It is 1982, and I'm head-banging to AC/DC at the Islay High School disco. I'm wearing a pleated flowery skirt with a puff-sleeved blouse. My Lady Diana haircut, normally flat as a cow pat, is mildly electrified. I feel stupid and invigorated, comical and earnest. Why am I doing this?
A semi-circle of spotty kids face the stage, in race-start position. They wear denim jackets ('den jacks') covered in patches, sewn on by their mothers; patches that say Motorhead and The Scorpions. On one patch, an embroidered, naked woman writhes astride a snake. Hair flails, air guitar wails. Teachers look on, bemused and bored, shirts still tucked into slacks. The air smells of wood floors, hair gel and longing.
It was one of those nights, when you turn out the lights, and everything comes in to view, scream AC/DC.
'Did you know head-banging eventually causes brain damage?'
We said this to each other, earlier in the day, during maths. We assessed the risk, with an inhalation of air through the nostrils; a serious nod of the head, a dip of the Lady Di flick. Yup. Live dangerously. That's what teenagers do.
A few school dances later, Madonna burst into my life, to let me off the hook, and guide me away from Heavy Metal. Step away from the potential brain damage. Crop your vest tops. Brandish your crucifixes wisely.
Madonna, oh, Madonna. As soon as I saw your videos - ogled them, over and over, rewinding the heck out of that clunky VHS cassette, I knew I needed to follow your Lucky Star.
It wasn't just that Madonna was bendy and gorgeous and dressed like... no one ever before, it was the spectacular way she carried herself. She made self-control look easy. Anything was possible.
Admittedly, I got confused when she married Sean Pean (why not Matt Dillon?). Then, Sean Pean left her - left Madonna?!- and she poured out her heartbreak to the press. It said so in Just 17, so it was 100% true.
I was equally discombobulated, when Jean Paul Gaultier strapped 'Madge' into that ice cream-cone bra. Are you sure, Madonna? Are you sure you want to poke fun at your femine prowess? Are you sure it's even attractive? Who was I, her mother?
But that was the whole point. She didn't care. She rocket-fuelled herself out of our comfort zone. She made mankind (womenkind / every kind) come to her - not the other way around.
*
I am tone deaf. Some people say, there's no such thing as 'tone deaf' and anyone can learn to sing, but I'm not fooled.
When we were kids, we were asked to 'perform' for visitors. With resigned practicality, my mum used to announce -
'John can sing, but the girl's can't.'
It sounded cruel, but at least I had no delusions from a young age. I was never goning to be an embarrassing audition in the X factor.
Mind you, in high school, a music teacher was looking for kids to sing a few solo lines, in the pantomime. I put up my hand and announced:
'My brother can sing, but I CAN'T!' The confused woman shook her head. 'But your brother's NOT HERE is he?'
*
I have always liked 'uncool' music. I refuse to be ashamed of it. I will dance round the kitchen to Lionel Ritchie, Hall and Oates, Radio 2.
In the early 90's, a boy called Neil Roberston visited my small basement flat. Neil was the talent scout who brought Belle and Sebastian to Jeepster Records. He flicked through the CD's and commented - 'You're lucky this isn't a first date, because you wouldn't get a second date on this collection'.
I knew it was tongue-in-cheek, but it reminded me of an exchange at school, one of my historical clunkers. I cringe at my lack of tact. I told a girl I didn't like (a girl I didn't know how to connect with) that I 'hated' Morrissey, and he was 'rubbish'. Gladioli on Top of The Pops?! Pardon?
My supposed enemy had the nuance and the savy to appreciate Mozza. She kept a straight face and reiterated that she liked him, she liked his voice. I was too young to 'get it'. If I had a time-machine, I'd apologise, or at least keep my neon Smash Hits views to myself.
But, back to scouting for Belle and Sebastian.
In 1997, they'd release their second album - If You're Feeling Sinister. I'd be on the cover, reading Kafka. Years on, I'd be more famous for this, than for anything else. It comes up in conversation, and strangers say,
'No Way? That was you? Coooooool!'
And the best part is, I can still keep my uncool taste.
I'm still best pals with Stuart, lead singer of Belle and Sebastian. At a B&S gig, I met Francis, my partner of 23 years. We have two kids, a garden, a milk frother and a Romanian Rescue dog. Life is good. Francis drums for Teenage Fanclub and writes music for Film and TV.
So far, nobody's asked me to sing backing vocals on their tracks. Lucky, that.
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