Has anyone else's mental age failed to keep up with the physical?
Mine seems to have wound up in a time warp circa 1969 - 1977. Why it chose to get stuck in that particular tiny epoch, I'm not so sure. I suppose the obvious diagnosis lies in the transition between adolescence and adulthood; the self-discovery years or suchlike. Youtube doesn't make it any easier, not that I'm complaining, mind. I don't think I'm a fully fledged nostalgia nerd just yet, but I do like to delve back into those halcyon days from time to time. And it would appear that I'm not alone, judging by the collective reminiscing that goes on in the comments section from people giving the thumbs up to some old Wishbone Ash clip, or any other long forgotten stalwarts of the rock and prog. idiom. Yes, it gives me great comfort to know that there are still Boomers out there, disparate, far flung but legion in number, not to have forgotten just how good good music was. (at this point I don't want to come across to younger readers of this post as some sanctimonious old git decrying the quality of what gets churned out today, as if all that was out back then was brilliant, cos it wasn't, there was some right dross doing the rounds, I can tell you) It's just that I feel a bit sorry for those of us who grew up, and I'm not talking about responsibility, moral awareness and all that stuff. I mean those people whose mental age continues to run concomitant with their physical appearance. I know guys who became their dad, and I just don't get it. Why would they do that? Our parents grew up in austerity, (okay, I know we're going through that now) but their generation and the one before it went through two World Wars. We were lucky enough to come kicking and screaming into this world at the same time as Rock'n'Roll. I'm a child of the late sixties and early seventies and mentally that's where I'll always be, right up to the moment they put me in that box, and just wait for the playlist I'll have drawn up as they wheel me down the... well, whatever it is they wheel me down.
I often find myself harking back to those little insignificant idiosyncrasies of life that somehow felt so important back in the day; cherished but often daft memories of a simpler time. Like the moments spent enthusing over the merits of the obscure bands and album titles you used to find on the inner sleeve of some old Harvest LP: Ummagumma - Wasa Wasa - Gris-gris - Wakajawaka - In a Gadda da vida - The Madcap barfs! Drooling over Susan Stranks, Linda Thorson and Sonja Kristina. Listening to Stuart Henry and Alan "Fluff" Freeman on the radio, and James Alexander Gordon at a quarter-to-five on a Saturday afternoon reading the footie results. Rushing past my mam frying chips on a friday tea-time to sit in front of the telly waiting for The Flashing Blade, and Ace of Wands - "...take what you can from yesterday, the rest beg, steal or borrow..." Hell, yes. I belong to a time that seduced me, took me hostage, and held me in cryonic suspension, like some latter day Adam Adamant with his Edwardian cape and cane plonked into the now. (I've just about managed to lose the cheesecloth shirt and flares) I know that poor old Clarkson gets some stick for still wearing denim - and TBH I can't stand the bloke - but if he's worn Levi's all his life why should he start shopping at Marks & Spencer just because he's reached a certain age? My son is 28 now, and for as long as I can remember we've always been mates. We share the same sense of humour, taste in music, sport, food, etc. etc. He's never had to show any deference to me just because I'm his dad - respect, yes, but that works both ways. There's never been a generation gap between us like there was with me and my old man, and I'm sure it's due in no small part to me still being 19 in my head.
Occasionally I still play those big old black pieces of vinyl on my trusty Lin Sondek, not just because I truly believe that they sound better than those horrible little shiny discs. It's all to do with the aestheticism, the feel, the smell, the scratch that comes in halfway through Edgar Broughton's "Out Demons Out" (and eerily goes in time with the beat) that was inflicted during some wild debauched party at the dawn of the seventies. Besides, those crappy plastic CD cases don't last two minutes, whereas a gate-fold album cover will last forever. A valve amp versus a transistor, a gig ticket purchased without a booking fee, a time when people used indicators in their cars... oops, sorry, didn't mean for it to turn into a rant.
Of course, I draw the line at "Dad Dancing" (unless I'm pissed past caring). I've been to one or two Northern Soul reunions, stood around thinking: "What are all these old people doing here?" , never once realising that probably a good 95% of them are younger than me...
Nostalgia - It isn't what it used to be, but I suppose it will be one day - won't it?
Mine seems to have wound up in a time warp circa 1969 - 1977. Why it chose to get stuck in that particular tiny epoch, I'm not so sure. I suppose the obvious diagnosis lies in the transition between adolescence and adulthood; the self-discovery years or suchlike. Youtube doesn't make it any easier, not that I'm complaining, mind. I don't think I'm a fully fledged nostalgia nerd just yet, but I do like to delve back into those halcyon days from time to time. And it would appear that I'm not alone, judging by the collective reminiscing that goes on in the comments section from people giving the thumbs up to some old Wishbone Ash clip, or any other long forgotten stalwarts of the rock and prog. idiom. Yes, it gives me great comfort to know that there are still Boomers out there, disparate, far flung but legion in number, not to have forgotten just how good good music was. (at this point I don't want to come across to younger readers of this post as some sanctimonious old git decrying the quality of what gets churned out today, as if all that was out back then was brilliant, cos it wasn't, there was some right dross doing the rounds, I can tell you) It's just that I feel a bit sorry for those of us who grew up, and I'm not talking about responsibility, moral awareness and all that stuff. I mean those people whose mental age continues to run concomitant with their physical appearance. I know guys who became their dad, and I just don't get it. Why would they do that? Our parents grew up in austerity, (okay, I know we're going through that now) but their generation and the one before it went through two World Wars. We were lucky enough to come kicking and screaming into this world at the same time as Rock'n'Roll. I'm a child of the late sixties and early seventies and mentally that's where I'll always be, right up to the moment they put me in that box, and just wait for the playlist I'll have drawn up as they wheel me down the... well, whatever it is they wheel me down.
I often find myself harking back to those little insignificant idiosyncrasies of life that somehow felt so important back in the day; cherished but often daft memories of a simpler time. Like the moments spent enthusing over the merits of the obscure bands and album titles you used to find on the inner sleeve of some old Harvest LP: Ummagumma - Wasa Wasa - Gris-gris - Wakajawaka - In a Gadda da vida - The Madcap barfs! Drooling over Susan Stranks, Linda Thorson and Sonja Kristina. Listening to Stuart Henry and Alan "Fluff" Freeman on the radio, and James Alexander Gordon at a quarter-to-five on a Saturday afternoon reading the footie results. Rushing past my mam frying chips on a friday tea-time to sit in front of the telly waiting for The Flashing Blade, and Ace of Wands - "...take what you can from yesterday, the rest beg, steal or borrow..." Hell, yes. I belong to a time that seduced me, took me hostage, and held me in cryonic suspension, like some latter day Adam Adamant with his Edwardian cape and cane plonked into the now. (I've just about managed to lose the cheesecloth shirt and flares) I know that poor old Clarkson gets some stick for still wearing denim - and TBH I can't stand the bloke - but if he's worn Levi's all his life why should he start shopping at Marks & Spencer just because he's reached a certain age? My son is 28 now, and for as long as I can remember we've always been mates. We share the same sense of humour, taste in music, sport, food, etc. etc. He's never had to show any deference to me just because I'm his dad - respect, yes, but that works both ways. There's never been a generation gap between us like there was with me and my old man, and I'm sure it's due in no small part to me still being 19 in my head.
Occasionally I still play those big old black pieces of vinyl on my trusty Lin Sondek, not just because I truly believe that they sound better than those horrible little shiny discs. It's all to do with the aestheticism, the feel, the smell, the scratch that comes in halfway through Edgar Broughton's "Out Demons Out" (and eerily goes in time with the beat) that was inflicted during some wild debauched party at the dawn of the seventies. Besides, those crappy plastic CD cases don't last two minutes, whereas a gate-fold album cover will last forever. A valve amp versus a transistor, a gig ticket purchased without a booking fee, a time when people used indicators in their cars... oops, sorry, didn't mean for it to turn into a rant.
Of course, I draw the line at "Dad Dancing" (unless I'm pissed past caring). I've been to one or two Northern Soul reunions, stood around thinking: "What are all these old people doing here?" , never once realising that probably a good 95% of them are younger than me...
Nostalgia - It isn't what it used to be, but I suppose it will be one day - won't it?