Oasis Memory 5.

That Sunday afternoon,Marjorie,tired from her baptism as stand in Sunday school teacher,retreated to her room to write to her parents and to her sister in Blackheath.As the words flowed from her pen,she realised how much they would want to know about her first days in Cornwall and she recounted all the things that were of interest.Marjorie enjoyed letter writing,and still had pen pals dating back from her childhood days as her parents had always encouraged her to reach out to others.Wether Marjorie had been aware of it or not,these writing implements were the only ones in the Jasper household,and the puzzled look on her face when she said that she was going up to her room to “write some letters”,would become apparent when parents would stream into see her saying that they couldn’t read her writing,when really they couldn’t read at all.

Marjorie expressed herself to her sister in different terms than to her mum and Dad as is normal to folk in a family like the Allcocks.Marjorie sister was a secretary in Whitehall,quite a go getter to Marjorie,and she had “a man friend”.Marjorie was fascinated about her sisters life and where she had been and the people that she met.Rose loved embellishing her meetings with Bill ,telling her stories about how well thought of he was at the newspaper.Marjorie hoped that Bill would look after Rose as her sister had suffered the humiliation of being jilted at the altar,the shame of which had almost destroyed Rose.As much as Marjorie was fascinated by the life of her sister,she felt that Rose took far too many risks,and had once found Rose and Bill kissing at the doorstep while father was in the sitting room.Of course,Marjorie,although attracted to men,had never been asked in a date and it was a source of jealously with her sister Rose who had chosen a traditional working route,with the Pitman school in the West end and not university like Marjorie.

These mental excursions pleased Marjorie as she filled page after page of her impressions of Cornish life ,and that after only just being here for under 48 hours,

Just then,a knock on the door:”Would he like a cup of tea miss Allcock,only I gotten him by the fire downstairs if he mind coming down”

Marjorie was beginning to feel that she liked talking ,that she wanted to be friendly so she put her pen and paper away,folding then neatly .As she did,she hoped that her mum and Dad and Rose were good and glanced at her cutting once again and just wondered what it must be like to be kissed!

“Miss Allcock,Miss Allcock,That tea be gettin cold “,

“I’m just coming Mrs Jasper”.

“

Sunday.

I’ve stared at the screen at this one word Sunday for all of five minutes without adding to it in my post.Funny really,but they you are and those scattered thoughts ,those nodules of thoughts rested there on the edge of action ,of growth as it were,only to be discarded as it that important,It’s like speech. Important speech that we might feel impelled to say to another but just at the crucial moment we stop,we just delay saying anything as it were and retreat into ourselves.

There are times in life when we feel that we wished to have said something and the passage of time reveals that it might have been better if we had.Just like my thoughts a few minutes ago after I wrote the word Sunday,they have now been lost in my mind,unable to be retrieved as such.Life has a way of driving forwards ever onwards always supposedly changing in its chemistry.Wether we agree or not with these changes doesn’t affect the outcome always,and we are left on a limb almost in so many things that are beyond our control.

Maybe we feel that our opinions don’t matter that much,or if we said something to another that they might be offended in some way .That said,and there is no denying that some may well be offended by what we say or do and that is their right,but should that necessarily stop us from expressing ourselves on the matter.It won’t surprise you when I say definitely no.

Just as you can’t really ever tell someone not to think in a certain way,you can’t really tell them not to say certain things as free speech is enshrined in our democracy.So ,in the macro sense,you have people voicing their opinions all the time about politics ,religion,the economy and such like and that is healthy because the alternatives are state control,lack of human rights and every abuse that comes with that.

Life though,and on this Sunday morning here in Dorset isn’t really always about the big questions is it.Sometimes,we regret not talking about the small things ,just starting on that path of isolation into our own world of internals,of me,of my phone,my computer and we just stop talking,stop just recognising the things that we want to say and just saying :”Oh,it’s nothing”,when it is really,it truly is.We might do this for reasons that send us in a turmoil of thoughts,of stress almost,but I wonder if it is possible to ever resolve anything by just silence.

This Sunday,this traditional time for contemplation might be a time for silence to many.but too much silence breeds suspicion ,mistrust,and anxiety on the part of all parties and is almost like a Russian Roulette with someone’s emotions,it can’t ever truly be right.

When I was a boy,my mother and step father would tune into a radio programme on Sundays called “two way family favourites”,where families whose children were serving in the armed services abroad would request music to be played for their loved ones in the far flung corners of the world.Places like Aden,Germany,the old empire countries too.These requests were often accompanied by messages and goodwill wishes as those sent their love and deepest feelings over the air waves.My mother and step father never missed this programme and as a boy,I would sing in the church choir ,returning after the service to find them avidly listening to each request and music choice ,commenting on it and how wonderful it was that Brenda from Blackpool asked for “Close to you by the Carpentars”,to be played for Paul in his barracks at Aidan.

It struck me that our home rarely had good wishes,and rarely had a sense a joy or talk,even though there were so many of us in the early days.It wasn’t the silence of deep contemplation ,more of a silence of mood,of sadness that infected the home and so the irony of this radio programme “two way family favourites”,stuck me even as a child as so very odd.It has stayed with me that however hard it is it is always better to talk if you can ,because of “ignorant Library silence” is so very damaging and abusive.

Nowadays,in this busy life of constant pressures,demands if you like on us,I still feel that people need to communicate ,to just be able to say and not to utter:”It doesn’t matter,it was nothing really”,because it is never really nothing, to really.

Have some joy this Sunday.

“Have you checked your eggs”?

Claire dreaded this question ,not the sound of the words ,or the meaning of it,but it was the thought of future hopes,almost her whole being was tied up in the personal meaning.These five words ,uttered with an inflection in the word your ,seemed to imply a deficiency on the customer.Although the customer could be anyone really,just anyone who purchased a half dozen eggs ,be they battery,or free range the question had to be asked and Claire dreaded it.

As she settled down into her shift ,the never ending stream of people who frequented the store filed in and out,in and out,seeking sustenance ,be it ,a weekly food shop,or,as was the case increasingly now,almost a daily ritual of food shopping.Claire knew the regulars,the old people,the devotees of the instore bakery,or the fish market,and Pizza Parlour.Claire scanned the items ,the different items,removed the plastic receptacles from the expensive booze with a silent acquiescence without a word said ,just a hollow smile.As the next customer placed her items on the mini conveyor,Claire ,by now,almost phobic about the potential affects on her of “that question” cast her eyes across the belt.It was a state of clandestine desperation that she kept to herself with only one other living being ever knowing,one.Oh,how she longed for an end that this turmoil,this living hell,this cave of dense black depression that had a trigger ,that trigger question.

Nigel,her partner ,once a caring person,her soulmate from yesteryear had just got tired of it.He just didn’t get it,her pain,the pain within her heart.He said that some just are meant to have children,as if to say that some people arnt meant to have a holiday of a washing machine.Nigel had tried,don’t get me wrong in the early days of the treatment ,faithfully going with her to Charing Cross for the programme.Why,even the sessions to produce sperm in the toilet with the dirty mags were carried out with a willingness to “do his part”.Those were the early days,the hope years,the “light at the end of the tunnel years”,but that was literally years ago.Oh,how Claire had wished they were those young people starting out again,not the people they are now,passive strangers holding their fractured dreams,their lifeless teddies their barrenness,their emptiness.

Mum and Dad,such stalwarts in the early stages,had grown tired of it.They were tired of the onset of age,the guilt of Gail and Jeffs children,the doting grandparents ,but never able to talk to Claire about it too much because she would burst into tears,bereft of all reason,filled to the brim of a toxic emotional ,drowning in her own sorrow.All these feelings existed in the silence as she passed item after item across the scanner.In many ways,Claire loved the those people who knew when the big question was coming:”Have you…….”,”Yes love,your alright”.These responses made it bearable.It was the aloof customers,those who didn’t really have a clue what they had placed on the belt that often asked her to repeat the question again.If only they knew,if only ,if only,if only,they might just take a bit more care.Beryl on aisle eight was in such a sunny mood this morning,and she with her perfect little family of two boys and a girl,oh put her 5 eggs of life and everything was totally free range in her life.

Customer after customer with their items scanned and paid for as the morning moved on and all the while Claire ,desperate for air ,willing her supervisor to say it was time for her break.It was now just gone eleven,and Claire Reeves,once the most beautiful girl in her year group,now,in her late 30s,careworn,totally broke and without taking a holiday in years because of the cost of private treatment.Glancing across the line of customers ,she spied what looked like a face from her past,a face of her history ,a surprise face and unexpected .Could it be her,could it.She tried not to stare initially,thinking that it might be viewed as rudeness if she were seen to be analysing her every movement as she put her items on the belt.Try as she might,Claire wasn’t able to stop it though,and the last customer didn’t get a nice day salutation,or a smile,or asked for her loyalty card.No,Claire really didn’t care less ,she just looked at her,this apparition from the past,from the old days,the times of freedom,of day dreams,of hopes and plans and wanting to make their mark.

Our customer from Claire’s past started to place her items on the belt.As she only had a few pieces of shopping,Claire would have normally advised her of the ten items or less aisle,but something stopped her,something just did,and she was burning inside to look at her.Why,here she was,old looking,in her late thirties,broke,in a stressful marriage,lacking a glow ,empty,empty,empty.

As she scanned the last item ,Claire looked up,making eye contact:Selina isn’t it”.?”

Just then,the customer ,quite taken aback,in her business suit and trappings of career success ,did a double take.”Is that Claire,is it really..?”

Oh,what a wonderful question to be asked,the knowledge that someone recognised her as a human with a name ,a living being was just the best thing.

Selina ,ever the warm and bubbling person,hadn’t hardened with the years.Granted a university education had given her open doors in life,a purpose,a rung up the life ladder,but non of that mattered when confronted with her former classmate.Selina never really secure with her features had done something about it,and Harley street cosmetic surgery hadn’t let her down,

Claire looked at Selina ,and at her last item,and as the clock struck 11signalled to her supervisor that it was her break.Selina wanted to catch up with Claire and took the iniatiive:”I’ve checked them Claire,let’s have a coffee”.

They both immersed themselves in each other for the next 15 minutes.Selina was down as her mum was now in a Dementia home in Dorset.Claire wished that the day would never end and she soaked up just being with Selina and just fed off her confidence ,her sheer nerve .It was so lovely to have u tarnished memories,those caught in time days came to life for them both.

Selina,always able to ask those questions refrained almost as if she knew about Claire.Selina didn’t mention anything about children either as if she knew somehow that “it just truly wasn’t her business”.But something else attracted Claire to Selina and it was that those minutes in her presence made her feel as if she were the most important person in the whole wide world.She forgot about all the bad stuff,all her failures,all the stresses in her marriage,just savoured her time with a friendly person from her past.

They exchanged contact details,with Selina inviting her to her flat in Lo don if she were ever there.Claire ,reticent to tell her that she had a visit to see her co sultans next month,took her card ,but without reading it.Departing ,Selina gave her a huge hug ,genuine,not forced,almost desperate too in its way.Claire wondered if she was alright as she felt quite thin but would pry.

Laine went back to her till,with the customers ,young and old,with the various items passing through her belt ,coming and going,but now,even though she dreaded the question,just someone wanting to talk to her for however short a time ,but with a familiar history of better times ,just lifted her,drew up mental pathways towards a brighter horizon.Yes,just a small act like the kindness shown by Selina was enough for Claire to get through asking that bloody question.

The end!

Kernowsmith.

Oasis Memory 4.

When Marjorie Alcock awoke from her first night spent in Cornwall,the light from the sun affected her because the house that she was lodging in overlooked the moors :desolate and scary,feral,untended almost.Unlike London,it was sparsely populated and she wondered if the animals outnumbered the humans.

It was Sunday ,the sabbath in Britain still,and a rest day from any activity in StDenis that could be dreamed work.Marjorie,a nominal Anglican knew that that roots of Methodism,it’s strict adherence to Biblical dulls held sway here from Here correspondence with the Educational board .She didn’t want to rock the boat as she wanted to increase the co-operation with he parents in the school.The previous teacher,Edna Giles ,had worked tirelessly in the school ,but she hadn’t fully embraced new educational methods,preferring the almost indoctrination approach that rules based theology loved too.As Edna was a Sunday school teacher,Marjorie would go along with her this morning to see how the children were getting along.

After those initial stirrings of apprehension and regrets about leaving Blackheath,Marjorie sat down to her breakfast with Mrs Jasper.It was just gone 8 but it was very cold in the home that morning and Marjorie knew that that would have to wrap up going out to walk the mile or so to the Sunday school.Comsuming Porridge with salt and water meant that the oats stuck to your teeth,a very u comfortable feeling for Marjorie,and she felt the need to drink another cup of tea.As the tea was laced with Carnation Milk,Marjorie was having to cope with a whole new regime of sights and sounds,and tastes.It seemed as if she really was now in a foreign country.

To Mrs Jasper,it was just her life ,and she got on with it as it were.Mrs Jasper never complained,and to Marjorie she seemed a wholesome women but one who was just sad.Marjorie didn’t really understand about depression or viewed Mrs Jasper as having an illness,but she summed her up as highly intelligent people are apt to do.It would be one of those things that Marjorie would understand,but like her wanting for things to be better for children,that she wouldn’t forget.

Mrs Jasper walked with Marjorie to the church as the Sunday school took place in a building adjoining it.Marjorie noticed that they seemed to be the only ones walking and assumed from this that Mrs Jasper liked to be early.Marjorie noticed the undulating moors,the biting wind that day,and she thought of the first chapter of Wuthering heights that was indeed set in Cornwall.Her imagination running wild,she quite forgot to to notice the scene ahead of her until Mrs Jasper spoke .”Now,Edna isn’t here as yet,and I wonder if she’s not down with her troubles as she has em awful”.Marjorie,not really understanding much of that thought it expedient to ask if she could do anything to help.This was greeted with a look of incredulity by Mrs Jasper.”You be takin the Sunday school,you be the teacher”.

What followed for the next hour was a true baptism into Cornish Methodist Sunday school life for Marjorie.He she was with doubts really about a belief in the almighty at times,with a profound distrust for the hold that religion had in simple folk and the power that it had in the lives of these small communities.

What to do,thought Marjorie,what to do.?

She mustered up her training,her strong ,commanding voice,and marshalled the children into the Sunday school room.

Mrs Bryant,Edna’s assistant was there thank heavens,and she advised Marjorie that they always started with a hymn so they duly sang together.

She was impressed that the children sang so well and so loudly,and as they did,she forgot about all the troubles and just looked at their faces.Some of them were malnourished and sad,but they sang nonetheless.Some of the girls seemed angelic and the boys had chiselled faces and they seemed feral to Marjorie.

As the hymn finished some of the boys started to talk about “whose this new lady then”,Marjorie took this for interest and beckoned to speak to them which she did .

When Marjorie spoke to the children she had a command ,it got them in the palm of

Her hand.She spoke about Jesus wanting children to be close to him,wanting to tell them parables,wanting to watch them play.

Some of the girls had never been taught Sunday school like this because they Had always listened intently,but the boys were just pleased that she didn’t shout at them.

At the end,so many came up to her just to be near her and Marjorie felt a glow ,that glow when you instruct ,when you inspire ,when you impart hope.It would be the start of many many years of association and attention from Marjorie to these children and their children too.

Walking back with Mrs Jasper seemed like a bright time almost to Marjorie,as inside of her ,she was joyful,contented almost.

Marjorie spent the rest of her day trying to remember those faces and some of the names from the school register that she had been given .

Tomorrow,she must teach some of those children English and Maths.She wondered just how willing they would be to learning then.From her notes from the retiring Edna Giles,it would appear that many in her class were struggling with the basics and that would be her job now to show improvement for the board of education.

Looking at her rose cutting,something touched her.Wether it was her imagination,or it had grown because of her watering and the Cornish air,she could have sworn that her rose,her future Poesy had grown.Some of those angelic girls had beautiful faces and Marjorie wondered about having them as bridesmaids.But then ,she hadn’t a suitor as yet and had never had any man show the slightest bit of interest in her.Her passing thought didn’t become rooted in sadness though and she wondered if that was the root of Mrs Jasper melancholic moods.

It would have to wait though,but the watering of her cutting wouldn’t and she must do that write away.

What I noticed:

It’s quite early on this Saturday to have noticed much in many ways:the sleepy dust is still attached to my eyes,and that half awake feeling hasn’t quite left me.Although a drink of water by my side acts to moisten my lips,I’m not conscious of any great observation.So why write about it?Why indeed,except that it’s the first part of any new day for us all.

Now,the people that market breakfast cereals ,well,at least when I was younger,would have us think that everyone jumped out of bed,right into action ,ready for their morning swim,run,Yoga,or the other phlerora of activities that they are disposed too.But,although I’ve not got anything against those things,the only sustenance that I’ve availed myself too is a sip of water.

Writing this blog post also has another interesting personal twist to it for me because I know that ,unlike my younger days,I don’t wake up feeling hungry ,that I wake up and I don’t rush to try to get anything to eat and I mean anything.No,I woke up this morning and I noticed that I just needed a sip of water safe in the knowledge that I don’t feel hungry at this moment .

As my eyes focus on the light seaping through my bedroom window,I am no longer semi conscious,but I get to noticing this day and to thinking that the first stage is over ,that semi conscious stupor is gone for another period and I’m aware of another life pattern beginning its journey.

Looking to my right,I notice my glass of water upon a slate coaster ,and I remember working at the slate quarry as a student and now because I more awake ,I remember some of those men who told stories,sang their songs,had their families,and their vices,and I notice that I enjoy the nostalgia of association.

It’s been a few minutes now since my last sip of water and I notice that my lips have become dry again and so I reach out to the glass in such a simple motion ,but with such a wonderful affect.Swallowing the water doesn’t stop the affect of coolness in the mouth and is so very refreshing to me.Going back to the admen,I reckon I would be their worse nightmare because I’m still in bed after quite a few minutes,and I haven’t felt the need to grapple with the cardboard box with a red cockerill on it because I’m not hungry.

It’s one of those muses this morning,it doesn’t really have a deep meaning,just the authentic need to catalogue a place in my social history ,a realising that a couple of sips of water has been enough for me.How lucky I am eh.

Well,I could tell you if you like what I’m having for breakfast as I will do at some point:It will be Porridge,left to settle after having added vanilla essence with a dash of cinnamon.Now,I blame that their Tom Kerridge,the West Country chef for that recipe ,but he’s a fantastic man with the old cooking.

Have you noticed that with just two sips of water and the thought of prepared Porridge my quite jovial.Either I’m so easy to please,which I normally am,or I’ve noticed something about my life,about if you have the basics ,you have much.Its why I am passionate about children having free schools as a right as a normality and also for their holiday periods.They never asked to be brought into this world ,did they.?

Alright,I’m going off on a socialist tangent and about to lose my one and only reader who isn’t in the outback who reads my stuff ,but that is me this morning.

So,if you have ever noticed anything,wether it’s about your life,something that you might mistakenly think is trivial,record it,via words,drawings,a poem or prose,a photograph,but try expressing what you’ve noticed and see where it takes you.

I’ve noticed that recording things is like that sip of water,it cools my emotional soul,it’s gets the tension outside of us,rather than inside of us.

Didn’t I tell you that I was a marketing nightmare,or had you already noticed?

Yes,I reckon that people notice all sorts of things ,but sometimes,just sometimes,they arnt so good at noticing things about themselves.Non of us are living a charmed life,and some have crap going on that we don’t know of,but that doesn’t stop them from being valued ,special even.It won’t stop you either.

Third sip of water coming up and still not rushing to the Porridge!!!!!

Thank you.

Kernowsmith.

Thursdays!

For workers,Thursday is “almost there day”

Thursday is the day before Friday.

It places our bodies to the leisure post,

Thursday is the day after Wednesday,

It’s not mid week,no,we seek the weekend,

Thursday is going out night,but not too late,

Thursday is today,and I’ve lived a lot of them,

From Gilbert and Sullivan,to cult meetings,

I’ve packed a lot in .

So,today,it’s been Thursday,all day.

It has been the day after Wednesday ,oh that was quite a day for me,

So today,I had a Thursday,not terrific,but not a cult Thursday,

Just a Thursday:Just enough of a Thursday for me.

Thank you.

Kernowsmith.

The Round houses!

Growing up as I did in Cornwall ,I was always fascinated by them,transfixed,completely obsessed with them you could see.It wasn’t that I lived near ,no,I must have resided all of 30 odd miles from the nearest ones that I knew of.However,I had an Auntie who lived near near,so I would pass them when visiting my auntie Mary.She lived in the village of Probus in Cornwall which is about 5 miles East of Truro.Although the round houses weren’t situated in this village,aunts Mary had a daughter who lived in the hamlet of Ruanhighlanes which was close to Veryan,where they were to be found,

These round houses were always given a mythical status by my auntie,and whenever we got near them,I would be alerted ,even though after a few visits,I knew exactly when they would appear.They were literally round houses,small,almost minute,but with their thatch roofs,they had a character,a personality all of their own that set them apart.My auntie Mary would tell me the same mantra about why they were round,and I guess it is the same explanation for every other round house too:”They be round boy to keep out the wicked spirits”Why,although I had heard these words so many times said in this feral accent with the inflection in the word Spirits,it always sent a chill inside of me when those words were uttered.

These houses stayed with me and like a magnet,when I got my first bike,I would cycle there just to see them.As I got older ,in an odd way,I always hoped that one day I would teach one of the inhabitants the Piano there.Alas,that never came about,but I always reserved a place for the round houses in my mind and heart.As Cornwall became more of a select location to live,their value and appeal has proliferated and they have always seemed to be maintained so very very well.

Sometimes ,a structure that apes 360 degrees appears to appeal to folk from the four corners of the world,in an almost structural Hobbit like way.Im ambivalent about whether they ward off wicked spirits ,but they certainly attracted me as a child and I still have a hankering to enter one of these round houses.

We are all different I suppose,and I have my interests that I muse over and record in this platform.Perhaps you have yours too.Wether you chose to record them or not is your choice.Thank you for reading my words,

Kernowsmith,

Look Sharp!

The shoes on the front cover of his debut album Look Sharp were exquisitely pointed,the footwear of a spin,but their was absolutely nothing nothing fly-by-night about Joe Jackson’s songwriting.From the outset,he crafted songs that cut through norms ,hidden voices like “Is she really going out with him?However,although I’m The Man followed in tHe same vein,Jackson’s other musical interests began to show through the outer layer and revealed the ocean of Jazz coupled with a rigorous understanding of the palette of musical elements and colours,Reall,when you factor in that Joe had played in the National youth Jazz orchestra along with his studies at the Royal college of music,you get a good idea of the musical pedigree of this man.

He would go on to reveal his influences of Cab Calloway and Louis Jordan on Jumpin’ Jive.With a move to NYC ,he took up residence in Manhattan.steeping himself in the jazz and Latin vibe for Night And Day and the crystalline hit ‘Stepping Out’.By 1991’s Laughter And Lust a sense that pop was too predictable was overt in tracks like ‘Obvious Song’ and ‘Hit Single’.

This later Joe Jackson was mature,but the spiky youngsters had been more original.

To quote Joe :”What I did was take a very long detour through the pop world,and had a great time and hits.But that was never all there was”

Joe always had musical depths,ideas,attitude,but he had something worthwhile to say and he had the ability to say it.

Kernowsmith.

Rock around the clock!

Rock around the clock!

Rock around the clock!

— Read on kernowsmith.wordpress.com/2018/09/20/rock-around-the-clock/

Rock around the clock!

“Tchaikovsky and Bach is Cadillac music.We play down-to-earth Ford music.”

That quote from Bill Halley,front man for Bill Halley and the comets resonates profound doh with me.Why yes,car metaphors are not my preferred literary device,but I get Bills sentiments.Not long before “Rock around theClock”,Bill Halley was still styling himself The Ramblin ” Yodeller or performing with his Western swing band the Saddlemen.But,realising that R n Bs high energy could be wedded to. Ountry and western,he moved speedily ,recording “Rocket 88” in 195@,and remodelling husband as the Comets.The first single that could genuinely be called rock n roll was their release ‘crazy Man. Crazy’-‘Rock Around the Clock’,released later ,didn’t do half as well,but got a second lease of life in the movieThe Blackbird Jungld,going on to sell a million copies ( mainly ,quaintly ,on 78 s).Suddenly teenagers,two of which were my sisters and most of their peer group,were on fire,but when the lights went up they found Haley’s kiss curl chubbies not quite the rebel they’d expected-he’d never pretended otherwise-and moved on to Elvis.Yet Bill Haley had shown the way,and the yodeller’s echo reverberated on.

Bill Halley ,the unlikely Genesis of Rock and Roll put his glad rags on and gave birth to a whole industry that truth be told ,the music industry still has a big place in its heart for even now.Admittedly,my sisters with the flock of teenagers back then would move onto Elvis,Embracing him to their bosoms ,living inside his musical pelvic pulses.But Bill didn’t have a colonel Parker to guide or control him like Presley,but his roots were in the Country and Western sounds and it was his great vision that fused different styles into what we with a very broad brush call ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll’.

As the decades have past,other artists of the popular music scene have also realised the value of fusing genres,influences into the sonic pot to produce tunes that set the heart strings going,or the heart racing.As a child who drove the Cadillac of Bach and Tchaikovsky and Bach,I also took my Ford Mustang out for a spin regularity in a music sense that is.Listen to the Carpentars ,the girl could have sung the phone book and it would have sounded brilliant,and you will hear a slide guitar,the influence of harmony,Bach even if you know music.Why,what Billy probably didn’t give himself credit for,because he was steeped in the swing band tradition and a grass roots musician,that musicians would become icons,produced to replace the emotions that their fans couldn’t really express.

Sometimes ,we are oft to be too cynical about the affect of the early Rock and Roll guys,almost as if their raw sound is too fertile ,too basic for us more sophisticated listeners.Well,listen if you will,to those young people today who adore stripped back music,acoustics sets and the like and you will realise that the fertile pulse is still beating strong,loud and strong.

So Bill,I love your glad rags,because you brought people away from leaning on the back wall of the village halls,and made the shy boys hop,hop,hop.

Thanks mate.

Kernowsmith.