For many years, I prided myself on my musical knowledge. Not a Thursday night went by during the seventies and eighties when I was not glued to the television screen for Top of the Pops. I remember watching Pan’s People and dreaming of the day when I too might own a pair of glittery stretch lurex leggings. I knew every song that came on the radio, and all the words.
Top of the Pops may be long gone, but up until recently, I still had my radio tuned to the pop station, still knew all the new artists and songs, still knew most of the words. I would always be a modern mum, I decided; my love of pop music would never leave.
Mysteriously, of late, I have found myself on long car journeys craving quiet, and conversation. I have been listening to podcasts, to Desert Island Discs and here in America, NPR. The more I have listened, the more I have forgotten to listen to music, and when I have done, it was through Spotify, and tended to be the music of decades gone by.
A couple of weeks ago, I decided to watch The Grammy’s with the kids. I love nothing more than a good awards show, particularly the red carpet beforehand. I like seeing what the stars are wearing, and what they’re going to be singing. I sat through twenty minutes of the red carpet before the truth finally hit: I have officially aged out of the Grammy’s. In fact, I may have officially aged out of youth, because I didn’t have a clue who any of them were.
And worse than that, the clothes! Or rather, the lack thereof! “Why are their bosoms hanging out?” I kept muttering to myself, although somewhat gratifyingly The Rower kept overhearing, and he agreed. I felt a wave of pride at having raised him well. We both stared aghast at the screen, at a presenter who wore an evening dress that essentially consisted of two black triangles of fabric that somehow managed to barely cover her breasts, whilst forcing them together in a most unnatural way.
The show started and presenters approached the podium to announce the new categories. Best album, best newcomer, etc etc. With the exception of Adele and Beyoncé, I didn’t have a clue who any of them were. Frankly, neither did my kids. It all sounded like a lot of noise, with some very bad fashion thrown in for good measure.
I felt immeasurably old. I went into the kitchen singing some Jackson 5, realizing I never did buy those sparkly lurex leggings, and wondering if it might not to be too late. Even if they never leave the privacy of my bedroom, there is much bopping in front of the bedroom mirror that I could be doing, the sounds of the seventies, when music made sense to me, on my mind.
(First published in The Lady magazine)