The song that had the most impact on me was The Drugs Don't Work.
I heard Station at Station by Bowie, which was 1977, and that was like, well, this is
it.
Whenever I hear the song now, I'm immediately transported to lying by the banks of Barnum
River.
The last 16 weeks of his life, I nursed him, and I saw him take morphine, et cetera, et
cetera, all sorts of painkillers, and that didn't really do nothing at all, and I lost
my father over it.
It's a beautiful song.
It's sad but uplifting, and it reminds me of my brother when we were younger.
We used to go see the band.
There were many times when Q had ran Norwich, and he had passed away a few years ago, but
I played it as funeral, and it always takes me back to thinking about him.
When I found out that I was pregnant with my little boy, I was on my own, and I wasn't
sure what to do.
There was a song on the radio, and all the words in it related to what I was going through
at the time, and every time I hear it now on the radio, it makes me well up a little bit,
because it made me decide that I wanted to keep him, and he was everything that I was
ever looking for.
We knew that rock around the clock was all rock and roll.
We knew there had been a lot of trouble all over the country, and we went to see it.
A couple of teenagers got up and began jiving in the aisles, and before we knew it, we were
all standing up.
The adults in the cinema weren't at all happy.
The directorettes weren't happy, the manager wasn't happy, but they couldn't stop us, and
it all suddenly happened, and it happened because of that music, and that was the night
when everything changed.
Yeah, I'm one of these people who believe when you're growing up, you don't actually
get into, you don't appreciate music for what it is, until you are sort of like 15,
15 going on 16, because before that, you just listen to the radio, and it's just what they
force you to.
Every morning, and I stepped out just playing the same old records, diastrates, fleet with
Matt.
It's just funny, you didn't know the words, and I did, and he's the one playing them
every Sunday morning.
It reminds me of a lovely hot summer, probably 1984, when I was first in love.
Oh, you're just there on the radio driving along, and then you wonder what that person
is doing there.
When he went home, I used to lie on my bed and just listen to, he was on cassette, of
course, listen to Prince of Concert, just thinking about him.
It was lovely, but of course it all ended very sadly, really, in September, and back
to school, and I think he went off with someone else, actually.
Every time I went into a club, if they played that tune, I'm on the dance floor.
If they played that tune at a funeral, I'd get up and dance.
I mean, it's just one of them tunes, isn't it?
That's just the lyrics themselves attached to what you were feeling at the time, and
you can put that connection together and feel that you're part of that song for a while.
It's the thread that runs through everything else.
It's always in your head music.
It's always ticking away there.
It's the thing that informs everything you do.
You remember the music, and you remember things you did at the time, and you remember friends
you had, and it's mainly from teenage years.
When you're 16 or 17, what you hear then will stay with you for the rest of your life.
