- Cliff Richard: Mistletoe and Wine
- Kylie & Jason: Especially for You
- Angry Anderson: Suddenly
- Erasure: Crackers International
- Bros: Cat Among the Pigeons / Silent Night
- Inner City: Good Life
- Phil Collins: Two Hearts
- Rick Astley: Take Me to Your Heart
- Status Quo: Burning Bridges (On and Off and On Again)
- U2: Angel of Harlem
- Michael Jackson: Smooth Criminal
- Robin Beck: First Time
- Petula Clark: Downtown '88
- Bomb the Bass featuring Maureen: Say a Little Prayer
- New Order: Fine Time
- Bananarama: Nathan Jones
- Chris de Burgh: Missing You
- Tiffany: Radio Romance
- Pet Shop Boys: Left to My Own Devices
- Humanoid: Stakker Humanoid
- INXS: Need You Tonight
- Bon Jovi: Born to Be My Baby
- The Four Tops: Loco in Aculpoco
- Hithouse: Jack to the Sound of the Underground
- a-ha: You Are the One [remix]
- George Michael: Kissing a Fool
- The Beach Boys: Kokomo
- Kim Wilde: Four Letter Word
- Londonbeat: 9 a.m. (The Comfort Zone)
- Alexander O'Neal: The Christmas Song / Thank You for a Good Year
- Neneh Cherry: Buffalo Stance
- Deacon Blue: Real Gone Kid
- Salt 'n' Pepa: Twist and Shout
- Traveling Wilburys: Handle with Care
- Kylie Minogue: Je ne sais pas pourquoi
- Shakin' Stevens: True Love
- Yazz: Stand Up for Your Love Rights
- Annie Lennox & Al Green: Put a Little Love in Your Heart
- The Pasadenas: Enchanted Lady
- Reggae Philharmonic Orchestra: Minnie the Moocher
~~~~~
The Summer of 1991. Bryan Adams was absolutely everywhere but about four weeks of (Everything I Do) I Do It for You was more than enough for me. Superman's Song by Crash Test Dummies was pretty good but it was hardly the sort of number that a fourteen-year-old could embrace and believe in. I have fond memories of attempting to rap in unison with Chris Robinson on The Black Crowes' Hard to Handle while on the Skyride at the Calgary Stampede but it wasn't something I sought out afterwards. It Ain't Over 'til It's Over, Unbelievable, 3 a.m. Eternal, I Am Here: yeah, there were a lot of solid tunes that July. But none could match the addictive chiming drone sung by a sullen, grubby urchin with a voice that could hit high notes but still sound flat. There She Goes by The La's was one of those songs that just seemed to alter everything. It sounded fresh yet harked back to the pop/rock golden age. It led me to an indie/alternative phase that took up the next year or so of my life - and probably led me towards eventually trying to discover as many types of music as possible. And all from a song that is so outstanding that even Sixpence None the Richer couldn't balls it up.
It's strange, then, that it was around two and a half years earlier. Clinging on to the lower reaches of the Top 100, it was one of many singles that failed to trouble the proper hit parade. Most would fade into obscurity but There She Goes eventually got a second chance. I wonder what my eleven-year-old self would have thought of it. Would I have been ready for it? I had little to do with indie at the time, I knew more about The Smithereens than The Smiths. The Top 40 was hardly brimming with tunes from the fringes, the closest being New Order's Fine Time, a thrilling jumble of acid house and synth pop that baffled me at the time - even though I liked the grotesque, nightmarish video. I may well have been equally stumped by There She Goes. I wasn't ready for it and, evidently, neither was 1988.
This week would be our last at school before the Christmas holidays. Finishing in the middle of December seems awfully early and it probably gave me the false impression that our winter break was longer than what we typically got back home. At school that Friday I exchanged gift sets of chocolate bars with my friends: we all got each other pretty much the same things although the Yorkie Bar set from Neil was a particular treat. In the library for our final class of the day and term I leafed through the Raymond Briggs book Father Christmas, paying particular attention to the panel depicting Santa taking a dump, and then we were off.
And off we were. We may or may not have headed back to Laindon to change but in any case we were soon on our way. For the next two weeks we were barely ever at home as we jettisoned up to the Midlands, over to Wales, then down to Devon and back up towards the Midlands. Our little place was little more than a flop house where we would spend a night before heading elsewhere. And this was by design. For the first time in my life we didn't have a Christmas tree to decorate. Mum put up our felt advent calendar but otherwise our place was bereft of Yuletide cheer. This we would have to locate elsewhere.
Friday night we were heading up to Peterborough to stay we John and Debbie and their little girl Aimee. While the chums I met in Brighton and Colchester were still AWOL, here we were staying with a fellow exchange family that my mum and dad had similarly hit it off with but who my sister and I hardly knew. This didn't seem fair to me. Any trepidation and/or resentment we may have had quickly evaporated when we got to their place: their modest abode was as cramped and uninspired as our's and our hosts were welcoming and John impressed us to no end by displaying a considerable knowledge and interest in the pop charts. We were going to be seeing a lot of these people
On Saturday we all proceeded to Lincoln for an exchange teacher's event. Being in York a month earlier was still fresh in our memories and Lincoln seemed cut from the same cloth: mid-sized, older, vaguely Nordic/Germanic and, seemingly, in the north of England. Only this week did I learn that Lincoln is in fact south of York: I had always figured that York was in the Midlands and Lincoln was practically knocking on the door of Scotland. How wrong I was.
A.B.C.: Another Bloody Cathedral. I've heard this lamentation to childhood travel boredom and I've uttered it a couple times myself. But I've never fully believed it. (Although, having said that, while living in Thailand a few years ago I began to consider its Eastern companion ailment N.A.D.R.B.: Not Another Damn Reclining Buddha) My folks never overdid such visits so it never seemed like a chore to wander around these glorified churches. In any event, it hardly applied in this instance: Lincoln Cathedral is brilliant and set the gold standard in my mind for grand places of worship. The York Minster had its Blue Peter bosses and a pretty great view of the city but it couldn't match the Gothic architecture and unsettling echo of the Cathedral Church of the Blessed Virgin Mary of Lincoln. As we entered we could hear the strains of a choir wafting through the eight hundred year old structure and I shuddered.
The Cathedral was such a highlight of the trip that I assumed it was the only reason we bothered venturing up to Lincoln. Only now do I realise that the city's famed Christmas Market was our raison d'être for being there. I had no idea it was famed, it just seemed like a quaint seasonal event that we stumbled upon. It could have been anywhere, it was simply a number of people wandering about some nondescript stalls strewn with Christmas lights. Aimee and I went in the fun house but little else stands out. Looking it up now I'm struck by what a big deal it is; perhaps its stature has grown over the years, maybe they put a bit more thought into making it more visually appealing or it could be that I'm no longer eleven and disinterested in Christmas markets.
From there, we headed to the nearby village of Woodhall Spa where we'd be bed and breakfasting. A British teacher's exchange volunteer invited us to his or her place where we were promised some of the finest Chinese food in all the land. Our hosts smacked their lips at the greyish, limp prawns while we did our best to push the bland, deep-fried-beyond-recognition veggies around our plates. One lousy meal and we were convinced: the British haven't the faintest idea how to cook Chinese food. End of discussion. And that's how we kicked off our Christmas holidays. A taster for what was to come and here's hoping it will taste better than Woodhall Spa Chinese.
~~~~~
young Paul's favourite: Especially for You
older Paul's retro pick: Left to My Own Devices
It's strange, then, that it was around two and a half years earlier. Clinging on to the lower reaches of the Top 100, it was one of many singles that failed to trouble the proper hit parade. Most would fade into obscurity but There She Goes eventually got a second chance. I wonder what my eleven-year-old self would have thought of it. Would I have been ready for it? I had little to do with indie at the time, I knew more about The Smithereens than The Smiths. The Top 40 was hardly brimming with tunes from the fringes, the closest being New Order's Fine Time, a thrilling jumble of acid house and synth pop that baffled me at the time - even though I liked the grotesque, nightmarish video. I may well have been equally stumped by There She Goes. I wasn't ready for it and, evidently, neither was 1988.
This week would be our last at school before the Christmas holidays. Finishing in the middle of December seems awfully early and it probably gave me the false impression that our winter break was longer than what we typically got back home. At school that Friday I exchanged gift sets of chocolate bars with my friends: we all got each other pretty much the same things although the Yorkie Bar set from Neil was a particular treat. In the library for our final class of the day and term I leafed through the Raymond Briggs book Father Christmas, paying particular attention to the panel depicting Santa taking a dump, and then we were off.
And off we were. We may or may not have headed back to Laindon to change but in any case we were soon on our way. For the next two weeks we were barely ever at home as we jettisoned up to the Midlands, over to Wales, then down to Devon and back up towards the Midlands. Our little place was little more than a flop house where we would spend a night before heading elsewhere. And this was by design. For the first time in my life we didn't have a Christmas tree to decorate. Mum put up our felt advent calendar but otherwise our place was bereft of Yuletide cheer. This we would have to locate elsewhere.
Friday night we were heading up to Peterborough to stay we John and Debbie and their little girl Aimee. While the chums I met in Brighton and Colchester were still AWOL, here we were staying with a fellow exchange family that my mum and dad had similarly hit it off with but who my sister and I hardly knew. This didn't seem fair to me. Any trepidation and/or resentment we may have had quickly evaporated when we got to their place: their modest abode was as cramped and uninspired as our's and our hosts were welcoming and John impressed us to no end by displaying a considerable knowledge and interest in the pop charts. We were going to be seeing a lot of these people
On Saturday we all proceeded to Lincoln for an exchange teacher's event. Being in York a month earlier was still fresh in our memories and Lincoln seemed cut from the same cloth: mid-sized, older, vaguely Nordic/Germanic and, seemingly, in the north of England. Only this week did I learn that Lincoln is in fact south of York: I had always figured that York was in the Midlands and Lincoln was practically knocking on the door of Scotland. How wrong I was.
A.B.C.: Another Bloody Cathedral. I've heard this lamentation to childhood travel boredom and I've uttered it a couple times myself. But I've never fully believed it. (Although, having said that, while living in Thailand a few years ago I began to consider its Eastern companion ailment N.A.D.R.B.: Not Another Damn Reclining Buddha) My folks never overdid such visits so it never seemed like a chore to wander around these glorified churches. In any event, it hardly applied in this instance: Lincoln Cathedral is brilliant and set the gold standard in my mind for grand places of worship. The York Minster had its Blue Peter bosses and a pretty great view of the city but it couldn't match the Gothic architecture and unsettling echo of the Cathedral Church of the Blessed Virgin Mary of Lincoln. As we entered we could hear the strains of a choir wafting through the eight hundred year old structure and I shuddered.
The Cathedral was such a highlight of the trip that I assumed it was the only reason we bothered venturing up to Lincoln. Only now do I realise that the city's famed Christmas Market was our raison d'être for being there. I had no idea it was famed, it just seemed like a quaint seasonal event that we stumbled upon. It could have been anywhere, it was simply a number of people wandering about some nondescript stalls strewn with Christmas lights. Aimee and I went in the fun house but little else stands out. Looking it up now I'm struck by what a big deal it is; perhaps its stature has grown over the years, maybe they put a bit more thought into making it more visually appealing or it could be that I'm no longer eleven and disinterested in Christmas markets.
From there, we headed to the nearby village of Woodhall Spa where we'd be bed and breakfasting. A British teacher's exchange volunteer invited us to his or her place where we were promised some of the finest Chinese food in all the land. Our hosts smacked their lips at the greyish, limp prawns while we did our best to push the bland, deep-fried-beyond-recognition veggies around our plates. One lousy meal and we were convinced: the British haven't the faintest idea how to cook Chinese food. End of discussion. And that's how we kicked off our Christmas holidays. A taster for what was to come and here's hoping it will taste better than Woodhall Spa Chinese.
~~~~~
young Paul's favourite: Especially for You
older Paul's retro pick: Left to My Own Devices
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