A Hell Of An Orchestra

A guttural and thundering bass, evocative of peace and the era of free love, followed by the wistful, true, sincere and earnestly sung, 'It's gettin' near dawn/When lights close their tired eyes...'

Give up?  I'm thinking of 'Sunshine Of Your Love' by Cream, comprising Messrs Jack Bruce, Ginger Baker, and Eric Clapton.  What talented men, and what trials they have dealt with over the years.  By this I refer to Baker's heroin addiction, and Clapton's tragic loss of his young son.  I cannot listen to the song 'Tears in Heaven' because it distresses me so, and makes me cry.

Now we have our own loss.  I woke up this morning to learn man who delivers that powerful bass and the vocal power behind those lyrics, Jack Bruce, has died aged 71. 

This has been the utterly crappiest week for me, a music fan.  First of all, Raphael Ravenstock died at just 60 years of age.  If you're not sure about the name, then you'll definitely know his work.  Go to You Tube and have a listen to Gerry Rafferty's 'Baker Street'.  Ravenstock was the saxophonist, and if that's not one of the most BRILLIANT pieces of sax, then what is?  Yes, I know 'Yackety Sax', aka, 'Benny Hill Getting Chased By Women In Lingerie' is good, too, but oh, the feelings the solo in 'Baker Street' stirs in me.  I just want to lie down and close my eyes, and this music helps me forget the world.

The same world that the other day lost Alvin Stardust.  I loved 'My Coo Ca Choo' when I was a kid.  Yes, I know the lyrics might be a bit naff compared to what I've quoted in the first paragraph herein, but it's Glam!  It's a piece in the puzzle of the glam rock zeitgeist.  And Alvin tries to looking menacing, but somehow doesn't, yet it's all wonderful.  'Tom Cat/You know where it's at/Come on, let's go to my flat/Lay down and groove on the mat/Oh won't be my coo-ca-choo?'  Yeah, yeah, I know.  But it's probably more poetic and inviting than, 'Let's go to my place and have a root on the floor', which I'm sure is the subtext of those lyrics.  I am sure Stardust was in a West End production of 'Chitty Chitty Bang Bang' a few years ago, playing the grandfather.  He's died after a brief battle with prostate cancer.  RIP to him, too.

And now Jack Bruce.  We are left on Earth with what appears to be a glut of drones who have no skill on an instrument, unless it's programmed into a computer, and pain our ears with banality such as 'My anaconda don't want none/Unless you got buns, hon.'  Pfffffft!

Speaking of music, the other day I was driving an elderly lady around the district (a scheduled respite outing for her), and being the old dag I am, had the local AM station on the radio.  They had some program where the top selling singles for consecutive years were being played.  It came to 1985, and yeah, 'We Are The World'.  I won't labour the issue.  If you've followed my blog in the past, you will know I detest this song with passion, so I calmly turned down the radio, looked at the woman beside me and apologised, explaining the song made my ears bleed (particularly the part where Bob Dylan honks in like a sick goose at the end).  After an appropriate amount of time, I turned the radio back up, and what did I get? 1986  - and the best selling single of that year was 'Venus' by Bananarama!  I almost let fly with expletives, but just turned down the radio again, and kept driving.  The obligatory three minutes went by, and I ventured a twist 'up' on the dial.  Now it was time for 1987, and what was I subjected to?  What was the best seller for that year?  Well, it started with a string of the synthesised boppy notes that was a signature to the dung inflicted on us by Stock Aitken Waterman, a trio responsible for the most horrid dross of the Eighties.  And yeah, it was frickin' Rick Astley singing, 'Never Gonna Give You Up'.  'Aaaaarrrggghhh!' I wailed, 'What fresh hell is this?'  And turned down the radio again.  With the sound fluctuating, the poor old girl in the passenger seat probably had concerns for her hearing aid battery.

So, RIP to some musical greats.  Shit, the band up there is getting wonderful.  It's not a band anymore, it's an orchestra, I reckon.

Oh, and last night I wasn't hope.  I telephoned my home and spoke to my kids.  The oldest sounded different.  It seems his vocal chords are thickening.  And it's not just me, but when his dad got on the phone, he asked did I think the boy's voice sounded different.  My son is growing up.  Tissues, please.