Homeward Bound by Richard Smith
I want to be alone.
After weeks of lockdown, when people have struggled with isolation,
it may seem odd that I should invoke the spirit of Greta Garbo and
crave solitude. But there are moments when things just can’t be
shared.
Take dreams. They may seem vivid, exciting, riveting and real, as if
they really happened and were not created while you slept, in your
imagination. But they were and that’s the best place to leave them.
I find a way to rid myself of them is to write them down. I have
often forced myself out of bed, slunk off to the loo with a pen to
make notes on toilet paper. It’s the only time I miss those hard
sheets of paper from my childhood, the ones that were a cross between
tracing paper and sandpaper - with brand names like Bronco and Izal –
because you could write on them, unlike the soft tissue of today. But
I digress. Next day, I will transcribe what I can decipher with the
intention of using it some time, but invariably it gets filed away,
then forgotten. Which tells its own tale. If that’s how unmemorable
a dream is to the dreamer, I can’t imagine how unbearably dull an
unrestrained soliloquy over the Rice Krispies must be to the
listener.
There’s also another medium that should not, in my view, be shared.
Recorded music. I love it and it’s a vital part of my life (anyone
who’s read my novel, Homeward Bound, can’t fail to have
realised that, even though it’s fiction). But it’s best listened
to alone. There are lots of reasons.
The first is volume. Two people rarely have the same hearing – or
tolerances to loud music. One may want the volume to be high, picking
out every nuance in the recording, enjoying the vibration from the
loudspeakers, the bass bouncing off the walls. The other might prefer
it gentler, softer. Only one can have their way.
The second is mood and thus is not entirely unrelated to the issue
surrounding volume. Whereas one listener might feel energised,
wanting music to excite – usually at high volume - the other may
be feeling more subdued, preferring to relax or even read with it in
the background. And it goes further than that. Mood will affect the
choice of music. While one may have in mind Saxon, the other might
want Sade. There is no satisfactory compromise. Perhaps, if the music
is stored alphabetically, the couple will end up with Santana, an
easy listening alternative that satisfies neither. After a few
tracks, the moment will be lost, the music off, and they’ll wind up
in flicking Netflix menus.
Part of this stems from my view that music should be foreground or
not at all. Not for me Alexa spluttering away in the background. Or
in the shops and hotels. I wonder if Paul McCartney enjoys standing
in a lift, speeding his way to a suite on the 30th floor,
listening to Yesterday. Or on phones. True, it’s good to
know you’ve not been cut off while you wait thirty minutes to get
through to a call centre. But what would Vivaldi have make of Spring
played endlessly on a Casio, interrupted by a voice claiming, ‘We
apologise for keeping you waiting. We are currently experiencing
exceptionally high call volumes. Your call is important to us’?
No, they wrote music to be listened to. And so it should be. Alone.
And you should be in the middle of the music. That might mean
headphones. I don’t mean ear buds, but cans that cover your ears.
These literally place you in the centre with the added advantage that
you choose what you listen to and at the volume that suits. And if
you have the space to listen in isolation and thick enough walls, you
can’t beat loudspeakers. For optimum sound balance, I sit in a
central position, with the speakers angled towards me. I once had a
friend who had string from each speaker laid across the floor at a
45˚ angle, and where they intersected, he sat. Perhaps that’s
going too far.
Getting to the middle of the music at a live gig is ore difficult.
Getting a seat at all can be a challenge, and find yourself in the
wrong place and you can be deafened or lose the sound in the wings
or the ceiling. I was once at a Springsteen gig and the reverberation
around the auditorium meant the vocals were a good few seconds ahead
of the drums and guitars. Not ideal. But then, you rarely go to a gig
to listen. Yes, you might want to hear certain songs, but he best
gigs are where you join in, sing along, clap, dance even. The
performers relish it, encourage it, give better performances because
of it. It may be imperfect and nothing like the artists strive for in
a studio and during the painstaking process of post-production. Even
‘live’ albums are taken into the studio for sweetening,
auto-tuning and editing. What people really go to a live event for
is the experience. Being there. You can enjoy it even if you don’t
really like the artist. There’s something about the collective
spirit that can lift you. Why else would seemingly mature people
spend an evening at the Albert Hall waving flags to tunes they
wouldn’t give the time of day to at any other time of the year?
But there’s one sort of performance that doesn’t work for me, no
matter where you sit. Those Bring your vinyl nights in bars
and pubs. ’Bring your favourite records and we’ll get
‘em spinning,’ they promise. Nightmare. It’s fatal to try
and persuade someone to enjoy something you like. And in a bar?
Forget it. Though I’ve often been tempted to show up with Des
O’Connor’s Greatest Hits and insist they spin that. Perhaps I’m
scarred by an experience I had with Alice Cooper’s Billion
Dollar Babies album. I’d just bought it when weekend visitors
arrived at my home. They’d not been before and they asked to have a
taste of my hifi system that they’d heard so much about. I went
straight to that album, the antithesis of all I considered evil and
was killing music at that time – Gary Glitter, Little Jimmy Osmond,
David Cassidy – even though I knew they were glam rock fans. I
wanted to give them a lesson in music and one that would highlight
the full capabilities of my speakers. Cracking guitars, wailing
vocals, pounding percussion. They couldn’t help but be impressed.
It didn’t strike me that the song I chose, I Love The Dead,
might be unsuitable. And yes, it is about necrophilia. That
wasn’t the point, it was the sound that mattered. And were they
impresses? The answer was in their frozen expressions and faint
gasps.
“I think that’s enough of that. Tea and a piece of cake anyone?”
my wife suggested, turning down the volume before we’d got to the
good bit.
Still I didn’t get it. “Hold on, wait for how it ends.” I
turned the volume back up. But they’d already closed the door
behind them as they headed for the kitchen. Leaving me alone. Which
is how it should be. But the lesson of sharing music and turning on
friends to it was learned. Some things are just better between you
and your imagination.
Homeward Bound features
79-year-old grandfather George, who didn’t quite make it as a rock
star in the ‘60s. He’s expected to be in retirement but in truth
he’s not ready to close the lid on his dreams and will do anything
for a last chance. When he finds himself on a tour of retirement
homes instead of a cream tea at the seaside his family has promised,
it seems his story might prematurely be over.
He finds the answer by
inviting Tara, his 18-year-old granddaughter, to share his house,
along with his memories and vast collection of records. She is an
aspiring musician as well, although her idea of music is not
George’s. What unfolds are clashes and unlikely parallels between
the generations – neither knows nor cares how to use a dishwasher –
as they both chase their ambitions.
Richard Smith is a writer
and storyteller for sponsored films and commercials, with subjects as
varied as caring for the elderly, teenage pregnancies, communities in
the Niger delta, anti- drug campaigns and fighting organised crime.
Their aim has been to make a positive difference, but, worryingly,
two commercials he worked on featured in a British Library
exhibition, ‘Propaganda’.
