Somewhere along the way I lost the music. 2016 was the year I re-found it – and it was beautiful.
The year went down in history as one, more than any other, that the spirits in the sky claimed an overly greedy number of musical superstars, but for me it was a story of three funerals and a resurrection.
David Bowie was a has been searching for a new image when I first came across him. Whilst he found it, and with it and Let’s Dance, great critical acclaim, it never truly floated my boat. In time, of course, as I morphed from early teens to late teens to twenties I became wowed by his undoubted genius, and vast array of iconic musical creations, but a “true” fan? I couldn’t look myself in the mirror and claim that.
Prince was much more my era. He rose in the shadows of the late great MJ, and seemed to even outmuscle him for weirdness, despite his diminutive frame. In particular I found his choice of band members and his penchant for helping choose their attire on stage kept my attention (as it seemingly did his), but ultimately the music didn’t.
George Michael’s death hit me hard. This really was close to home. An early 80’s young Brit invention, I remember the cringeworthy but exuberant Young Guns like it was yesterday – and of course all the words have stuck to the sad side of my brain like glue. Over the years and through his eras I always loved the music – he always seemed to hit the spot. Who can forget “Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr ELTON JOHN! Whhhhhaaaaaaaaaa!” Despite him losing me somewhat through his toilet antics, his demise puffs another smoke signal towards my accelerating passage through this earthly coil, but I’m not planning on giving way any time soon. Life is undoubtedly there for living, and it is essential to force yourself to remember how, before it is too late.
Which brings me to The Resurrection. It is hard to pinpoint when or how I lost the music. Like all the really important things, it mistakenly lost relevance with age and lack of care. No more. It blasted its way back into my personal stratosphere with a explosive jamboree of Mancunian magic and a jaunty wrist flip of the tambourine. The Stone Roses at Sydney Opera House. If the modern age is all about providing the ultimate personal experience for savvy modern day consumer, then the experience gurus all over the globe could learn bucket loads from watching the footage of this messianic super gig. To have been one of the privileged 2500 on opening night was a divine blessing. A resurrection if you will.
Whatever it was that you discovered when you grew from adolescent to adult – for me it was music – don’t ever let it go, or get complacent with it. If you have, then I implore you to make the time RIGHT NOW to rediscover what gave you the shudders back then. It’s never too late.