Memories Are Made Of This : The Golden Years of The Sixties Music Revolution
I suppose my first realisation that music was something more relevant than learning the words to carols for the school Christmas concert was appreciating my Dad’s collection of 78s’. He was a man with unusual tastes in music. My contemporys’ parents listened to American crooners, like Bing Crosby, Dean Martin and the like, or the big band sounds of the day.
But my Dad had individual tastes which included Eastern European folk music, Scottish bagpipe ballads and Welsh miners choirs; plus my first introduction to classical such as exciting pieces like Aram Khachaturian’s “Sabre Dance”.
My Mother, a dedicated Crosby fan, disliked these strange sounds to the extent that she banished any playing of the ‘caterwauling’ to our barn, a large wooden structure at the back of the house. This suited my Dad, and me, just fine.
He would mend bikes and tinker with machinery in one corner, while I would curl up on a battered leather sofa looking at pictures in old movie magazines, giggling at jokes in back copies of Lilliput and reading girlie...
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