somewhere in europe 2020; walk down the main street, away from the chain stores and modern day mundanities & turn towards the sweet, deafening sounds of rock ‘n’ roll. isn’t this..? could it be..? whats the date again? (it’s so dark in here) 1972? Or fifty years on?
is this a concert or a celebration? ice and a slice? - well, it’s rude not to. musicians as shadows coaxing new but familiar sounds from the air. (i know this song! i love this song! let’s dance!)
spin backwards to a different place. Top of the Pops on thursday night. pale, stick thin figures dressed in the glam du jour, preen and pout like peacocks, distant but intensely connected to the tangle of thrilling sound they weave.
and it sounds like? decadent avant-garde pop, rockandroll, ritual dance music, the most blissful of ballads, jagged shards of noise.
drums from prehistory. guitar from Memphis. sax from Coltrane. voices from church. synthesizers from who knows where.
you grew up with this on the radio. surrounding you. defining you. 247 radio one, medium wave, warmth and static crackles on long summer days that never ended. always there, always incredible.
all gone. shadows trapped in the open prison of the memory. but now, here again – a reminder, a connection, a celebration, a gathering. so close, so true and played with love and respect and pride.
for one night only, the sounds of yesterday, today and tomorrow.
strange magic. real magic. Roxy Magic
(with a tip of the hat to Dr Simon Puxley)