As I sit here listening to Daphne “Change” (great track by the way, you’ll love it – or at least I will try to encourage you to love it), it’s starting to occur to me that change is somewhat dominating our lives at the moment.

We watch a cartoon called Humf, where the main character this morning proclaimed his sheer delight at the fact he could change his mind on the things he likes. Obviously the lyrics of the record I’m listening to are all about people changing their minds – I even opted for a beer from the fridge, when I had initially gone to the kitchen for a glass of wine before I started to write this.

But then those examples of change are nothing compared to what you are going through right now.

Every day it is as though something happens to flip your whole world upside down – making you do something completely different to how you start the day each morning.

Looking at them in their simplest form, it usually involves an adult telling you that we need to do something that goes against what you actually like doing. Encouraging you to grow up, without actually asking you if that is what you want to do.

In the last week you have moved up a class at nursery. This will undoubtedly mean a change of scenery, key worker, possibly even a change of classmates – though you will know most of them. It will mean leaving behind your familiar play room, the key worker who has always been there to encourage you over the last year; even those friends who haven’t quite reached the age where they can move up.

We as parents have lied to you for the first time (I think?). We’ve taken your dummy away from you – because we feel that at two, you shouldn’t be so reliant on something comforting to get you to sleep. We did this by collecting all your old dummies up and putting them in a bag. Mum then hung them on the outside of the front door. We told you that if they were gone by the time you both went to check – that other babies wanted and needed them more than you. In reality your Mum simply went out, took them out of the bag and threw them away. I don’t doubt that it will be the only time we ever use such a tactic, but it’s still something new to us; a change to the way we parent.

You’ve recently moved from a cot to a bed. This has been a massive change, as it enables you to exert some control over how you go to bed. Previously we’d give you a bottle, a dummy, put you in your cot and you’d be contained – seems a better word than trapped – until you really wanted to get up in the morning. Now you just get out of bed, open your door and let us know exactly how you feel about being stuck in your room. If it’s still night time, then we have to come and sit on your floor and wait for you to be ready – this change affects us all.

On top of all of that, we are also in the process of potty training you. This change will mean we no longer have to change you – a double change then. You will soon be able to go to toilet just as big girls do – being a big girl is important to you. It’s a difficult process. You don’t always go where you should – often behind the curtains – but your command of when you want to go is improving.

This may seem like a lot for you to be going through at one stage, but then it’s clear to me that this is just the start. We’ve night time bottles to get rid of; new likes and dislikes that will emerge. There’s another class at nursery; then there are new schools for you to go to. The biggest change I fear will come from the changes to your body. I think I might need a book to teach me how to explain everything to you properly – that, or hide behind your Mum.

The thing we most want you to understand as you grow older is that whatever changes do happen, you do not approach them on your own. Mum and I have both been through a lot of change – school, work, where we live and who we have in our lives. Just talk to us, open up to us – we are here to reassure you that nothing is set in stone. If you don’t like something – you have the power to change it; just as we have. We wouldn’t know each other had we not changed something – so plenty of good does come from new beginnings. It’s not all about lost dummies and wet carpets.

You even forced us to change.

Before you there was one life; after you were born, a completely different one. Yes we still do a lot of the same things we did before you were born, but very little matters as much as you. You were a change worth embracing, and we are grateful that you gave us the opportunity to change.

But with all of this talk of change, be sure in the knowledge that our love for you will never alter; no matter what arguments we may have, how you may feel you are being punished or even when we are being “unfair”. Our love will remain our one true constant to you.

That feeling will never change.

So, do you find me a changed man?

Did I have an epiphany in the Upper Circle? Am I a convert, or will I continue to struggle blindly over the opera based questions on a University Challenge?

The answer to the first three questions is a resounding NO; but…

The fact that I have left that sentence to hang could suggest that Opera North failed in their challenge; for a collection of bloggers not to feel indifferent about their latest production, Carmen. Though I don’t necessarily think they are to blame.

It was a big, bold and brash looking production; full of positives running through the first two acts. I thought the stage design and lighting conveyed a sense of place – the hot, muggy south of America. I thought the cast interaction behind the main stars to be intriguing. Even the “woman in bathing suit” character held my attention; by doing nothing, in case she then did something.

There was a humour and a darkness that was balanced out perfectly – from the violent acts and intimidation, to the Michael Jackson dance routine and the almost, guarded English gent, desperate to protect the dignity of an exposed young lady – think police officer and a helmet and you’re not far off. The crowd laughed in all the right places – guided by a prop, a jaunty wave, a well executed facial expression – yet it was clear the production was always one, drawn knife away from a change of tempo; a more sombre mood.

I thought the numbers – is that more musical theatre than opera – that involved the full cast, had a rhythm and purpose to them, that saw time pass effortlessly from curtain rise to the close of the second act. The full stage presence seemed overly busy at the start, but maybe this was intentional; as once in full swing, the movement and interplay was a joy to watch.

What really did it for me was the steely determination that Heather Shipp gave to Carmen. Her eyes, transfixed on something at the back of the auditorium; face contorting as she sang out to us. It was then, with the full cast on stage, yet “Carmen” apparently alone with her pain, her anger; that I found something in opera to enjoy.

Not every one of the seasoned opera goers around me appeared to agree on the positive aspects – maybe it was because they were opera goers that what I found enthralling, failed to push their classical buttons? Certain elements immediately polarised the audience. From the barbed comment that “you can’t sing a love song in shorts”, aimed at the principle male lead – to the mixed reaction on seeing a woman’s breasts on full display or a man simulating the removal of underwear with his teeth. The breasts were quickly covered up (to much amusement), and the curtain came down before any more underwear could be removed; but the tongues had started to wag.

If those parts were intended to shock – that is where my indifference could have kicked in. Yes I was surprised to see a pair of breasts, on stage, whilst surrounded by an elderly audience – but it is no more than I see on television, or in at least one leading red top. The same can be said for the acts of violence. Compared to what I saw the night before, masquerading as a cultural documentary on traveller folk, the blows on stage were ham-fisted. No one actually believed anyone was being hurt – but maybe that is what happens in operas?

The biggest issue was neither the “sexy” nor “violence” for me. Through no fault of the cast, director or company; the opera simply lost me. If I had have walked out of The Grand Theatre during the second interval, I would have most probably finished the evening a happy man. Yet the aria of act three heralded a change of pace and direction that in previous operas have also left me cold.

Having spent a period of time reviewing DJs and their CDs or live sets, I quickly learnt to appreciate the importance of good programming and flow over simply playing one big record after the next. In the first two acts, opera seems to have this in spades. A bubbly intro is followed by a well known piece. Some minor interplay helps to link together another couple of well paced group performances – before the big number burst through in the heart of act two. The second half of the performance appears to have been designed to give the Individuals chance to shine – yet, and this goes back to my comments in part one. Without the language, a reliance on the display screen soon comes in to play.

For the first two acts I bobbed and weaved around the heads in front to see what was going on across the whole stage. When the spotlight is on one individual, who is tasked with filling the stage with their sole presence, I feel at a loss unless I am following their words on the screen – virtually ignoring anything they are doing – losing their facial expressions, prop work and anyone or thing that might be loitering around the periphery. In acts one and two I picked up enough words thanks to GCSE French to convince myself I didn’t need to follow the “script”. Acts three and four were more an exercise in reading, than listening and enjoying.

That said I definitely finished the night with more positives than negatives. Maybe the cultural and physical setting made this a more palatable opera for me? So, yes – the case against indifference has been won.

Yet it is clear that Carmen convinced me, if I needed convincing, that I will never fully be at one with opera. For all the great performances – especially the intense relationship of the male and female lead performers, underlying tension in the plot and well worked adaptation – I could happily go the rest of my life without having to hear another bleeding heart aria.

Maybe I’ll for ever be the owner of a ‘now that’s what I call opera classics’ attitude – but that doesn’t have to stop me peaking behind the cover from time to time.

Opera North continues to take Carmen as part of their winter season to The Grand Theatre in Leeds, as well as theatres in Newcastle, Nottingham and Salford Quays until May

The image to the right of these words is of a book.

The actual book is not important. The fact that it has a cover is.

I don’t know if the book is any good. I can’t tell that simply from looking at the cover. To find out if I like the book I have to open it, read it; follow the dialogue and then – not always at the end – put it down and make a judgement upon it.

I’m off to see “Carmen” tonight. My judgement already is that I will not enjoy it.

What I know of Opera North’s “Carmen” is through the snippets I have read online – including a set of fairly prosaic reviews and claims it is “sexy” and not suitable for children. Yet my pre-judgement has not been altered one bit by the reviews, nor its 12+ certificate – my judgement is based solely on the cover; the fact that it is an Opera.

But then are all Operas alike – or is there, like they claim about whisky, an Opera out there for everyone?

My experiences of Opera have been limited to two – “Madam Butterfly” at the Royal Opera House and the “Barber of Seville” at the Arena di Verona.

The first was a Christmas present for Amy. The seats were on the back row; looking over the shoulder of Zeus on to the stage. My dodgy knee gave way half way through. The pain was excruciating, and at one point I thought I would go out for the interval and not return; Propped up against the bar, waiting for Amy to reappear. It was the knee, guv; honest!

Thankfully there was a paid standing area just behind our seats. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a petit Eastern tourist, who I immediately offered my seat to. A thousand thanks and nods later, my leg was straight – the pain subsiding – and the thought of an evening at the bar declining with each passing aria.

From my new position, what struck me as being more peculiar than standing at the Opera was the fact that most of my fellow spectators, were staring at a laser display screen on the back of the seats in front. There they were, at the Opera – in what is a marvellous setting – with singers and performers giving their all on stage; and they are following the words on a screen no bigger than a ruler. Why not simply sit at home, read a book whilst having Maria Callas sing Pucini’s greatest hits on the CD player?

No screen for me. I wanted to engage with the action. To see the lips move as the words came out; to appreciate the effort that had gone in to the stage production. Surely that was the reason to be there?

The second effort was in the even better setting of Verona’s first century Roman Amphitheatre. It was a glorious, warm mid-summer evening. The day had been a scorcher and, even in the cheap seats once more, the atmosphere of the crowd was bubbling away nicely in anticipation.

We got there at seven and sat down on the polished stone steps, worn smooth by the feet of the servi, plebs and middle-class Opera fans for the past millennia.

As I said, we got there at seven. By eight, the only excitement was to be found in the crowd. With the heat from the day rising from the stone seats, and the warmth of the evening still with us; the cramped conditions on the upper deck was starting to affect a number of spectators. Regularly a paramedic would rush up the stairs to attend to a fainter – read: fainters – they were dropping like flies; more cold beer over here please.

Eventually, as the sun went down and the moon formed a natural spotlight, the Opera finally got underway. No laser display screen here – this was all about the spectacle of the performance, the stage design and the music. Or I guess it should have been. From our view point it was more, tiny people moving amongst large shrubs, singing with gusto but not really making a connection with me. At one point my over active imagination hoped for an ancient Roman trap door to open in the middle of the expensive seats; with gladiators, lions and other beasts of the Empire rising from them and laying waste to the nobs. It didn’t happen.

Only more signing then confusion was to follow. The prima donna sang – the crowd roared “Brava!” Some of which then got up to leave; before hastily rushing back when a prima uomo burst in to voice. “Bravo!” they shouted, and once again got up to leave, before finding the nearest vacant space to catch the next female response. It was like Tennis Opera and the crowd were the ball. We left just before 1am.

I enjoyed Verona for the experience of being there, more than the Royal Opera House, and definitely more than both operas. What I found on both occasions was a sense of longing – to understand what was being sung, and why it was being sung? If it is hard to follow the language, no matter how great the stage direction, it’s still hard to work out why a woman is crying or a man storming off.

It was as though my eyes were open, yet disconnected from my brain. If Opera, for a pleb like me, is merely about people moving around on stage whilst singing an indecipherable song, then I’m not sure I will ever grasp it. I don’t want to follow the “lyrics” on a screen like a karaoke machine. It hardly seems worth being there if I do that.

Opera North are challenging people to be indifferent about “Carmen”. It is clearly an adaptation that hasn’t sat well with some, but then maybe I am not an opera traditionalist; certainly not a fan. Will the way they have treated “Carmen” change my opinion of Opera forever, driving me to check out edgier productions, with “sexy” settings and age restrictions applied?

It won’t, unless I challenge myself to look beyond the cover.

I am an invited guest of Opera North through the wonderful The Culture Vulture website, who try desperately to engage the art world with clueless philistines like myself. My requirement is to simply blog about my experience – of which you will find in Part Two

I’m stood, hugging a bare-chested man.

I’ve been in this embrace for the last five minutes. I don’t know his name, or why he is hugging me. All I know is that his shirt is round his waist, I’m covered in his sweat and his mouth is moving but no sound is coming out.

He reaches his hands round to the back of my head, and with delicate fingers, starts to massage my neck. I don’t remember this being advertised as a service when I paid to get in here?

Still his lips move – his eyes darting around as they do. He points to someone in the distance, someone I can barely make out through the mass of bodies. Bodies interlocked with each other; and smoke, lots of smoke. The room is full of smoke.

Then, like ears popping as a plane comes in to land, a moment of clarity sweeps through my head.

“I said I was X from the message board” he shouts.

Then the roar returns. And he is gone, lost in the sound; possibly lost forever.

There is nothing seedy about this picture. This is a nightclub, and I love every minute of it.

Dance music and nightclubs changed my life. I met Amy not in a club, but through mutual friends I went clubbing with. Without clubbing and Amy, there would clearly be no Lauren.

This site wouldn’t exist were it not for Ben Edwards, who in his role as an editor at DJ Mag, gave me the opportunity to turn my thoughts in to print – through compiling reviews, interviews and features – all based on dance music and nightclubs.

Most of my good friends, the ones I chose rather than was forced together with through school or work – are those I share a mutual love of music and going out with. There are even those “friends” as mentioned on another post that I will never meet, but can talk free and easy with on a host of subjects, usually on sites dedicated to dance music.

It has given me more shared memories than anything else, possibly with the exception of my immediate family. Which is kind of ironic, as any detractors of the sound, the environment and the associated activities would suggest that the whole package does nothing but destroy brain cells. Yet ask any regular clubber, who has been going for twenty years or so what their favourite night out was, or where they were when they first heard a certain tune, and they will recount a host of “lost” nights far better than someone who spent last Saturday down the pub and can’t remember how they got home.

Those same detractors argue that it is all the same – beats, sounds, and venues. It is all the same, but so vastly different. The music may have an underlying rhythm pattern linked to the beats and musical bars, but the melody is different, there are key changes, vocals; there are even different dancing styles.

The venues can be as diverse as a reclaimed railway arch, a sports stadium and a beach bar – not to mention the varying shapes and sizes of the more traditional, dedicated club venues. Each will hold a different memory, for differing reasons – even if the DJ, the music and the friends are all the same.

And that’s what makes it so special. You may have an expectation of how a night will pan out – what you will hear, who you will see, what you will chat about – but then something will happen that pushes the night in a totally different direction. There will be new introductions, “aint’ see you in time” hugs, casual acquaintances and long time friendships formed. Organic is a term overly used in dance music circles, but it is hard to find a better one to describe the way a night grows and morphs. The way the punters on the dance floor link together, bouncing along to the tunes – it’s move or get moved at times.

Even the invasion of your personal space is something you grow to accept, if not always love. The random stranger, lost in a crowd – detached from their friends, who under the influence chooses to befriend you. Those are the casual acquaintances. By that time of night, neither of you are going to remember much of the conversation, but it was pleasant enough while it lasted.

Since Lauren was born, I haven’t set foot in a club. It was a concious decision – it took awhile to feel comfortable with her staying away from us, and at the same time – hangovers and babies do not mix which rules out much of the following day as well – especially if you are only leaving the club at six in the morning. But the older Lauren gets, the more I feel I have some unfinished business with that side of my life. I miss the vibe, the camaraderie, the lost conversations and the good times linked to the music and venues. You get the tunes on the podcasts, but that is only a fraction of the experience; a mere part of why I love it all.

There’s talk of a get together, a commemoration to a decade passed since a group of us met in Ibiza*. A lot of modern dance music leaves me flat, and the nights out, to the wrong venues can leave you feeling jaded – but a retrospective event, a chance to recount, a chance to remember, a chance to dance, chat, laugh and invade each other’s personal space is just the sort of night I need. A night we all need.

A big thank you to all the DJs, the producers, the club owners, promoters, the record shop owners, the space invaders, the bar staff, the randoms who chat to you at the bar, the casual acquaintances on the dance floor, the message board users – but most importantly the friends. Without you, it would have meant nothing.

Dance music and clubbing changed my life. Did it do the same for you? If so, get in touch – share your experiences, share your first nights out, your first tunes – your last dance with us all.

Keep the memories alive.

First club night – Gin Palace, Acton, London
Favourite club night – Optimo, Subclub, Glasgow
Favourite venue – The old terrace, Space, Ibiza
Favourite tune – Inner City – Pennies from Heaven (Kev’s Tunnel Mix)
Last night out – Polaroid, The Wire Club, Leeds (early 2009)

(*A number of us met on the weekend of 1/2 September 2001. It was the weekend England beat Germany 5-1, and it was also the Sasha birthday bash when he dropped the hideous “Cowpander” at Space – not all memories are positive ones HA!)

Image taken by Ben Raid at Junktion, The Tatty Bogle Club, London, July 2003

I’m going through what can only be described as a mid-hair life crisis. Or is that a hair’s midlife crisis? Either way, it’s not a midlife crisis.

I’m not fantasising over expensive Italian cars, nor am I considering throwing my lot in with an employee who leans in seductively as we talk about the Petersen Account.

The crux of the problem is simple – I no longer feel comfortable in my hair. The stuff on my head that is, not the creeping, vine like growth over the rest of my body.

It started a couple of Christmases ago. A trip down to see the family got me thinking: “Everyone’s foreheads seem bigger than they did last year.” Then I noticed a scar on my own head. A scar I picked up as a baby after falling against, then lying on a radiator without the strength to push myself off. It’s not big, smaller than a five pence piece, but it always sat out of sight above the hair line. Now it was there, in plain sight, for all to see.

I was losing my hair.

Not badly. I know of friends who have a, shall we say, thinner thatch to protect them from the harsh climate of the winter months, yet still – my hair was what, once, made me who I was (a carbon copy of one of the many band members I aspired to be like).

So I started to grow it. And grow it. Rather than a band member, this time I convinced myself that I wanted the flowing locks of Italian footballer, Andrea Pirlo (he of the image above). It always looks so luxurious. Moving with vibrancy as he casually strolls across the pitch; occasionally running his figures through it as he pauses, caught on camera plotting the downfall of his opponents.

But something’s gone wrong. Maybe I no longer have the hair for luxurious locks, or the patience to realise my dreams. Instead of a cross between footballer and playboy, I appear to resemble a Top Gear presenter, after a 24 hour challenge.

Maybe I just need a better hair role model. Someone more, middle of the road businessman, than Samsonesque sporting demigod.

With more hair, and more hair freedom, it was easier to pick and choose – to chop and change – my hair idols. I’ve had the Shaun William Ryder “Curtains”, the Peter Tork from The Monkees “Bowl” or the Ned’s Atomic Dustbin “Undercut”. I had the Caesar when Gazza made it the go to short number, the side parting long before Brad or Jude made it fashionable – not to mention my on/off love affair with the suede head; never full skin mind.

So now I agonise; knowing full well that I should have paid a trip to the hairdresser weeks ago. I will sit in the chair, look sheepishly back in the mirror and simply ask for a tidy up. I will tell him I am happy with the length on top (lie). I will tell him I just need a bit of weight taken out of the back (lie) or that I need my neck line squared off, but not too much (lies, lies, all lies. You are only lying to yourself).

Maybe I just need a cut my Mum would be happy with, or one that looks not too dissimilar in the morning, as it does when I go to bed at night. Better that than to look like a cross between James May and Vincent the Beast.

But that’s not very rock and roll now, is it? At 35, long hair may be a desperate last ditch attempt to cling to my youth. But is that really a bad thing? Better to have great hair, than to look like the vast array of grey suits, with easy to manage, slightly ruffled, wax coated hair. Better to look distinguished, healthy and lengthy, than the current trend of multi-angular pop star locks.

I may look like an Argentinean footballer who is well past his prime, but that shows dedication to the cause. It has taken two years of coaxing a style out of my untamed mop; I will have failed myself if I give up now.

So this week, when I sit in that chair and look back in that mirror, I will say to my hairdresser: “My name is Chris King. My hair embodies my spirit. It tells the world who I am, what I want and how I won’t let anyone stop me from getting it. My hair is long and that’s fine by me…… so if you can’t just leave the length on the top, take a bit of the weight out of the back and square the neck line off a bit higher, but not too much. Please.”

I often go by the nickname of Chewey (after the Star Wars Character). I am a pair of brown Y-fronts and a St Tropez overdose away from the perfect fancy dress costume. Hair is my bête noire.

What is the greatest film you have ever seen? What is the best album you’ve owned, so tattered or worn that you’re well past the first copy you picked up? What about food, drink, places or people?

To determine the best, how did you rate them? Did you give them stars, thumbs up, a number between one and five, 10, 100? When you did so, were you aware of your mood, your surroundings – what had happened in the run up to encountering and experiencing greatness, and did you think to consider what you were about to do once greatness had passed?

I have a problem with ratings. Especially those where the parameter is often as narrow as zero – five. Where is the scope in that? Where do you go once you have given something a five? Are all fives the same? Where is the upper middle ground? Is four just above average, or excellent but not utterly brilliant? And what of two – should that be dismissed even though there are still two bands below it?

Least when a review is out of ten there is some leeway to allow for a six to eight mark. This leaves the reader in no doubt that something is good, but you will find better out there. The best exponents of the ten mark system have always been Edge magazine. Launched in 1993, the magazine has reviewed countless computer games across a multitude of platforms. I once worked in the industry, and always took a passing interest in what they had to say about the games released by my company. In over ten years (they didn’t always use a numerical system), only twelve games have ever achieved a 10/10 – and no, not one of those went to the company I worked for.

In that time they will have had different reviewers, with differing interests and gaming ability, analysing unfinished and full copies of games – yet still they will hold that top mark as sacrosanct. Compare that then to the latest movie poster you saw whilst waiting for the bus/tube, in a paper or on the TV. How many 5/5 or five stars have you seen in the last month? One example gave a film staring Mark Wahlberg and Will Ferrell, the same ranking as they would have to give the very best Hitchcock or Orson Wells might have produced?

Is it harsh to use that as an example? Do you have to consider what has come before, or may follow, or should things be reviewed solely as a standalone item? Should a comedy that could have you laughing from start to finish, really be compared to a psychological thriller of the 1950s, just because they are presented to you in the same format? Is it possible to give a full mark without misleading the reader – should the reader have to understand that when it is 5/5, what is implied is that it ticked all the right boxes, for that type of film at this moment in time. That’s not to say it’s the best, just it did what the reviewer wanted it to do?

I won’t even start on music reviews (an opening to a sentence which usually means a rant is about to follow). Suffice to say I have done them in the past, was restricted by a ranking of zero to five and failed to see how anything that wasn’t comparable to the very best CDs the magazine had previously reviewed, could warrant more than a three or four at best? I didn’t last long in that section.

Drink is also an interesting point of discussion where reviews are concerned. What drove me to write this blog entry was confusion over both beer and wine ratings. I regularly see blogs give 5/5 for beers but with no reference point, no explanation or comparison with other beers. The same with wine – most wine sites I follow bracket the majority of their reviews between 75 – 95 marks. I asked a wine writer to explain the system to me. The thing that struck me is that in the world of wine scoring, 70 is the entry point. A 70 wine is bad, really bad – the worst of the stereotypically bad wines sold in supermarkets. To get 70, it just has to be drinkable – as in there is nothing technically wrong (as in, not “off”), it just tastes awful. It then goes up in bands so that 85 will get a bronze, then 90 Silver and 93-100 is Gold. That doesn’t leave a lot of margin for error or difference in quality.

Obviously to an expert it will – they will know why something is an 88 compared to a 90, but to the average punter swayed by a wine awards label on a bottle, they might automatically go for a silver, even if it is rated just one mark more than a bronze out of a realistic thirty on offer.

Once a review adds a number at the bottom of their verdict, it instantly detracts from the words they have used to describe the item; or further more – adds an element of confusion or mistrust in the verdict. I don’t believe that The Other Guys (Farrell and Wahlberg) will be as good as Vertigo (Hitchcock). In the same way I don’t believe that the latest CD given 5/5 will be in the top 10 released this year, let alone of the past decade and beyond.

The very best reviewers are those that need no numerical, stellar or alphabetical scoring system. They convey their views, through their words, and leave you in no doubt as to their experience. There are circumstances, like wine reviews, where the accepted norm is to use a number – yet still the best writers guide you through the process which got them to that number.

It would be good if for the rest, the mainstream reviewers and even bloggers put a bit of context in to their scores, explain why they reached them and even limit the number of maximums they give out in their time reviewing. Not in the “driving instructors have a quota” sort of way, but in the- will this CD/Film/Beer still be around in 50 years time? Will it be on Sky Movies Classic, Capital Gold Radio (or whatever it is called now) and will people of a different generation also quote it as their very best.

If not, then is it really a 5/5?

For the record:

(All three come with a caveat to note that I would like to think that my favourites will change at some point. It can happen depending on time, place, conditions and moods – especially with the beer)

Have you ever been kicked in the face by a pretty girl with a pair of Doc Martens and thought you were having the time of your life? If yes, then there’s every chance you are either a sadomasochist – or you spent most of your teenage years stood, in a moshpit, less than six feet away from your musical idols.

northernwrites – New Horizons
(A Spotify playlist for you to enjoy – excuse Spotify’s limitations on early ’90s Indie Music)

The boot in the face would regularly happen to me. It came with the territory. The bands we saw – the venues we frequented – it was just a night long cavalcade of head banging, stage diving and avoiding a fat bloke with gaffer tape on his nipples, as he soared through the air; before crashing down on the beer soaked, hard wood of the dance floor. It was the price you paid to express your love for the sounds coming out of the speakers either side of the stage. Being crushed by Sheriff Fatman was a badge of honour. Being kicked by a pretty young girl was the closest you came to sex – for another couple of months at least.

Music has always been with me. I’ve been in lucky in that regards. My uncle was manager of Thin Lizzy and Ultravox. Another worked for a music distribution company – so the house was littered with albums (including Gold/Silver presentation records on the walls) and a new, rare product called a Phillips CD Player. I couldn’t get away from it – but then I didn’t really want to try.

Pre-School music was typically controlled by your parents – on the radio, in the car or from the vinyl they had in the house. I remember the dusty, bent sleeves of “All Mod Cons” by The Jam, “Rumours” by Fleetwood Mac or “Meaty Beaty Big and Bouncy” by The Who. I can remember being trapped in my Old Man’s living room as he played another album to death – usually “Brothers in Arms” by Dire Straits or “Heartbeat City” by The Cars. But what I remember most from that period is the Jukebox at the Solent Breezes Holiday Park. I could spend all day in the sea, then – come night fall, as many fifty pence pieces as Dad would hand over; to fill the Jukebox up with the records of my choice. Songs like “Close (to the edit)” by Art of Noise or “Easy Lover” by Phil Collins and Philip Bailey. They may not score many kudos points, but for a little over three minutes they were all that mattered to me.

Art of Noise – Close (To the edit)(youtube)

It was when I went to secondary school that my passion for music really took off. Before that I had lived the fairly typical life of a child. I’d say I was sheltered from news, troubles and from going to a faith school in a fairly white, working to middle class part of town – children of differing races. That’s not to say I didn’t come in to contact with anyone that wasn’t white. My Mum worked in Chalkhill Estate for Brent Council – with its large 1st and 2nd Generation West Indian population. Likewise with my Old Man. His job buying and selling Fruit & Veg to shops in and around Harlesden and Wembley brought me it to contact with an array of West Indian, Pakistani and Indian adults. I even spent a large part of my childhood thinking that Choice FM’s Daddy Ernie was my uncle.

So it was the leap from junior school in the suburbs, to a secondary school closer to the heart of London that opened my eyes to a wider diversity of people and musical styles. It was still a faith school, but there was now a healthy mix of black and white, English, Irish and Polish – and each kid seemed to have their own musical tastes.

At home I might still be listening to the same chart stuff as before – with the Old Man still over playing his one record of the year (Paul Simon’s “Graceland”) – but at school, thanks to my new classmates, I was being introduced to the wonders of the unfamiliar sound of American Hip Hop; Def Jam and the Beastie Boys to be precise.

My gateway release to the new world was definitely “Licensed to Ill”. I won’t ever name those outside of my family directly, as this is my blog – and just in case I ever type anything defamatory. So forgive me if I simply refer to people as “a mate” or this “boy/lad/fella/girl”.

So – there was this lad at school that wasn’t allowed to listen to “Licensed to Ill”. His family were fairly strict – other than bizarrely allowing him to watch old kung fu movies. The fact that there was an album out there that someone wasn’t allowed to listen to – well, naturally, I had to buy it.

Minor confession time here – most of my album purchases between ’86-’90 were done so with money that was given to me to buy a travelcard. As kids, and pre-ticket barriers, we quickly cottoned on to which stations would be manned and at what times of the day. Therefore, as long as you had enough money on you to pay for the ticket in case you were caught, you could easily take a punt and keep your travel money for something far less boring instead (if I add spaces, is it no longer copyrighted?).

“Licensed to Ill” was picked up through this redistribution of wealth on a Friday from Our Price in Notting Hill. By Monday, I had studied the lyrics and was now able to drop innuendo, profanities and talk about a Brass Monkey without really understanding what I was going on about (Dear 11 year old self – a Brass Monkey is a drink).

The next couple of years continued along a similar theme. The outside world threw up the sort of 80s pop chart party hits, that most retro nights play as though they are the bastard child of Jive Bunny. In my world, hidden away in my bedroom, I was the DJ at my own private party – guestlist limited to one. N.W.A., KRS-One and Big Daddy Kane were vying for top billing alongside Depeche Mode, Dinosaur Jnr and the Pixies. Yet something was missing. The music was there. The connection to the music was most definitely there; the ability to go absolutely mental and dive from precarious positions – not so.

All that changed thanks to a union of like minded individuals, a collection of mixed tapes and the fact we could all, just about, get in to gigs. My memory is pretty sharp – I can picture people sat on top of speaker stacks. The floral skirt of a girl that kicked me in the face and the park we sat drinking wine in before we went to see Ned’s Atomic Dustbin – but I am at a loss to remember which our first gig as a group was? I know I bought “101 Damnations” by Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine (to give them their full name) but can’t remember if we saw that tour – or the “30 Something” tour. We saw Mega City Four on the “Who cares wins” tour – but was that before or after the album came out? We saw the Happy Monday’s from the back row at Wembley Arena in 1990. It sounded terrible, they looked terrible – plus ca change and all that.

We definitely saw The Family Cat and Ned’s – the former at the Venue in New Cross, the latter at The Kilburn National – but the internet is telling me those were in 1991. When did we see Dinosaur Jnr at the Mean Fiddler, or was that the Astoria?

Either way, you get the message. From mid-1990 to going our separate ways (me because I choose/was given no option other than to go to a new college) at the back end of 1991 – we went to a gig nearly every weekend. We saw big acts in massive venues, to small acts in the back room of a pub. We went to Indie nights, thrash metal nights, Shoe gazing nights (those were mainly to support other mates who had designs on being the next The Cure) and timidly even went to Hip Hop events. We went to gigs in Wembley, Camden, Central London, South of the river and as far north as our travelcards would take us.

And now for the second confession of this piece. The group shared music. I shared music. I copied music. I accepted copied music. I was the first of the group to buy The Stone Roses – The Stone Roses. It must have passed through at least 20 grubby, thieving little school boy hands before it got back to me. No one gave a second thought about what we were doing. Home taping wasn’t killing music – we didn’t even know what a download was at that stage. All we knew was that it seemed the logical thing to borrow an album, fall head over hells in love with it, and immediately rush out to buy it. Sometimes you were never quite sure whose copy you were passing on. All you knew was that eventually, everyone in the group would have it. And that was how it was meant to be.

No matter how drunk I got at those gigs or how late it was before I went to bed, I can still vividly pick out the songs, the faces, the band members and the friends around me. There is the claim that your school days are the happiest time of your life. I hated school. There isn’t one day from school I would choose to live over again. But the nights after school – when we spent every last penny on albums, concert tickets and booze – those nights I will cherish for as long as I can still hold on to the memories.

First record bought – Tottenham Hotspur’s 1982 FA Cup Final song (Chas & Dave with squad members)

First Stage Dive – The Family Cat (The Venue, New Cross – 19 January 1991 – I jumped in to the crowd and almost landed on Les ‘Fruitbat’ Carter of Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine)

There are certain points in time that we are all supposed to remember exactly where we were, when something profound or ground breaking took place.

My Mum claims to remember exactly where she was when JFK was assassinated. Others can recall where they were when man first set foot on the moon, or when Phil Collins played two gigs in one day for Live Aid.

But then, that really is nothing compared to what I am about to share with you. For I can quite clearly remember where I was the day I first paid £2 for a pint. It was the same day that I realised England were rubbish at football – The date was the 17th June 1992. The place was The George Pub in Hammersmith, London.

American presidents come and go. Phil Collins is now more synonymous with gorillas, but that night marked a trend that still lives with us today. England continue to fail at major championships and the price of premium lager continues to rise – everywhere outside of the People’s Republic of Wetherspoon.

I started drinking, fairly regularly, by the age of 15. People often view the life of a child from a broken family as a difficult one. Not true. For the one great advantage in the days pre-mobile phone, was that you could simply tell both parents you were staying with the other – and then go out all night or stay with your mates; no questions asked.

My drinking tended to revolve around two events in those formative years – gigs and bowls matches. The former seems pretty straight forward. I was in to music, loved the appeal of live events and even at 15 – would often pass for an 18 year old. As for bowls matches – well that’s simple. I played the game as there was a club on the Old Man’s road. I’d quite often get picked to play in away games, far from the prying eyes of my mum. There was always a friendly bowler who would be happy to buy a pint and leave me drinking in the corner of the bar – WOAH!!! We’re not suggesting there was any grooming going on here. Just a positive, working class attitude to a rite of passage associated with growing up. I also learnt a very valuable lesson in that asking for a lager & lime would often betray your age. Asking for a pint of Mild or Light’n’Bitter put four years on you; squeaky voice or no squeaky voice.

There was a dramatic introduction to bottled lager in my 16th year. A family friend organised a 1990 World Cup BBQ – with the exotic looking and sounding Becks as the drink du soir. An early lesson learnt was that, just because it was the same size as a bottle of coke, didn’t mean you should drink it as fast. Can I remember my first hangover? Such things you try to block from your mind, but I’m pretty sure a small, sleek German might have been involved.

The gigs produced more than their fair share of booze fuelled, fun nights out. Not for us the buying of four cans of Hoffmeister (although, yes, this was drunk from time to time). No. We were far classier than that – buying a bottle of Ernest & Julio Gallo. Poking the cork through with a house key, and sitting in the park – rehearsing the vocals to the band we were about to see. Inside was a different matter entirely. In those days choice was limited to Heineken and Carlsberg – and although our taste buds knew no different, there was no better drink to swill whilst readying ourselves for another botched attempt at a stage dive.

My first experience of spirits, came, as with most clueless teenagers, in the form of a sickly sweet American whisky or Caribbean white rum. It really was more about which mixer we could stand to drink for a prolonged period of time – be it Bacardi & Coke or Southern Comfort & Lemonade. We looked cool with our small tumblers, whilst the rest of the kids were being turned away from the bar. I believe a night on Cider and Bacardi chasers produced the first bout of drink induced sickness – made worse by the fact both were drunk straight from the bottle; down by the Thames at Richmond. Classy.

The move from school years to sixth form college changed very little in what was consumed, more just an increase in quantity. With no school uniform to hinder my desire to drink during the day, we had ample opportunity to visit the local dive pubs around college, where only the old or the out of work would frequent – basically any pub run by a landlord that would turn a blind eye as long as we paid and behaved ourselves.

Where there was a slight change, came in the form of venues for intoxication. A year older, but not necessarily wiser, I was able to chance my arm by moving away from the local discotheque/meat market – moving in towards the bright lights of the big city. Night clubs with their cavernous spaces, Global DJs and strange drinks like Blue Bols that glimmered under the strobe lighting. Then there was cans of Red Stripe at rave nights. So thick in the mouth, it would quickly throw you a jellyhead that made ‘busting the runningman’ all the more humorous – I guess you had to be there.

We were no longer park dwellers. Now we had a venue to spend the night under cover, surrounded by older women, whilst drinking to a soundtrack of beats, pianos and dark female vocals. As I stood in the middle of the Ministry of Sound dancefloor, arms in crucifix pose, bottle in either hand – I really thought life couldn’t get any better. The thumping headache and nausea that greeted the following Monday, confirmed that it definitely could get worse.

Still to come in Part Two – University, drinking games, drinking abroad and my first £5 beer.