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A moment that changed me – rejecting cock rock and discovering Chaka Khan A moment that changed me – discovering Chaka Khan and rejecting cock rock
(about 1 hour later)
In May 1978 I was 15 years old and going to my first live rock concert. I was in a crowded train carriage with Nigel – a middle-class hippy in his 20s – on our way to the Mayfair Ballroom, Newcastle, to see cock rock group AC/DC. Nigel had been desperately trying to get me to like punk rock since I began bunking off school and sneaking around to his nearby flat to drink Coke and spin vinyl. Nigel was, to 15-year-old me, cool as a cucumber, with his Levis worn so tight you could see his religion, and straight, long black hair tied back with a bandana that was covered in free love and ban the bomb badges.In May 1978 I was 15 years old and going to my first live rock concert. I was in a crowded train carriage with Nigel – a middle-class hippy in his 20s – on our way to the Mayfair Ballroom, Newcastle, to see cock rock group AC/DC. Nigel had been desperately trying to get me to like punk rock since I began bunking off school and sneaking around to his nearby flat to drink Coke and spin vinyl. Nigel was, to 15-year-old me, cool as a cucumber, with his Levis worn so tight you could see his religion, and straight, long black hair tied back with a bandana that was covered in free love and ban the bomb badges.
Impressed as I was by Nigel’s hippy-chic, I could not for the life of me come to appreciate the Sex Pistols. I was used to Sweet and Donny Osmond, T Rex and David Bowie. I couldn’t get my head around heavy metal such as Black Sabbath and Deep Purple, with its screaming guitars and drums that drowned out rhythm and lyrics. Nigel, refusing to abandon me to my dreadful taste, bought tickets to see AC/DC, promising me I would love the theatrical brilliance of Little Angus, one of the world’s best hard-rock guitarists, notorious for dressing in short trousers and school cap and jumping off stage scaffolding while still strumming out a tune.Impressed as I was by Nigel’s hippy-chic, I could not for the life of me come to appreciate the Sex Pistols. I was used to Sweet and Donny Osmond, T Rex and David Bowie. I couldn’t get my head around heavy metal such as Black Sabbath and Deep Purple, with its screaming guitars and drums that drowned out rhythm and lyrics. Nigel, refusing to abandon me to my dreadful taste, bought tickets to see AC/DC, promising me I would love the theatrical brilliance of Little Angus, one of the world’s best hard-rock guitarists, notorious for dressing in short trousers and school cap and jumping off stage scaffolding while still strumming out a tune.
Arriving at the venue, pushing past beer-bellied bouncers dressed in stinking leathers, we were each handed a cardboard guitar, and shoved on to the sticky dancefloor beside the stage. As the headbangers began to play air guitar, thrusting their cardboard versions around like giant penises, the deafening noise from the support band began. I could not wait to get out. I had failed to develop a liking for cock rock and I was in despair. All this just as glam rock was starting to lose its appeal as my taste somewhat matured.Arriving at the venue, pushing past beer-bellied bouncers dressed in stinking leathers, we were each handed a cardboard guitar, and shoved on to the sticky dancefloor beside the stage. As the headbangers began to play air guitar, thrusting their cardboard versions around like giant penises, the deafening noise from the support band began. I could not wait to get out. I had failed to develop a liking for cock rock and I was in despair. All this just as glam rock was starting to lose its appeal as my taste somewhat matured.
For over a year I existed in musical limbo, picking up and throwing down various new genres, such as folk, and northern soul. Nothing worked for me. Then I met Rosie. Of African-Caribbean and European heritage, and adopted into a white, Yorkshire family, Rosie grew up the only black person in her town, desperate for black role models. She found what she needed on Top of the Pops, and in the music magazines she devoured greedily each month. We fell in love and moved into a hostel in Leeds. Rosie brought her turntable and a stack of LPs. Through Rosie I was introduced to the Jackson 5, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, Quincy Jones, and my all-time favourite, Rufus and Chaka Khan. Every evening we would drop the needle on one of her collection, blasting out Bill Withers’ Ain’t No Sunshine, and would ignore the thumps from disgruntled viewers in the communal TV lounge upstairs while we danced wildly to Cameo’s Word Up. My life had changed for the better.For over a year I existed in musical limbo, picking up and throwing down various new genres, such as folk, and northern soul. Nothing worked for me. Then I met Rosie. Of African-Caribbean and European heritage, and adopted into a white, Yorkshire family, Rosie grew up the only black person in her town, desperate for black role models. She found what she needed on Top of the Pops, and in the music magazines she devoured greedily each month. We fell in love and moved into a hostel in Leeds. Rosie brought her turntable and a stack of LPs. Through Rosie I was introduced to the Jackson 5, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, Quincy Jones, and my all-time favourite, Rufus and Chaka Khan. Every evening we would drop the needle on one of her collection, blasting out Bill Withers’ Ain’t No Sunshine, and would ignore the thumps from disgruntled viewers in the communal TV lounge upstairs while we danced wildly to Cameo’s Word Up. My life had changed for the better.
I was given a Sony Walkman for my birthday and bought tapes of Aretha Franklin, Isaac Hayes and Smokey Robinson. Hanging out with other lesbians in the north of England meant we had to find venues where we were welcome, or at least not in danger from queer bashers, to drink and dance. In those days the only club that would tolerate us was the local shebeen, an unlicensed blues-type club that attracted those of us on the margins of society. There, Rastafarians danced alongside lesbians, local criminals, and anyone else not up for mainstream entertainment. The music was superb, ranging from reggae to funk and soul, with the Isley Brothers or Al Green providing the slow dance at the end.I was given a Sony Walkman for my birthday and bought tapes of Aretha Franklin, Isaac Hayes and Smokey Robinson. Hanging out with other lesbians in the north of England meant we had to find venues where we were welcome, or at least not in danger from queer bashers, to drink and dance. In those days the only club that would tolerate us was the local shebeen, an unlicensed blues-type club that attracted those of us on the margins of society. There, Rastafarians danced alongside lesbians, local criminals, and anyone else not up for mainstream entertainment. The music was superb, ranging from reggae to funk and soul, with the Isley Brothers or Al Green providing the slow dance at the end.
On occasion I grew a little nostalgic for a bit of Iggy Pop or Rod Stewart, but it never lasted long. Today my music taste remains pretty much the same, with Chaka remaining my all-time favourite. But I have added some opera to my collection, as well as the odd bit of Snoop Dogg, even getting a shout out from him in this piece. I cannot imagine what might have happened to me, a working-class white girl from a monocultural northern town, if I had never been led to soul and funk music, and away from cardboard guitars and heavy metal rockers with cucumbers down their leather pants.On occasion I grew a little nostalgic for a bit of Iggy Pop or Rod Stewart, but it never lasted long. Today my music taste remains pretty much the same, with Chaka remaining my all-time favourite. But I have added some opera to my collection, as well as the odd bit of Snoop Dogg, even getting a shout out from him in this piece. I cannot imagine what might have happened to me, a working-class white girl from a monocultural northern town, if I had never been led to soul and funk music, and away from cardboard guitars and heavy metal rockers with cucumbers down their leather pants.