I dig Marvel and DC, I dig Run DMC, Renegade Soundwave and AC/DC
I am not a little bit country, nor am I a little bit Rock n Roll. I am, however, a quite a lot Old Skool. People my age can start to get set in their ways. Often, it seems, they settle into a stereotypical social construct of marriage, kids, mortgage, country pubs, golf handicaps, Katie Melua, Joss Stone and Beau Vista Social Club as the beginning and end of world music chic. I don’t begrudge anyone who wants all that, but it’s not me (in the main) that said, I am becoming set in my ways, but my ways are Old Skool.
The greatest trainers ever are Adidas Superstars, the greatest football (let’s face it, we all have one) is either the Adidas Tango, or the Mexico 70 vintage. DJ’s use Technics 1200’s and vinyl, anything else is just cheating. Hip hop should sample James Brown and be funky. Football should kick-off on a Saturday at 3pm.
It’s not that I’m closed to new music, fashion, and football kick-off times, but I’ve experienced
my best of breed, anything new has to fight hard to surpass it. I’m very comfortable with this.
On Thursday as I descended into Wycombe (topographically and spiritually) at some god-awful hour in the morning I was listening to James’ Gold Mother – a classic from my Sixth Form. I’d stumbled across it in my CD rack and thought it was worth a whirl.
I found that I was comforted by it, I remember Sit Down being played at parties and discos when I wore long sleeved Happy Mondays t-shirts and had floppy hair. There’s a live version of it on the CD (I originally had the tape, which didn’t have Sit Down on it, that was done after it became a hit, fact fans). At the end the band finish and the crowd just sing the chorus over and over again. It was like a lullaby, completely soothing.
Then I realised that the reason I’m so comfortable within being stuck in my ways, is that it’s safer there than it is in the real world. Five minutes later I was in the car park, first in, again, having been last out, again. It was like emerging from blissful hibernation, the stresses and strains returned like a mallet to the head.
Or a Mallet’s Mallet, if you’re really Old Skool.
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