50, not out

“At the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, the guns fell silent”. 11 minutes - and 49 years - later the silence was broken at 26 Groveland Way, New Malden. I had arrived. Now, 12 months shy of the centenary of the Armistice that ended the war supposed to end all wars, I’m 50. Which is, apparently, the new 40, though I wasn’t particularly comfortable with that number, to be honest.

Still, as optimists and age-deniers will cheerfully tell you, it is just a number, that age is merely relative. Despite (probably) being a middle-aged man since my mid-20s, I don’t actually feel all that old. And while I’m hardly in tip-top condition, I’d like to think my outlook is quite youthful. Still, though, 50 is 50. Half a century. My fiftieth spin around the sun. Bloody hell.

My memory is hazy, which isn’t a great portent for later years. I recently met a pal for a coffee and we both realised that, post-40 (he’s 56) we can’t any more hold conversations about music, films and telly without reaching for our iPhones to fill in gaps about names and trivia. Our brains, we concluded, are like computers with gradually disintegrating hard drives, retaining stuff you never expected to keep, and selectively losing vital pieces of information deep in the cracks, never to be brought up again.

What early memories I do have start to become doubts. My earliest recollection is one I can’t authenticate: I think I watched the moon landings on our black and white TV, but seeing as I would have been just 20 months old when Neil Armstrong made his giant leap, I doubt my noggin - even when it comes to telly consumption - is that good. Thanks to repetitive screenings of that, or Geoff Hurst’s winning World Cup goal in ’66, you start to think that, like Forrest Gump, you may have actually been there, or at least, witnessed it.

At least I can attest to have been alive when Armstrong jumped off the bottom rung of the Eagle's step ladder. And alive, just, when The Beatles were inventing rock music, when British and French ingenuity produced the never-bettered marvel that was Concorde; alive in 1970s Britain (which seemed to be mostly grey) and the start of colour television; alive during the rise of Margaret Thatcher, for which I have never forgiven British voters, and alive when the Cold War was at both its most intriguing and its most frightening; alive for Bowie, disco and punk, Reagan and Gorbachev, the Troubles and terror in the Middle East, recessions and economic booms, the mobile phone and the Internet, 9/11, Brexit and Trump (for, both, I will not forgive their respective voters, either).

In these 50 years I’ve been schooled and taken the path of employment, first in journalism, latterly in corporate PR. I have lived abroad, in the Netherlands, California and Paris. I have interviewed pop stars, film stars and TV stars, driven around Moscow with Jon Bon Jovi, witnessed the disaster of all live TV interviews with Ozzy Osborne in Red Square, hung out with Hulk Hogan and got to be there on the day Sky TV launched and changed the global - yes, global - media landscape forever.

These are, though, just snapshots, and I certainly won’t trouble you with the finer details of childhood holidays in Wales, teenage snogs or the other minutiae of these last 49 summers. Because, although I seem to be naturally disposed to nostalgia, and 50 years is a bloody long time, I should be looking forward, not back. 

But indulge me one delve back in time: the day I was actually born - 11 November, 1967. The big news of that day in Britain was that investigators were trying find out what had made a British European Airways Comet airliner (the UK’s first home-grown passenger jet) explode over the Mediterranean; Bill Simpson of the radio soap opera Doctor Finlay’s Casebook had left his wife for Edward Fox’s ex; football league referees were threatening to boycott Millwall matches due to hooliganism; engineers at Leyland had developed the first jet-powered lorry, which would be on the road commercially by 1969; and a Lanarkshire toddler had swallowed her pet goldfish, but thanks to the administering of a glass of salted water, threw it up and returned it to its bowl. The big stories, as they appeared. 


In the wider world, the Vietnam War was hotting up, notably on the propaganda side, with the office of General William Westmoreland, the US commander in Vietnam, claiming that US action had successfully reduced the number of communist forces (a CIA operative would, in 1975, admit that this was, in fact false, and that the enemy strength had been double that claimed. On November 11, 1967, three American PoWs - held captive for four years - were released by the Viet Cong.

On the day that my family was welcoming its third child, British television - the industry which provided my father with employment - was still a somewhat rarified affair, comprising of just three channels (including BBC2, which became in the previous July Europe’s first channel to broadcast regularly in colour). That Saturday afternoon, BBC1 offered Grandstand (including ‘Fight of the Week’ which, I presume, was boxing, a preview of the afternoon’s football fixtures, horse racing, “moto-cross”, rugby and the footy results. Over on ITV there was World Of Sport with Eammon Andrews presenting a mix of “international hockey”, “international table tennis”, more horse racing, and the-then jewel in ITV’s sporting canon, wrestling). 

Early evening on BBC1 offered Dr. Who (opening episode of The Ice Warriors), Simon Dee’s Dee Time, Dixon Of Dock Green, the news read by Michael Aspel and The Val Doonican Show with guests Les Dawson and Wayne Newton. Next door on BBC2 that evening was a production of Wuthering Heights featuring Ian McShane as Heathcliff, followed by Dick Clement and Ian La Frenais’ sitcom Further Adventures Of Lucky Jim, starring John Le Mesurier. ITV’s Saturday evening line-up included Hughie Green’s talent show Opportunity Knocks!, Bob Monkouse’s legendary game show The Golden Shot, Man In A Suitcase - a detective series that I shamelessly borrowed the title from for my first regular magazine column, and after the news, The Des O’Connor Show. Quality.

That afternoon, and no doubt featured on Match Of The Day that night, Chelsea (then in their 1960s pomp and attracting the likes of Raquel Welch to Stamford Bridge) had beaten Sheffield Wednesday 3-0, with goals from John Hollins, Peter Osgood (‘The King of Stamford Bridge’) and John Boyle, in a side that also included Peter Bonetti, Eddie McCreadie, Marvin Hinton, Joe Kirkup, Ron ‘Chopper’ Harris, the mercurial Scottish winger Charlie Cooke, Tommy Baldwin and Joe Fascione, another Scot, albeit one with an Italian name (the first of many of Italian extraction to grace West London’s finest). I mention all of this for no other reason than I would become a Chelsea fan, and it’s pleasing to see that within a few hours of my arrival, they won a game. That may or may not have been an omen.

Just as Chelsea became one of my lifelong associations so, too, did music. On the day I popped out, the No.1 pop song in the UK was Baby, Now That I've Found You, the first single from the groundbreaking mixed-race British soul band, The Foundations, and which had benefitted from extensive airplay on the BBC’s new radio station, Radio 1, which had only been launched a couple of months before. Also in the Top 10 that week was the Bee Gees’ Massachusetts and the Troggs’ Love Is All Around, making its first assault on the ‘hit parade’ 27 years before Wet Wet Wet would make us suffer with their version. 

Over in the albums section that weekend, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band continued be on top (that it was the birth of both the concept album and progressive rock fills me with deep pleasure). The Jimi Hendrix Experience were a few places lower with Are You Experienced?, another debut album and the one which put Hendrix firmly on the map, Let’s, though, gloss over the fact that people were also buying the Sound Of Music and Dr. Zhivago soundtracks as well as - in a worrying forward echo of Ed Sheeran today - two from The Dubliners. Thankfully there was more interesting stuff going on in the chart’s lower reaches, with Scott Walker’s Scott, John Mayall’s Crusade and Otis Redding and Carla Thomas’ King And Queen. However, this one week’s charts don’t really do 1967 justice. 

It was another year of music landmarks in what was already an extraordinary period of musical development, as early rock and roll started to evolve into pop and rock. 1967 saw the ‘Summer of Love’ and its peace, love and psychedelia, too, and both Sgt. Pepper and Magical Mystery Tour released that year, The Beatles seemed to be single-handedly transforming popular music, even laying the foundations for prog rock and concept-based albums. Elsewhere The Small Faces took a trip through Itchycoo Park, The Doors released their eponymous debut and Pink Floyd made their first appearance on record with The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn. Eric Clapton, Jack Bruce and Ginger Baker as Cream got heavy with Disraeli Gears, the Rolling Stones brought out Their Satanic Majesties Request, while The ‘Orrible ‘Oo released The Who Sell Out and The Velvet Underground (with Nico) gave us The Velvet Underground. Oh, and a certain David Bowie released his debut album, David Bowie, which largely sank without trace (though it does contain gems like Love You Till Tuesday and Silly Boy Blue).

Alright, so that’s the history lesson. Turning 50 means some reflection. I’m trying to avoid it. What’s done is done. Successes and failures, mistakes and misdemeanours, they’re all in the past. It’s time to face the future, but not without a thought of my age peers. Every year gives birth to people of note, but it’s always interesting to see who you’re keeping up with. Turning 50 with me this year are former deputy prime minister Nick Clegg, the Dutch prime minister Mark Rutte, Noel Gallagher, Paul Gascoigne, Matt LeBlanc, Pamela Anderson, Julia Roberts, Davina McCall, former Chelsea player 'Super' Dan Petrescu, the comedian Tim Vine, my rock star friend Steven Wilson, the Smashing Pumpkins' Billy Corgan, Letitia Dean - EastEnders' Sharon "Princess" Watts, the film director Judd Appatow, Will Ferrell, Jamie Foxx, Vin Diesel, Nicole Kidman and Sharleen Spiterri of Texas. Kurt Cobain and Philip Seymour Hoffman would have been 50. Given all of their achievements, I wonder how they’re facing up to 50?

As for me, I’m facing up to it “quite” well. Those around me will know why and because of whom. In fact my 50th birthday is a wonderful opportunity to draw a line under the previous half century, to forget the didn’t-happens and what-could-have-been and celebrate the what-happens-next, with family, friends and those closest to me. Bring it on, 50.

Tribal extinction - the demise of the rock star

There is a widely-held belief that rock stardom ended a long time ago, even if the prefix "rock star" continues to be applied liberally, from questionable media descriptions of anyone who can hold a guitar (er..."rock star Ed Sheeran") to politicians ("rock star French president, Emmanuel Macron") and even business people (Branson, Jobs, et al).

For those of us of a generation, the term "rock star" still conjures a certain image. Indeed, simply Google the term and a generic picture appears that conforms perfectly to the stereotype. But, says David Hepworth in his tremendous new book, Uncommon People: The Rise And Fall Of The Rock Stars, the rock star as a concept has grown diluted.

"There are still people who dress like rock stars," he writes, "and do their best to act as they think rock stars would have acted in an earlier time, much as there are people who strap on replica holsters and re-enact the gunfight at the O.K. Corral." But, he says, in essence, the time of the rock star has now gone.

Plenty of acts still trade legitimately under the luminous rock star moniker - the Stones, The Who, Neil Young, take your pick. U2 and Coldplay retain the bombast, even if Bono and Chris Martin have become more irritants than icons. But there is definitely a case that proper rock stardom has gone the way of the dinosaur, leaded petrol and daytime telly closing down after the lunchtime news. Indeed, the original form of the species has been reduced to rare glimpses such as last weekend, amid the joyous rebuttal of extremism that was Manchester's One Love concert, Liam Gallagher - resplendent in a £400 orange coat, hands customarily behind his back, declaring "Tonight, I'm a rock'n'roll star" with requisite aura and swagger.

In Uncommon People, a follow-up of sorts to last year's equally good 1971 - Never a Dull Moment: Rock's Golden Year (featured on this blog here), Hepworth traces an anthropological arc from rock stardom's primordial root - when Little Richard's Tutti Frutti brought sexual innuendo to the previously anodyne 'hit parade' in the 1950s - to its nominal extinction at the hands of the Internet, around the time of Kurt Cobain's death.

"I wanted to write something about rock stars as a tribe," explains Hepworth, whose long career in music journalism encompasses the NME and Smash Hits, launching the magazines Q, Empire, Mojo, The Word and others, as well as co-fronting the BBC's Whistle Test with frequent partner-in-crime Mark Ellen. "This tribe came along in the mid-'50s and by the mid-'90s had passed away. That meant I could write the story of their rise and fall." Moreover, he says, there was a new angle to explore: "I've always been just as interested in the personal side of it as the musical side, and it struck me that nobody had taken that approach."

That approach is an incredibly well researched piece of work, presenting - almost like forensic evidence for a murder trial - 40 examples from as many years of what contributed to the arc. Hepworth refreshingly avoids some of the well-trodden tales and subjects in favour of more insightful examinations of what contributed to stars' rise to rock stardom (the influence of Hank Marvin, for example, often forgotten as the inspiration for many of our Stratocaster-wielding stage gods) and in some cases unpicking what they finally became, such as Elvis Presley.

When I were a lad, the aspiration to be a rock star was fulfilled quite easily by a tennis racquet and a full-length mirror. You appropriated the attitude, struck a pose and you were done: you'd become whoever it was you'd just seen on Top Of The Pops, doing, apparently, much the same thing. Those who took it to the next stage - applying actual musical talent, amongst other ingredients - wound up as cultural icons, "uncommon people", as Hepworth writes in the book, "...from the masses who got to the top without the help of education, training, family ties, money or other conventional ladders."

Now, Hepworth says, "The game has changed". Rock stars emerged when there was a cultism about rock music, either owning it or seeing it being performed. Today, the competition for attention is myriad, and for all the self-importance we musos still apply to the form, it - and its practitioners - are no longer kings of the hill. That Kurt Cobain came to be viewed as the last rock star might have more to do with his suicide coming in the same timeframe as the Internet's arrival. "The technology revolution was pretty significant," says Hepworth. "I don't think there will be anything quite like rock and roll again because now we've got so many choices. People formed all those groups because they were bored. Nobody's bored any more. Just distracted."

© Simon Poulter 2017

On top of that, the Internet has also impacted what we see of those stars: during a recent recording of a Word In Your Ear podcast, the terrific online discussion shows fronted by Hepworth and Ellen, an audience member pointed out that there is just less mystique surrounding pop stars, thanks to social media enabling them to share everything in minute, unfettered detail. The old days, when access was controlled by a fearsome record company press officer and photography would be just an official 10x8 black and white handout, have long gone.

Hepworth agrees: "The music papers were part of the star maker machinery. It was a business driven by hunches and personal preferences. Now it's a business driven by data. I know which I preferred...".   On top of that, Hepworth adds, rock stardom has lost its impact. "It used to be enormous fun to go and meet Keith Richards and find out what he had to say. Nowadays I can't believe anybody's really interested. It's years since anybody said to me, 'Have you seem what so-and-so said in Q?'. Nowadays they just say it themselves on social media."

"The point of [this] book," Hepworth adds, "is that rock stars didn't have to be anything. The only thing they had to be was stars." So what, then, does Hepworth himself consider to be the model rock star? "I'd have to say Bruce Springsteen. He tells the entire story of rock and roll on stage every night and gives you a glimpse of what he got from The Beatles, the Stones, The Who, Bob Dylan and everything else. I like that about him."