It was the winter of 1976 and I’d asked my sisters to buy me Abba’s album Arrival for Christmas. I’d gone all continental on account of going abroad for the very first time, aged 13, to Fuengirola. Plus, I was anxious to double the size of my LP collection, which at the time consisted simply of the Eagles’ One of These Nights. Don’t think that I was a music square, though: I had easily half a dozen singles, from Barry White to Wizzard and 10cc, and Abba’s Waterloo. I’d get most questions right in the Bits and Pieces slots during Radio 1’s summer roadshow too.
Alarm bells rang though when, only days before the festive unwrapping, my older sister took me aside, sat me down, and said: “I’m not sure I should buy that for you …” She had, she said, gone to the record shop, read through the track listing, seen only three songs she recognised – only Dancing Queen, Knowing Me, Knowing You and Money, Money, Money – and decided the collection wasn’t up to snuff. (Arrival went on to be Britain’s biggest-selling album in 1977.) So she’d got me something else.
On Christmas morning an LP-shaped parcel awaited me under the artificial tree: “To Paul, love Ruth and Helen xx”. Inside was Reach for the Sky, by Sutherland Brothers and Quiver; its cover featured a pale blue sky, orange sun and fuzzy pigeon with wings outstretched. I was distinctly underwhelmed, but disguised my feelings by scoffing down an Amazin’ Raisin bar from my Cadbury’s selection box.
Still, that afternoon I negotiated a time slot to use the household’s only record player, which required the listener to sit on my brother’s bed in the box room, to give the LP a spin – as people used to say. And, to my great surprise, it got my toes tapping.
The opening track, When the Train Comes, started with an inviting drum riff and barrelled along like an express at full steam, with train-whistle effects and a couple of great guitar solos. I was hooked. The rest of the album was filled with really well-crafted pop songs: singable tunes (Something Special), chugging basslines (Dr Dancer), neat harmonies (Ain’t Too Proud) and rocking guitar solos (Mad Trail, Love on the Moon).
The only well-known tune was Arms of Mary, which had been a top-10 hit for the band and I presume the reason the LP caught Ruth’s eye. But that was easily the drippiest song; see? Some might dismiss SBQ’s music as “soft rock”. But what is important here is that, after that first hesitant listen, I wasn’t disappointed anymore. Very far from it.
I like to think that, before 1976, I had already developed a catholic musical taste. I could enjoy anything I heard on Radio 1 in the car on summer holiday, or on Ed Stewpot’s Junior Choice, or whatever group came along next to mime on Top of the Pops. But all my listening up to this point had been passive; chosen for me, either by DJ or big sister.
From 25 December 1976 onwards, I took control of my listening destiny. I chose the music myself. And if that meant taking the plunge into the unknown, so be it.
So, armed with the knowledge that – like with Reach for the Sky – I could satisfyingly explore an album on which I didn’t already know all the songs, I set off on a lifelong music-buying odyssey. (Not that very afternoon, of course; unlike 21st-century online retailers that never close, record shops in those days didn’t reopen until 27 December at the earliest. And even then, you couldn’t guarantee a lift into town from your dad.) At the next practical opportunity, I bundled up my Christmas money and went to Challenger & Hicks in Maidstone. I bought Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon and Deep Purple’s 24 Carat Purple – which I’d heard bits of on the only other listening device available to me, the valve radio at our scout hut that was permanently locked on to Radio Caroline.
I had more albums than there were television stations. Now that’s what I call choice. Today, my record collection – on vinyl, CD and MP3 – is large and eclectic, reflecting the whims my fancy has taken. I might potter nostalgically through fields of pop one day, listen to Ethiopian jazz another, spend a weekend flirting with the fringes of alt-folk.
Music gives me my mojo, and for that I shall be forever grateful to my sisters. The big gift-giving is close again. Time to get them something special. Merry Christmas Ruth and Helen, love Paul xx.
