At the end of the month I turn 27, a spooky age in the annals of rock and roll, but don’t worry this is a nostalgic article, not a morbid one. Musical subtext aside turning 27 means that I can’t rightly refer to myself as being in my mid 20s anymore. Which sucks, but it has got me thinking about music as, not just a passion, but a way of marking time. Filmmakers do it al the time: nothing says we’re in the fifties like “Johnny Be Good”, or some Rick Astley to know that the characters are in the eighties.
Let’s strip it down further. Think hard and ask yourself: what is the first ever song you remember hearing? Is it good? Great? Embarrassing? If it is then don’t worry, mine is definitely worse.
There are a few songs in which it could be said to be my first: Maria by Blondie made quite an impression, Simply Red too (I was a child cut me some slack), instead I have to confess that my first memory of a proper song, one that wasn’t about the Power Rangers, was Saturday Night by Whigfield. I toyed with linking the video to this article so thank your lucky stars that I didn’t, because it’s awful. When thinking about this question I decided to revisit the song for myself, and I’m sure that the simple melody, brightly coloured music video (for the nineties when it seemed like every TV’s contrast button was down to the lowest setting), and a synth line that I could have probably repeated on my tiny piano.
I’m not what it says about my music taste, after all I did own some Boyzone albums when I was seven. All I do know is that if anyone ever asks me that question I’m going with Blondie.
