Tag Archives: 60s

Power Of Persuasion

March 17, 2023 onceuponatime70s 6 Comments

Paul Fitzpatrick: London, March 2023

Growing up in the 60s and early 70s we had it pretty good I reckon.

On our piece of the rock there were no wars, pandemics or civil unrest. True, there was the odd power cut in the early 70s due to the miners strikes, but I remember that being more an adventure-under-candle-light than any real form of hardship.

Apart from the normal growing pains and adolescent insecurities, life was pretty good, and yet, I always had the notion that we weren’t living our best life…. like our counterparts in America.

So, what was this grand social insight based on?
Academic studies? Penetrating documentaries? First hand experience?

Nope, it was based on the only lens I had of the world back then (outside of the National Geographic’s we used to thumb-through in Geography lessons, hoping to discover topless tribeswoman)….
American comics, or to be more specific American comic ads.

To a 10 year old raised on The Beano, the ads featured on the inside covers of American comics were as spellbinding as the comics themselves.

How lucky were those Kids of America (whoa oh), that they had access to the types of treasures we could only dream of owning…

Life size Monsters, Rocket Ships, Nuclear Subs. Sea Monkeys, X-ray specs, Electric engine’s, and Physique’s like Charles Atlas, there seemed no end to the toys, gadgets and goodies on offer across the pond.

I was fortunate to have a great aunt (in both senses of the word), who emigrated to the Big Apple in the early 60s.
My aunt Marj was a PA for a publishing company in Manhattan and a couple of times a year she would send me over a bundle of American comics… bless her heart.

Whenever I caught sight of that package with the airmail stamp I knew I was in for a treat, and they never disappointed – countless capers with Richie Rich, Casper and Archie & his friends (oh sugar sugar).
Adventures with the Justice League, the Green Lantern, the Hulk, Thor and Spiderman, I would devour those comic-books cover to cover until every word was consumed, including the adverts, especially the adverts.

This led to a mild obsession with all things Americana for a few years which to be fair was supported by other cultural happenings from the era.

Take television for example, my favourite 60s tv programmes were mostly American….
The Monkees, The Man from Uncle, The Munsters, The Adams Family, Lost in Space and the Tex Avery cartoon universe.

We weren’t exactly an underprivileged society, but it seemed that our American cousins were a step ahead in most aspects of life.

At a time when our cultural cheer-leaders were the pipe-smoking Harold Wilson and ‘Enry “splash it all over” Cooper, the US could point to the charismatic JFK and ‘The Greatest’, Muhammad Ali.

Our standout orator was Enoch Powell their’s was Martin Luther King.

When we were getting excited about the new Ford Escort they were pimping up Ford Grand Torino’s.

When denim became fashionable, we rolled out Falmers Jeans they already had the originals – Levis, Wrangler, Lee.

When it came to bench-mark resorts there was no debate, Blackpool Pleasure Beach versus The Magic Kingdom was simply no contest.

For balance, it’s fair to say that a case could be made for biased-reasoning on all of the above and of course for every JFK there was a ‘Tricky Dicky’ Nixon, for every MLK there was a KKK and for every Woodstock with its 3 Days of Peace, Love & Harmony there was an Altamont with murderous Hells Angels killing the vibe.

The grass ain’t always greener, but those ‘Mad Men’ of Madison Avenue sure made it look that way.

Pioneers in their field, the US advertising gurus of the 60s & 70s built brands and shifted products by selling dreams and fuelling aspirations.

They convinced at least one generation that smoking cigarettes would make them look cool and attractive to the opposite sex, and that eating sugary breakfast cereals would turn their kids into Olympic Champions, just like Bruce Jenner (if only they knew!).

There was nothing these guys couldn’t sell when they put their mind to it.
Need confirmation?

Check out the 7up ad below.

So when it came to marketing toys to impressionable kids, it was lambs to the slaughter.
What chance did we have when our parents were already entrapped?
And if they weren’t entrapped why the hell did we have a K-tel Veg-o-matic and a Ronco Hair-Trimmer sitting redundant in the cupboard?

My first brush with marketing came with the Jet Rocket Ship below.
As soon as I saw the ad for that bad-boy I was obsessed, I had to have one.
I had the equivalent of 5 bucks in my piggy bank and we had a garden, what else did I need?

I asked my Mum, if I could send money to auntie Marj so she could ship one over. Or maybe she could fly across in one on her next visit? (I wasn’t the brightest kid!).

Not giving her a minutes rest, I gradually wore my mum down to the point of submission, but ever the realist, my dad who was the real gate-keeper, saw through the glossy, targeted advertising with all its features and benefits, still reeling no-doubt from the Veg-o-matic debacle, he predicted it would be a piece of crap… in turn, jettisoning the jet.

As it turned out my dad was right, of course he was right, and although I was pissed-off at the time, he was trying to teach this gullible 10 year old a valuable life-lesson…. ‘if it’s too good to be true, it probably is‘

I’m guessing they received plenty of orders for that five dollar interplanetary rocket with ‘enough room for two air cadets‘ and ‘control levers that work!’

I’m also guessing that 95% of people who received one probably wanted to send it back once they opened the box.

Based on what I know now, I’d predict that only about 20% of purchasers would actually have sent anything back.

Net result?
Lots of sales but very few satisfied customers.

And that my friends is the power of advertising!

Btw, don’t worry about the 7up kid he turned out just fine….

Lifestyle, Life, 70s life

THE WAITING GAME.

March 15, 2023 onceuponatime70s 13 Comments

“What are you doing, dear?” my Mum asked upon seeing me sat on the living room floor while my pals played out on the street.

“I’m going to watch Thunderbirds.”

“You’re a bit early – it’s not on for another ten minutes.”

“I know – but I’m waiting for the television to warm up.”

This would have been the mid to late Sixties, and our temperamental 14” black and white TV set behaved like a reluctant old dog being forced out for a walk on a windy and wet winter’s day. Grudgingly, it would eventually do what was asked of it, but not without putting up an obstinate fight.

At nine or ten years old, I just went with it. This was the way things were. ‘Instant’ was a word only just creeping into my vocabulary – mainly because my Mum persisted in serving up the disgusting, powdered, butterscotch or strawberry ‘Instant Whip’ for our evening meal dessert.

That television experience, though, taught me the virtue of patience at a very early age. You know: ‘good things come to those that wait,’ and all that. It stood me in good stead for my early teen years in the Seventies.

For instance, when I first started going to gigs (1973) I‘d turn up at the venue, usually The Apollo, a few weeks before the show and queue up for tickets. Concerts by the popular bands of the day, invariably meant queues for tickets would form well before the Box Office opened. Like hundreds of other kids, I’d happily wait in the rain (it was always raining in Glasgow in the Seventies) my loons becoming progressively more saturated from the top of my platform shoes up to my crotch. But the shared anticipation of seeing our heroes perform and the communal spirit that engendered made the waiting worthwhile. The wait heightened anticipation.

***Overnight queue at The Apollo, Glasgow.***

Not like today when any prospective gig-goer logs in to some online Ticket Agency from the comfort of their home and then makes a contactless card payment for some inordinate amount of money for a show in perhaps eleven months’ time.

Letters. We were quite happy to wait a couple of weeks for replies. Maybe, as an alternative to queuing up at The Apollo, we’d send a postal order and S.A.E. to the Ticket Office and hope upon hope we were successful in our application. Again, the wait heightened the anticipation.

***Airmail envelopes for our pen pals.***

Remember ‘pen-friends?’ Cub Scout and Brownie packs readily promoted the concept; comics and magazines also carried adverts from kids living in what were to us, strange and exotic places the world over. They would ask we write to them, and if Kenji from Tokyo hadn’t outgrown the notion of having a ‘pen friend’ from the UK by the time your letter arrived, then you might receive a reply some many weeks down the line.

On the other hand with no reply forthcoming, you eventually realised Kenji was just a timewaster. At least though, you’d had twelve weeks of excitedly greeting the postman at your door in the hope he brought news from the Far East. If nothing else, at least the wait heightened anticipation for a while.

We’d also happily wait till the following Saturday teatime for the latest episode of Batman – same Bat time ; same Bat channel. Not like today, when we can binge on series Box Sets streamed instantaneously into our homes or mobile device.

***Best tv show of The Sixties*** ***/ Seventies***

We’d wait keenly on the sound of the ice cream van chimes – mentally salivating at the thought of a couple Bazooka Joes, a bag of Salt ’n ’Vinegar crisps and if the ‘icey’ was in benevolent mood, some free broken biscuits.

In those days, Time was not pressing; the wait was expected and accepted.

Now, everything is pretty much instant – or close to. We want something? It’s available at the flick of a switch or press of a button.

There are though, some instances where the trend is completely skewed; instances where what used to be quick and efficient are now unnecessarily burdened by delay. Rather than the wait building anticipation, it has now become a source of angst.

In The Seventies, getting an appointment with your doctor was pretty quick. Now …?

In The Seventies, if your favourite top division football team scored a peach of a goal, you could celebrate instantly as the ball crossed the line. Now …?

In The Seventies, if you were stood at a bar behind some bloke ordering five pints of ‘Heavy’ for his mates, you knew, with confidence, you’d be served within the next few minutes. Now …?

Now, you’re stood behind some geezer ordering five Porn Star Cocktails for his mates. Comprising vanilla-flavoured vodka, Passoã, passion fruit juice, and lime juice, they each take five minutes to prepare and must be mixed by bar-staff with a degree in Chemical Engineering and an eye for artistic detail.

Now, that particular wait heightens agitation!

Maybe though, the technological advancements of the past five decades have spoilt us somewhat? Perhaps our expectations of ‘instant’ are unreasonable? Will Future’s youth appreciate the concept of patience?

You know, I have many things for which to be thankful about my life. Who’d have considered though, that for instilling an acceptance of The Wait all those years ago, a small, battered, old black and white tv set would be one of them?

(Post by Colin ‘Jackie’ Jackson from Glasgow – March 2023)

(Only three songs beginning with either the word ‘Wait,’ or ‘Waiting’ entered the UK charts in the 1970s. Here’s two of them – the third, ‘Wait Until Midnight’ by Yellow Dog, is pretty crap, I’m sad to say.)

Family life, Life

Knock! Knock! Who’s there …?

March 9, 2023 onceuponatime70s 3 Comments

***Door-to-door salesman.*** ***Photo credit: ClassicStock***

I think I can say, without fear of contradiction, everyone reading this post detests the intrusion on their privacy by the various unsolicited phone-calls received each day from any number of spurious sources.

Grants for cavity wall insulation or loft insulation; claim for damage to your car in an accident that you’re totally unaware of; claim against car manufacturers for selling you a diesel model many years ago; claim against a Bank for incorrectly selling you Payment Protection Insurance in the dim and distant past – all that kind of malarky.

It does my head in, really!

It’s a regrettable consequence of progress in the field of Communication, I fear, but it was never like this back in the day.

Or was it?

Certainly, any attempt at tele-sales would have been pretty futile. Not every household had access to a telephone for a start, and those that did were interminably engaged while Mrs Jones from #10 chatted about her Bert’s lumbago to her sister on the ‘party line.’

No – in those days, the best chance of maximising sales was to get in front of the ~~intended victim~~ prospective customer.

‘Knock! Knock! Knock!

Oh, give me peace – who the heck is it now?

The most common, persistent and determined visitor would have been the Door-to-Door Salesman. Unlike the tele-sales staff of today, these guys were not always quite so easy to get rid of. They were not easily discouraged by a simple, “Not today, thank you,” and had a reputation for preventing the door being shut on them by sticking their foot in the way.

They would arrive, bringing all manner of items for sale, from the expensive, but miraculous, new vacuum cleaner to shoe-brushes and polish!

Perhaps unfairly, and possibly influenced by the image portrayed in ‘70s TV sitcoms, I recall them as sort of ‘spiv’ type characters, full of themselves … as well as an inordinate amount of BS!

In a similar vein, there was also the Insurance Salesman. He’d offer life and household insurance and would collect policy money which would be recorded in a small receipt book. A forerunner of today’s Financial Planning Consultant, his products would not be so regulated, but they were certainly a lot less complicated and confusing.

***Insurance Salesman – (photo credit ClassicStock***)

At the opposite end of the ‘hard sell’ scale was a visitor more eagerly welcomed by women around the country – The Avon Lady. Though it was dropped some time in The Seventies, Avon is to this day still associated with the tagline of its 1960s TV advert – ‘Ding Dong! Avon calling.’

Similarly greeted with enthusiasm and eternal hope, was the Pools Agent.

My dad and I would sit by the dining table each week, agonising whether Arbroath were likely to get an away win at Stranraer that following weekend; would Stockport County manage a draw with Workington? Get these and a few other results right, and we’d be off to sunny Spain on a family holiday next week!

This was way before the days of The National Lottery and contactless card payments and the agents would walk door to door, even through the dark winter evenings, collecting cash from numerous households. In isolation, the stake monies weren’t vast, but by the end of the evening, the collectors would be weighed down with decent sums, and I’m sure presented easy targets for the neighbourhood’s ne’er-do-wells.

‘Knock! Knock! Knock!’

“What now? It’s dinner time, for goodness sake!”

I could have put my pocket money on it – an interruption at meal times invariably meant a visit by a Jehovah’s Witness or The Salvation Army. This was often a tricky one to handle for my parents. They wouldn’t want to cause any offence by sharply telling the visitors to sling their hook, but at the same time, their corned beef hash was getting cold. Sometimes, it was worth a few coppers donation just to get rid of them.

It wasn’t just hawkers and scroungers that sought our attention though. There were also those providing a service. Remember the Knife Sharpener? Here in Glasgow, the late ‘60s and early ‘70s saw a rise in knife crime, with ‘razor gangs’ terrorizing many areas of the city. Business must have been booming!

I do recall the Knife Sharpener coming down our sedate, suburban street. He always attracted a crowd of us kids watching on, fascinated.

“Look how sharp this is Mum,” we’d say after gleefully running back home with the now sparkling and shiny breadknife in our sweaty and slippery grip.

Chimney sweeps were anther essential service provider, at least in the early Sixties, but with cities in the UK moving to smokeless fuel towards the end of the decade, their visits became less and less frequent.

Others touting for business wouldn’t necessarily knock on residents’ doors. Instead, their presence would be announced by the heavy ‘clip clop’ sound of a horse’s hooves, accompanied by the blowing of whistles, the crashing noise of pots and pans being banged together, and the clarion call of:

“ANY OLD I-I-I-I-R-R-O-O-O-N?!”

Those were the days! The days of ‘The Scrappy.’ No need to complete an online form and pay the council fifty quid or whatever to come and take away your scrap metal some two or three weeks in the future. Just keep it by the house and every week or so, some bloke would come round and take it off your hands for free. Sometimes, he’d even pay you.

Then there was also the good old ‘Rag and Bone Man.’ He too would be assisted on his rounds by an old working horse, and would take away any old tat you had not previously foisted off on the local Boy Scouts Jumble Sale.

Add weekly / daily visits from the fish van; the baker van; the general supplies van; the ‘pop’ van; the ice cream van and the mobile library, and I have to wonder how Jeff Bezos ever managed to get his Amazon business off the ground.

So yes, it was different back in the day, but maybe not as different as we really consider. We were still bombarded by others seeking to make a living.

Certainly, it’s easier to abruptly end any unwanted discourse with those intrusive tele-sales teams of today.

But given the choice of talking to some geezer purporting to be called ‘Andrew’ from a call centre in Mumbai about extending my mobile phone contract, or feeding a sugar lump to a tired looking, flea bitten, poor old nag as its owner loads more weight to the cart it’s expected to pull, and … well I know which I prefer.

(Post by Colin ‘Jackie’ Jackson from Glasgow – March 2023.)

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Driving, Lifestyle, School

car in the community

February 8, 2023 onceuponatime70s 7 Comments

Header image, credit James Taylor)

Growing up in The Sixties and through the early to mid-Seventies, having a family car was more of a luxury than the virtual necessity it’s become these days. Can you imagine, then, the excitement I felt as a seven-year old, when my dad shelled out (he reckons) no more than forty pounds for a second hand Hillman Californian, back in 1965?

I’m no Jeremy Clarkson, or James May or even that other bloke – all I know is it was two-tone green, had five wheels (yes it did – I’m counting the steering wheel) and having now looked it up, was technically a 1953 Hillman Minx Mk VIII Californian. (Like the one above.)

So, it was possibly about twelve years old when we got it. Way to go, Dad!

Hey – I’m not complaining. It may have been a bit rickety and perhaps not the most dependable, but it did allow us to get away on holidays – rather surprisingly as far away as Littlehampton in Sussex, though that did entail at least one overnight stop, two doses of Avomine travel sickness tablets, four loaves of bread and three jars of Heinz Sandwich spread.

“Are we there yet?”

As I recall, we ran this car for a good few years – even when my sister and I were told not to put our feet on the rusted floor for fear of falling through. Dad eventually called time on the Californian when he parked up one evening, pulled on the handbrake, and it came away in his hand.

Our next two cars were also bought second hand. The first was a blue and white Ford Cortina (Mk 1, apparently) with the registration number, BYS 616C. A few years later, and we’d upgraded to a sort of beige coloured Ford Corsair – registration KUS 72E.

I think these particular ‘reggies’ stick in my mind because together with the other kids in my street, I used to keep a notebook with a record of all the plates I saw! Like sad little wannabe traffic wardens, we’d walk round by where we lived and fastidiously note down the registration numbers with the make and model of all the cars we saw.

Don’t laugh – it was a proper ‘thing’ back in the day. Granted, we maybe we took it a tad too far, but there were actually books that would help identify the makes and models we spotted.

Fortunately, I managed to kick that habit in the early Seventies before there was ever a chance of being dragged into the dark and murky world of plane spotting.

By now, my uncle was working as an accountant for Ford Motor Company and so could supply my parents with a steady stream of Cortinas, Granadas and the like, all at super-knocked down prices. We were very lucky.

Luckier still, when in the middle of the decade, my dad qualified for a company car. This meant the family budget could extend to a second car – one for my mum’s exclusive use. Ha Ha! Like it was ever going to work like that.

This was indeed an exciting development. I had just turned seventeen and was now of age to slap these big red, ‘L’ lettered plates on the bumpers of a car and take to the road. I’d seen those American ‘teen movies’ where to the soundtrack of late-Fifties Rock ‘n’ Roll, the local lads with big, flash cars were idolised by attractive girls in brightly coloured swing skirts.

Sadly there weren’t many ice-cream parlours in my area and even less Drive-In Movie lots, but I still I had visions of cruising the not-so-mean streets of suburban Bearsden in a fancy-dan, shiny, ‘chick-magnet.’ The trouble was, a classic T-Bird 1948 convertible far outreached my budget, and the car I had ready access to was …my mum’s red Fiat 126!

Hey! Check me out!

Of course, it wasn’t that simple. I had to pass my driving test first, and that proved a little problematic. I sat the exam at my local test centre – Anniesland, Glasgow. Typical of my luck, the examiner was the one with the reputation for failing young drivers as a matter of course. True to form, after giving way to a corporation bus which had encroached onto my side of the road, I bombed. (Apparently, I showed undue consideration and should have carried on. Oh yeah?)

It would be another few months before I could re-sit.

Not to worry. I was young for my school year (August birthday) and many of my pals had already passed their test and now drove around in their parents’ cars, or even their own. One had an unreliable Ford Capri and another in my close circle had a dark green, Morris 1100. It had more room in the back than the Capri and wasn’t quite so prone to petty malfunctions. Despite it looking decidedly less cool than the metallic-bronze coloured Ford, the owner was pleased that his ‘baby’ was preferred as the communal carrier.

This owner, who shall remain nameless, was not one famed for being outrageous or troublesome in any shape or form in school. Just a decent, ordinary geezer. But behind the wheel of his car, he was a raging lunatic! A real cretin, in fact!

For instance, one school lunch-hour, six of us piled into this four-seater of his. That was bad enough, but he then proudly announced he was going to take a high speed run through a crossroads without either slowing or looking.

The moron did it too.

I fair near wet myself. I wasn’t the only one, either.

He promised faithfully never to do anything so stupid ever again.

He lied.

Some weeks later, two others and I fancied dogging off Maths class went a spin in his car again – ‘spin’ being the operative word.’

Heading out into the countryside he sped over a blind hump / bend combination, only to see a large truck approach from the other direction. Taking urgent evasive action he swerved to the left, clipping the roadside embankment. The car spun violently round, fortunately missing the passing lorry, but catching the opposite verge, putting the car momentarily onto two wheels, before coming to a rocking rest spread across both sides of the road.

The truck driver didn’t stop, perhaps oblivious to the near catastrophe, though more likely not wanting to get caught up in matters entirely not his fault.

The four of us were a gibbering mess. Even our erstwhile stupidly bold and wreckless driver was shaking uncontrollably. He parked the car up at the side of the road and after several minutes’ partial recovery, we unanimously agreed that what was left of double Maths wasn’t such a bad option after all.

A much slower and sensible drive back to school afforded some time to cobble together a feeble excuse about the car breaking down, resulting in our being late to class. We thought the day couldn’t get much worse. We were wrong.

Our regular, soft-touch maths teacher was ill that day and the Deputy Head, who had a fearsome a reputation for discipline, was standing in.

“Where have you boys been? You’ve missed half the lesson. Are you all right? You look white as sheets.”

Mr Wilson? Compassionate?

Nah – it was only a momentary slip of his guard.

“Sir – we were just …”

“I’m not interested in excuses Jackson! The four of you – my office after class.”

All things considered, two of the belt was an infinitely better fate than the possible alternative we had face a couple of hours earlier.

***The tawse – we would get it along the hand, not across as in this image, which could lead to severe wrist bruising!***

I really had to pass my Driving Test and at least be in control of my own destiny.

I could get out and about ok – I had ‘wheels’ in the form of my Suzuki TS125 motorbike. However, asking a girl on a date, then requesting she pull a crash-helmet over her beautifully coiffured barnet is probably not going to lead to a long-term relationship. It also rains a lot in Glasgow. A motorbike ride in the rain is hardly going to impress.

I did, then eventually pass my Driving Test in 1977, sitting it this time at a different test centre. I was by now wearing reading glasses as a matter of course but didn’t want to declare this and be bound to carry them with me and wear them whenever driving. So, prior to the test, I memorised the number plates of the cars which I thought could form part of the eyesight test. (The New Seekers were spot on with their assertion of ‘All my life’s a circle.’)

In time, I would buy my own car, but the decade would be turned by then.

And I never did get that 1948 T-Bird convertible.

Fiat 126? Chick-magnet? I’ve seen more effective fridge-magnets.

(Post by Colin ‘Jackie’ Jackson from Glasgow, February 2023)

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*MUSIC, Movies

tilting at windmills

January 11, 2023 onceuponatime70s 2 Comments

Earworm : a catchy song or tune that runs continuously through a person’s mind.

Has there ever been a song that you have equally cherished and chastised ? A song that sticks with you all day that you find yourself humming or whistling at the most inappropriate times ?

One such song for me is The Windmills Of My Mind sung by Noel Harrison back in 1968.

Mrs A (A graduate of the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama no less) describes it as a Baroque style melody similar to a Bach prelude with it’s numerous modulations. Personally I think it just sounds French.

Picture yourself supping your cafe au lait in a Parisian bistro with the strains of accordion from the beret clad busker across the boulevard.

Hey Pepe Le Peu, gonna gie it a break. Yur doin’ ma heid in wi that tune goin’ roon and roon. A fair near gagged on my croissant !

Of course I would be right. The music was by renowned French pianist and composer Michel Legrand with the English lyrics by Alan and Marilyn Bergman.

Actor and musician Noel Harrison is better known as the son of Rex of My Fair Lady and Doctor Doolittle fame. Although appearing in numerous musicals Rex Harrison never really sang but talked through his songs (listen to If I Could Talk To The Animals)

Fortunately his boy could hold a tune (almost) and found himself singing on the soundtrack of The Thomas Crown Affair beating Andy Williams to the gig. Who can forget that sexy chess scene when Steve McQueen was all hot under the collar at Faye Dunaway’s caressing of the Bishop piece.

The Windmills Of My Mind accompanied a glider scene as well as being used over the opening credits.

So, as the lyrics say :

Round like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending or beginning on an ever spinning reel

Enjoy……………….for the rest of the day !

*MUSIC, 70smusic.co.uk

1971 – The Best Year in Music?

November 4, 2022 onceuponatime70s 2 Comments

Once again we were invited to submit a piece to TURNTABLE TALK on Dave Ruch’s excellent ‘A Sound Day.‘ blog.
Dave’s site covers all genres and eras of music with insightful articles and great writing, and it’s well worth a visit.
This months topic was Those Were The Days My Friend.
Simply put, Dave was asking, what was “music’s best year.”

Here was my take on it….

This month’s Turntable Talk topic is a nice subjective one… ‘what was the best year for music?’

Well, it’s no surprise to discover that every generation thinks their era was the best, which makes perfect sense – people’s memories are precious and music plays a major part in that.

My musical consciousness began as a 10-year-old in the late 60s.
The Beatles were at their creative peak, The Stones, The Kinks and The Who were already established and there was plenty of radio friendly pop music on the radio courtesy of – The Monkees, Herman’s Hermits, Marmalade, etc.

Whilst I can remember some of it, truth be told I was too young to appreciate the cream of 60s music, with The Beatles, Dylan, Hendrix, Motown, Stax and the Laurel Canyon scene inspiring what was to follow.

And what was to follow was pretty special.

Take 1971 as an example.
Here’s a few albums you may of heard of….

The Rolling Stones – Sticky Fingers
Carole King – Tapestry
Led Zeppelin – Led Zeppelin IV
David Bowie – Hunky Dory
Marvin Gaye – What’s Going On
Rod Stewart – Every Picture Tells a Story
John Lennon – Imagine
Joni Mitchell – Blue
The Who – Who’s Next
T Rex – Electric Warrior
Cat Stevens – Teaser and the Firecat
The Doors – LA Woman
The Faces – A Nods as Good as a Wink to a Blind Horse
James Brown – Sex Machine
Don McLean – American Pie
Gil Scott Heron – Pieces of a Man
Jethro Tull – Aqualung
Pink Floyd – Meddle
James Taylor – Mud Slide Slim
Isaac Hayes – Shaft
Yes – Fragile
Paul McCartney – Ram

It’s staggering that the majority of theses artists were able to release landmark albums of such exceptional quality on an annual basis; sustaining a creative peak whilst still finding time to live a 70s rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle, which is no mean feat!

Included on this list are two of the top three albums of all time, according to music bible – Rolling Stone magazine‘s top 500 albums.
Marvin Gaye’s – What’s Going On and Joni Mitchell’s – Blue.

Another remarkable thing about this era was the diversity of the music.

Rock, pop, soul, reggae, jazz, country folk, glam, funk – it was one big melting pot.

In 1971 you would find Benny Hill rubbing shoulders at the top of the singles charts with Deep Purple and The Doors, and Jim Reeves swapping album chart positions with Led Zeppelin and Wishbone Ash.

In terms of the best year for music?

I think you could probably make a reasonable case for any year between 1967 and 1976, however, 1971 was seminal for me, it was the year I started going to record shops and buying albums, and it left a lasting impression.

Of course, I couldn’t afford to go record shopping every week, and whilst a 7yr old Jeff Bezos was still dreaming of Alexa in 71, every trip this 13yr old made to the record store was an event, and every purchase was critical.

I’m pretty sure the first album I purchased with my own money was Rod Stewart’s Every Picture Tells a Story.

(Ironically the opening line on track one, side one on Every Picture Tells a Story is one that summed up my record shop experiences up until I made my first purchase… “Felt some time feeling inferior”)

I remember travelling into the city to the record shop with a couple of mates – buzzing to be going with my own money, to make my own choices.

I can remember – the sense of privilege and belonging I felt for the first time in a record shop, as an active consumer rather than the annoying wee pleb who’d spend ages going through racks of albums, asking to hear tracks, with no intention (or means) of purchasing anything.

It made sense therefore that the record shops that made us feel welcome (or less unwelcome) were the one’s that got our business when we eventually made our buying decisions.

I can remember – the anticipation on the journey home, auditing the sleeve-notes, absorbing every bit of information, using the lyrics to sing along, a-cappella style on the top deck of the bus.

I can remember – when you got home the magic of placing the needle on track one, side one, and then settling back to hear that opening riff or vocal for the first time.

From Robert Plant’s “Hey, hey mama said the way you move” to Don McLean’s “Long, long time ago”.

From Keef’s “Brown Sugar” riff to the sax intro on “What’s Going On” – 1971 was the gift that just kept on giving.

If you need any further convincing, here’s a 1971 playlist to give you a taste of the year’s releases….

(Paul Fitzpatrick: London November 2022)

*MUSIC, 18 With A Bullet

18 With A Bullet – Suspicious Minds by Elvis

July 29, 2022 onceuponatime70s 3 Comments

Paul Fitzpatrick: July 2022, London

I went to see Baz Luhman’s ‘ELVIS’ recently, Austin Butler, the guy who plays Elvis is incredible in the role.
Tom Hanks hammy portrayal of Colonel Tom Parker aside, it’s a pretty spectacular piece of cinema.

Growing up in the 60s and 70s, big Gordon Ross, a one-man Elvis fan-club who would turn the volume up to the max whenever an Elvis song came on the radio, was the only Elvis fan I knew – to the majority of us The King just wasn’t relevant.

It was understandable really, in the early 70s we still saw Presley through the lens of his lame 60s movies, whilst the ensuing Vegas circus-act of the seventies wasn’t too appealing either.

He may have been The King to some but poor Elvis didn’t stand a chance with our generation against the Jagger’s, Plant’s or Bowie’s.

On reflection, we were too young to appreciate what a pioneer Elvis had once been, and we weren’t to know that with no Elvis, or for that matter no Chuck Berry (pre ‘My Ding-A-Ling’ of course) there would probably have been no Jagger, Plant or Bowie anyway.

Our lack of awareness also blind-sided us to the fact that there was a moment in time when Elvis re-invented himself musically and made some quality recordings that deserved our respect.

By the late 60s Elvis had become sick of the cheesy formulaic movies he was contracted to churn out, his ambition to be the new James Dean thwarted early on by Manager/Svengali – Colonel Tom Parker, who always went for the quick buck.

The contract that Parker had seduced a teenage Presley into signing ensured he would pocket 50% of Elvis’s earnings.
Parker also had a colossal gambling habit to support so long-term planning was never part of his strategy.

The turning-point came in 1968 when Elvis decided to return to making the music he loved which was R&B, Gospel & Country.

The Trojan-Horse for this musical comeback would be a corny Xmas NBC Special promoted by Parker.

Parker had envisaged Elvis singing a medley of seasonal ditties around a Xmas tree, surrounded by kids whilst promoting a range of Xmas sweaters, but a reinvigorated Elvis had other ideas.

Clad head to toe in black leather and assisted musically by his original Memphis band of brothers, the ‘68 Special‘ as it became known, showcased Elvis as a contemporary artist and told his life story in music.

Instead of singing a Christmas carol at the finale as initiated by Parker, Elvis debuted a new song, a tribute to his friend, the recently assassinated Martin Luther King called ‘If I Can Dream’, a peach of a song showcasing Presley’s vocal powers, that would go on to give Presley his first top 10 hit in years.

Energised by the positive reaction to the ‘68 Special‘ and motivated to pursue the music he loved, Elvis headed off to Memphis’s own American Sound Studios to work with renowned producer Chip Moman on his next project – From Elvis In Memphis, an album that would include his first number one for many years ‘Suspicious Minds‘.

‘Suspicious Minds’, my all time favourite Elvis track, was written by Mark James who also wrote ‘Always On My Mind‘.
James had initially recorded ‘Suspicious Minds’ for himself, but it tanked, so when Elvis came to town Chips Moman played him the track which Elvis loved, and it became the last track they recorded for the session.

There was a problem though, Colonel Tom Parker only permitted tracks to be released that Elvis (and he) got a percentage of publishing royalties on – even though Elvis had no input in the writing process.

When Parker’s team approached Moman with the ‘offer he supposedly couldn’t refuse’ his response was….
“You can take your f…ing tapes, and you and your whole group can get the hell out of my studio. Don’t ask me for something that belongs to me. I’m not going to give it to you.”

In the end, Elvis had to intervene to tell Parker that he loved the song and wanted it released regardless of any publishing issues.

Suspicious Minds was a platinum selling single which garnered critical acclaim but that made no difference to Parker who never forgot the publishing rights dispute and put the kibosh on Elvis ever working with Chips Moman again – despite the fact Elvis had just made his best and most successful album for many a year.

Now that Elvis had turned his back on movies The Colonel had to find other ways to milk his cash cow and focused instead on Presley’s return to music and touring.
After the critical and commercial success of From Elvis In Memphis, RCA and Parker would cash in by releasing 23 Elvis albums in the next 4 years, including a Christmas album – The Colonel always got his way.

With such prolific output, quality control as you can imagine, was lacking, but there were still a few classic Elvis moments in there – ‘Burning Love’, ‘It’s Only Love’, ‘In The Ghetto’ and ‘I Just Can’t Help Believing’ – a few of the diamonds that could still be found amongst the rough.

Elvis who’d wanted to take his live show overseas, instead got tied into an exhaustive Vegas residency at the International hotel on the Las Vegas strip.

He would later learn that Colonel Tom Parker was actually an illegal (Dutch) immigrant with no passport. Therefore, if Parker ever left the US he wouldn’t be allowed to return and he wasn’t about to let Presley, his prized asset, out of his sight.

The ‘68 Special‘ and From Elvis In Memphis should have been a creative springboard for Elvis, it was a period where he wanted to get back to making the kind of music he loved, tour overseas and take back control of his career, but he never could free himself from The Colonel’s iron grip and the contract he’d signed as a teenager.

By 1970, Elvis had already been pimped out to Vegas by The Colonel and in December 1976, an exhausted Elvis played his 837th and final show at the International Hotel.

Elvis Aaron Presley would die aged 42 in 1977, in poor health, strung out on a cocktail of tranquillisers, barbiturates and amphetamines, however his legacy lives on and new generations are finding out that there are quite a few gems in The King’s back catalogue…. however, none shine quite as bright as ‘Suspicious Minds‘

*MUSIC

Both Sides Now

July 15, 2022 onceuponatime70s 1 Comment

John Allan: Bridgetown WA, July 2022

If you can remember the 60s, you weren’t really there, is one of those often repeated phrases banded about by particularly annoying people.
Like the ‘you don’t have to be crazy to work here but it helps’ stickers some people have at their workplace.
One has an overwhelming desire to punch them in the face but you don’t – unless it’s your last day of work which it probably would be if you pummelled the coupon of a fellow employee !

My version is…. ‘if you don’t have a Joni Mitchell album from the 70s, you weren’t really there’.

I won’t bore you with Ms Mitchell’s bio because you all know your way around Dr. Google but will say – and beware another cliché alert – she was and still is the soundtrack of many of our lives.

Emerging on the folk scene in the late 60s, she already had two albums, Songs to a Seagull and Clouds behind her.
The 70s were what really defined Joni, with eight releases over the decade.

The still folksy Ladies of the Canyon was followed by the achingly soul searching sparsity of Blue.

For The Roses had a soft-rock feel before heading to a west coast jazz-rock vibe with Court and Spark.

With The Hissing of Summer Lawns, Hejira, Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter and Mingus came a full embrace of mainstream jazz and the top players of the time.

The next three decades spawned nine further releases culminating in the luscious 2000 recording Both Sides Now arranged and conducted by the very talented Vince Mendoza.

Who can forget that scene in the film Love, Actually when Emma Thompson’s character opens her Christmas present expecting a necklace only to find a Joni CD. Even I screamed BASTARD at the TV screen when the music started before grabbing the tissues.
A case of spontaneous tourettes and a bit of dust in my eye I think !

For the music theorists out there, Joni sings ‘Both Sides Now‘ in F# on the Clouds album and the same song in D on the aforementioned 2000 version. She’s dropped a major 3^rd in 3 decades. I guess chain smoking will do that to you !

Oft singing about love and lovers, Joni does not shy away from the taboo subjects of sexual abuse both familial – ‘Cherokee Louise‘ and institutional – ‘Magdalene Laundries‘.

Words and music were not her only artistic outlet, by her own admission

Oh, I am a lonely painter
I live in a box of paints

Many self portraits adorn Joni’s record covers.

I was going to put together a playlist of my favourite Joni Mitchell songs but couldn’t decide what to choose. Instead I’ve collated my favourite Joni cover versions.

There are so many out there.

I hope you like them and if you don’t and we should meet up, please don’t punch me in the face !

*MUSIC, 18 With A Bullet

The Band Who Wouldn’t Die

July 8, 2022 onceuponatime70s 3 Comments

Paul Fitzpatrick: July 2022, London.

This is about a British band formed 60 years ago, who are still performing today and who aren’t The Stones or The Who.

It’s about musicians that have flown under the radar for most of their career but who have also produced moments of real quality and cultural significance along the way.

The Zombies came to life in 1961, five music-obsessed school chums who sang as choristers at the local abbey.

As it turns out, the Abbey in question is in Saint Albans which has been my home town for nearly 40 years, and to remind everyone of the bands cultural significance to the city there’s a blue plaque outside the Blacksmith Arms pub where the lads first got together over 60 years ago.

Saint Albans is proud of The Zombies and there are plenty of old hippies dotted around the pubs of the cathedral city who’ll tell you that they were there to see the band make its debut performance.

To showcase the bands feats I’ve chosen 4 tracks from 4 different points in their musical journey……

1) ‘She’s Not There’ by The Zombies and Santana.

The Zombies were a pretty big deal in the 60’s, their career bookended by two massive hits, the first of which ended up being a lifeline for another iconic 60’s band……

‘She’s Not There’ was the Zombie’s debut single and was a global hit topping the charts from America to Japan, the song also holds the distinction of being the second British number one in America after The Beatles ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’

Written by Rod Argent the bands keyboard player, his trademark Hohner electric piano and Colin Blunstone’s wistful vocals were the key components that the Zombies signature sound would be built around.

‘She’s Not There’ was one of those songs I’d catch on the family transistor radio and make a mental note of liking when I was a kid, but it got tucked away in the recesses until I heard the Carlos Santana version in 1977.

I immediately liked the Santana rendition because it stayed true to the original even down to the melancholy vocals (of Greg Walker), however it wouldn’t have been Santana if it didn’t feature a bit of on-brand latin percussion and Les Paul shredding, which of course it did, and this is what transformed it from a 60’s analogue classic to a Santana anthem.

The song proved to be the catalyst for a welcome and much needed Santana revival after the band had seen their popularity diminish from the early 70’s, a decline even the bands exquisite album art couldn’t arrest.

The Moonflower album the track was lifted from would be Santanas biggest seller for 30 years and helped the band regain momentum.

2) ‘Hold Your Head Up’ by Argent.

I knew all about Argent the band before I realised Rod Argent was chief Zombie in crime.
I knew this because his band Argent and this song were smack bang in the middle of my musical sweet spot in 1972.

Rod Argent had formed his self-titled band as soon as the Zombies broke up in 1968 teaming up with another local lad, Russ Ballard, who would sing lead vocals on this track.

We all loved a guitar hero but a funny thing happened on the way to the Forum in the early 70s and guys like Keith Emerson, Rick Wakeman and Jon Lord started to muscle their way into the rock-god scene with their elaborate banks of keyboards and dexterous solo’s that could take up the side of an album.

Rod Argent was one such keyboard virtuoso and with ‘Hold Your Head Up’ he unveiled the radio friendly version of prog-rock. A keyboard-heavy track that found it’s way onto TOTP and into the top 20.

Argent would go on to have three top 40 hits including the Ballard penned ‘God Gave Rock and Roll To You’ later adopted and made famous by KISS.

3) ‘I Don’t Believe in Miracles’ by Colin Blunstone

Like many 60’s bands The Zombies imploded over management and financial issues, and despite the commercial success of having two number one’s in America, Blunstone had to find work as an insurance clerk for a period before embarking on a solo career.

His old mucker Rod Argent came to Blunstone’s aid, encouraging him to record his 1971 debut album which spawned the hit single ‘Say You Don’t Mind’, a track written for him by Denny Laine who had just formed a band called Wings with some geezer by the name of Paul McCartney.

Blunstone’s second album, released in 1972 featured the song ‘I Don’t Believe In Miracles‘ written & produced by Argent’s new partner in crime – Russ Ballard.

Ballard would leave Argent in 1974 to pursue a solo career and to focus on writing hits like ‘Free Me, for Roger Daltrey, ‘Since You’ve Been Gone’ for Rainbow, and just to showcase his versatility, ‘So You Win Again‘ for Hot Chocolate.

Released in 1973 at the peak of Glam Rock, ‘I Don’t Believe In Miracles‘ was only a minor hit but it became Blunstone’s signature tune and kept his distinctive vocals on the airwaves.

It’s a song I remember well despite its lack of airplay, and I can proudly say that I contributed to its chart position by purchasing a copy from Woolworths as a gift for a girls birthday.
Unfortunately, the record she wanted, Python Lee Jackson’s ‘In a Broken Dream’ wasn’t in stock, so I plumped for something similarly melancholy!

4) ‘Time of the Season’ by The Zombies

In 1967, the summer of love, The Zombies recorded their last album, except there wasn’t a lot of love in the room and the band split before the album was formally released in April 1968.

Finances and record company control were at the centre of the disharmony and things came to a head when Blunstone snapped on the recording of a new Rod Argent song ‘Time of the Season’, which ironically would go on to give the band their biggest hit.

After they split, a fake Zombies touring band was put together in America by the record company to cash in on the bands chart success. Two of whose members, Frank Beard and Dusty Hill would go on to form ZZ Top.

After various band and solo activities in the 70s The Zombies eventually got together again for projects and reunions through the 80s and 90s and formally reunited in 2001.

They have been together ever since.

In 2019, The Zombies with four of the original five band-members still involved, were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, coincidentally, performing live at the event 50 years to the day that ‘Time of the Season‘ had been number one in America in 1969.

Time of the Season at The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame

So there you have it…. let’s hear it for a band that no one talks about, that have been going for the best part of sixty years, who have been feted by the likes of Paul Weller and Kurt Cobain and who are likely to be appearing at a venue near you soon….

Life, Play

free-range kids.

June 15, 2022 onceuponatime70s 2 Comments

(Post by Andrea Grace Burn of East Yorkshire – June 2022)

(Header image from ‘Stuff Dutch People Like’ website.)

***(Image from the Global Influences website.)***

Growing up throughout the 1960s and ’70s my brothers and I were free-range children, unencumbered by the pressures of an adult world. There were only two grown-up rules: don’t talk to strangers and be home in time for tea.

Running barefoot through seemingly endless hot Virginia summers, climbing trees with skinned knees, riding our bikes and make-believe, we played-out our childhoods in the limitless landscape of our imaginations. We were free to negotiate and establish our own play rules with our friends. Through the liberty of play we took risks, established our own boundaries, solved problems and developed social, emotional and physical skills: life skills. We didn’t know it at the time but we were the lucky ones.

***(Andrea doing a handstand in her Virginia back yard, 1970)***

On rainy days, Mom would tell me to ‘go play’ which opened up countless possibilities: making paper dolls from old magazines; dressing-up; playing make-believe as I flew into space inside an upturned kitchen stool (this was, after-all, the Space Age of Apollo 11). After school clubs and activities didn’t exist and the notion of ‘quality time’ hadn’t been invented yet: my brothers and I were rich in our parents love and our family life. We ate dinner together and talked to each other.

My parents read, told stories and sang to us but pretty much left us alone to play. If I said, “I’m bored!” Mom would say, “Good! Children should be bored at least once a day. Use your imagination.” Without a PC, tablet, mobile phone or social media, I had to look inside myself for adventures.

I made mud pies for my dolls; sat on the driveway and burst tar bubbles in the searing heat with a stick and watched the tar ooze; made a jewellery box for my mother with matchsticks; sailed the high seas from a sail boat in the dining-room with two chairs and an old sheet. I did cart-wheels, handstands and backflips; played ‘tag’ with my friends; looked for fairies in the pine glades and inhabited the Magic Faraway Tree. I was Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, clicking my heels together three times before rolling down a grass bank to go ‘home’ to Kansas.

My bed served as a covered wagon where I’d sit with my feet hitched on the footboard and “gee-up” my team of horses as I headed west across the great prairies in search of gold. Wearing an imaginary calico dress and bonnet, I fought off wild critters including howling coyotes and Grizzly ‘bahrs’ with my bare hands and sang songs beneath the stars around a campfire in the middle of my bedroom floor. Why – there wasn’t a more feared hunter in all the west!

In 1970 when I was ten, my family left behind my small-town American childhood idyll and moved to Birmingham, West Midlands where I encountered not only a strange new dialogue called Brummie but a wholly new culture to draw from in my playground games: ‘tag’ became ‘tig’; ‘British Bulldog’ replaced ‘King of the Hill’; ‘Red-Light, Green-Light’ became ‘What’s the Time Mr Wolf’ and ‘Conkers’ became a playground favourite. Suddenly I was thrust into a Betjeman-esque land of 1930s suburban streets, cul-de-sacs, alleyways and gulleys to explore with my new best friends Denise and Becky.

Mom used to say that ‘if a child isn’t filthy by teatime, they haven’t had a good day’ and we didn’t disappoint; revelling in street games, making dens, clapping rhymes, ‘Dolly Bobbin’, ‘Cat’s Cradle’, ‘French Skipping’ and rhymes:

‘George, Paul, Ringo, John

Next-door neighbour follow on…’

as we skipped in and out of a large rope.

‘Mother’s in the kitchen, doing a bit of stitching

In comes a burglar and out she runs

***(Girls skipping – pic from British Library)***

We quickly established ‘The Gang’ with neighbourhood kids whose overriding mission was to own our own ponies. I asked my beleaguered dad every day if I could have a pony and scoured the livestock ads of Pony Magazine. I entered the annual WH Smith ‘Win a Pony Competition’ regardless of the fact that we lived in a semi with a small back garden. (I did once win a runner-up mention when I designed a sew-on badge in a competition. It said, “An apple a day keeps the vet away” with a picture of a horse’s head. ) Becky and I both kept grooming kits under our beds “just in case.”

When one of the girls in The Gang, Sam, really did get a pony, we became obsessed with trying to get a free ride. An hour’s riding lesson was £1.50 in 1972 and my pocket money was 25 new pence per week. Sam finally allowed us to sit on her pony Jet – “Just sit, mind!” – and we were thrilled.

***(Andrea almost gets her wish, 1972)***

Becky and I made horse jumps in my back garden out of old orange crates and bits of wood and held gymkhanas on our space hoppers, which took on the names and personalities of our favourite ponies.

Mine was ‘Fred’ (in real life a bony old grey pony who took a shine to nibbling my jumper) and Becky rode ‘Firefly’ – a strawberry roan mare with a shaggy mane. Becky’s mum made us ribbon rosettes and as we flew over our jumps against the clock, we imagined we heard the roar of the crowd at the Horse of the Year Show. We cantered around the ring for a victory lap before our glory faded as mum hauled me indoors to do my homework and Becky had to go home. I watched through the net curtains as she bounced away down the grass verge, before tackling my History project on Neanderthal Man.

At weekends The Gang would take to the Clent Hills on our bikes; our saddlebags stuffed with cheese spread sandwiches and beakers of orange squash which leaked. We were gone all day without phones (imagine), safety helmets or a care in the world. Our parents had no idea where we were but trusted us to be home in time for tea.

I played with dolls until I was at least twelve or thirteen (imagine kids today taking time out from their devices to play with dolls). I had a doll house my dad made me which absorbed my imagination for hours-on-end; baby dolls, ‘Barbie’ dolls and a ‘Tressy’ doll whose hair grew out of the top of her head and could be pulled back in a chord on her back. Our dog chewed her hair off on Christmas Eve.

I even had a go at making a ‘Sindy’ doll settee from a cereal box and sticky-back plastic as seen on Blue Peter; along with an Advent candle holder from two wire coat hangers and a bit of tinsel; neither of which were successful but kept me occupied on those long boring wet weekends.

(I bet there’s not ONE reader whose attempt looked ANYTHING like this!)

Young people today wouldn’t believe it; attached to their virtual worlds and virtual friends, where gratification is instant and the pressure is on to grow up too quickly. I told you we were the lucky ones.

Once Upon a Time in The '70s