Cocktails and Records

Once upon a time my friends and I used to write letters and postcards to each other. My school friends and I wrote when we went away to university, and university friends and I wrote to each other after we graduated and moved off around the country and then the world.

I remember the glee of finding a letter in the mailbox, hidden amongst the bills and junk mail, and smiling as I instantly recognised the distinctive handwriting of particular friends. Sometimes it was a postcard, with just a couple of lines on the back, which I would stick on the fridge until it fell off and slipped away underneath. Sometimes it was a big fat juicy letter containing photos and clippings lovingly cut out of papers and magazines. These packages I would put aside, and make myself a cup of coffee before settling down in a comfy chair to pour over their contents.

Gradually, we began to write more emails and some people began to write generic group letters, more reminiscent of the annual Christmas letters churned out by particular members of the family… ‘This year was a wonderful year for us; I got an amazing job, Annie successfully made it through rehab and little Steven saved the world’….  Still, seeing people’s names pop up in my inbox made me smile and I eagerly clicked on their email. It still meant something.

Now in 2008 hardly any of us write either letters or emails anymore. I don’t know why, but I suspect there are two main culprits behind this:

1. Other priorities: spouses, children, career crises, mortgage worries, general laziness etc. etc.
2. Facebook and the fact that I’m not on it.

Long time readers might know my feelings on Facebook, and I’m still reluctant to open up my personal life to this shallow form of communication.

However, I am beginning to increasingly feel like my Grandmother in her antipathy towards computers and email: something’s changing in society; we don’t really care very much for it but at the same time we feel like we might be missing out on something. Grandma’s lucky though, most of her friends feel the same way as her. Mine don’t. Am I in danger of losing all regular contact with my friends if I don’t give in to Facebook?

Whilst crushed on a City bound train this morning, I couldn’t help but notice a woman sitting nearby reading a weekly glossy of some description.

The two ‘readers’ stories’ she was pouring over went something like:

‘I spend £600 a month so that my 11 year old daughter can become a model.’
‘I made a pact with 15 other girls to get pregnant. And we did, isn’t it great!’

What I can’t figure out, because I’m quite stupid with such things, is whether these articles are meant to be sensational or aspirational.

Life’s confusing these days.

I went to see Teenage Fanclub last Thursday night. It was a strange experience.

As if it needs saying any more round these parts, I love Teenage Fanclub. I have all the albums, I have loads of singles, I’ve seen them play many, many times, I’ve kept interviews they did with the NME in 1991 and I even know Raymond McGinley’s birthday (I’m not that sad, it’s just because its around the same time as mine).

The band played a fantastic show at Koko – all the hits, some choice B sides (‘Please stay’!) – all executed superbly. But somehow it just didn’t work for me.

I think the problem is that I may have reached the tipping point in my absolute intolerance for other people. It has been getting worse and worse and worse over recent years, and I have now got to the point where I allow myself to spend more time contemplating the potential for tall-people-gig-tax and the feasibility of penalties for talking and texting through quiet songs, than actually getting swept up in the music.

As a music fan this is pretty distressing. You’re meant to relish live music (and I still do sometimes if it’s in a small or seated venue) but here I am at a proper rock gig by a fantastic band, letting the side down and just not coping.

It can’t be getting older, as the Fanclub’s audience of my fellow 30/40 something Word reading brethren suggests. So what is it? Is this a phase that I will get over and I’ll gradually become more accepting and tolerant? Or should I save myself from anymore misery and just ban myself from attending gigs? If so, anyone want to buy some My Bloody Valentine tickets?

Stuff New Year. It is my birthday this week and I’m celebrating 33 years of not being run over, having my house burnt down or contracting a random disease. Always an acheivement in my book.

Obviously age has been on my mind lately, as it always is this time of year. The concept has been made even more salient for me by the strange combination of the American elections and a book I’m reading, The Social History of London by Roy Porter.

Listening to the analysis of the caucuses taking place in Iowa this week, I’ve heard more than a few people say that Barack Obama is too young and inexperienced. He is 46.

In The Social History of London, Roy Porter points out that William Pitt the Younger (British Prime Minister, 1783 - 1801, 1804 - 1806) was actually a reasonably good Prime Minister. He was 24 when he was first elected.

The book doesn’t mention whether the nation was aghast at Pitt’s youthful inexperience. I know Pitt the Younger is an extreme example, but maybe people were used to shorter life spans and young monarchs “running” the country back then (even though good old Queen Elizabeth II was 26 at her coronation I think).

In any case, I wonder how much our perceptions of age have changed over time?

And what exactly does old age have to offer other than conservatism and wisdom (allegedly) anyway?

Most great works of genius were done by younger people - Newton had discovered the laws of gravity by 25, Martin Luther had nailed his 95 Theses to the church door and kickstarted the reformation in his early 30s, Einstein had come up with the basics behind the theory of relativity by 26, Mozart had composed most of his repertoire by 30 and Marx had written The Communist Manifesto by around the same age. And by the time he was 26/27 George Harrison was an ex-Beatle.

This tradition of youthful over-achievement is made even more strange by the way our society continuously demonises young people - they’re all ASBO collecting, saddo 80s clothes wearing, knife wielding, binge-drinking, shallow consumerist, obese, lazy, Facebook addicted, media ’sleb/porn star wannabees. 30-somethings like me live protracted youths, desparately pretending that we are still young and cool and down with the kids. Younger people, particularly in their teens and 20s are definitely not perceived to be writing the political manifestos of tomorrow or turning science on its head.

I have no answers and I’m quite happy to be getting older, but the question of age does interest me - particularly how we so often seem to see youth as bad and as a problem to be solved, middle age as good, and older people, again, as an unwanted problem we wish would go away.

On a positive slant, I’ve bought myself seasons 1 & 2 of The Mighty Boosh as a birthday present. I think Noel Fielding was 31 or so when he wrote it so it should be ok, but Julian Barratt was an ancient 35…

I’ve recently had a good moan on the main site about people talking and taking photos on camera phones at gigs (as has, I’m pleased to say, marmiteboy on his blog).

It seems that the Royal Festival Hall in London has come up with its own way of tackling this. OK, it is the Royal Festival Hall which, as a seated venue has its own set of rules and conventions, but before the Imagined Village gig this week (Martin and Eliza Carthy, Billy Bragg, Sheila Chandra et. al.) we were solemnly informed that taking photos was dangerous for the performers.

Members of the audience snickered at this extremism but we all obeyed. 

I wish making inane comments about the bass player’s hair was dangerous for the performers too.