physical plane and an exhilarating scuffle would ensue.
Usually, this would be broken up within minutes by the authorities and the whole situation would peter out. After which both parties would return to their day (and their music) cheered and invigorated by the encounter.
It was a simpler time, and these little contretemps added the zest and excitement which we, as hormonal teenagers, required from life. We felt ourselves to be crusaders, members of a holy order tasked with the mission of spreading the word (or perhaps I should say the lyrics) and offering the unbeliever a glimpse of the heaven afforded by our particular brand of music.
And then everything changed.
The question of gainful employment reared its ugly head, and suddenly, having purple hair and an alternative lifestyle wasn’t the social currency it had been previously.
Thrust into the real world by cruel and intolerant parents, we were forced to compromise. The mohawk became the short back and sides, the all-black ensemble the sober suit and tie.
In short, we conformed. And, as we did, our musical ardour dimmed. We met girls and boys, whose physical appeal outweighed their lack of musical taste. We compromised and made allowances.
In my case, I found myself starting to enjoy listening to my girlfriend’s Erasure albums. Next thing I knew, I was going to an AC/DC concert, then an Alanis Morrissette one.
Once the first wall of my musical ideals was breached, the rest fell in short order. I became interested in hip-hop then trance. Gothic music became nothing more than nostalgia, a fleeting trip down memory lane.
Now 52, I find that young and idealistic has been replaced by old and tolerant. As I write this, my wife is listening to NeverEnding Story by Limahl, and i find myself nodding along indulgently.
But every once in a while, I find myself hankering for the old days and the fierce passions music used to engender in me.
But then Hanson’s mmmbop comes on the radio and I am soothed once more into a state of what Pink Floyd might refer to as being ‘comfortably numb.’
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