Sam had his picture printed in Match of the Day magazine last week. It's the third photo he's sent them for inclusion on their Reader's Page, and this is the first time he's been successful.
Despite trying so hard to get in there, he felt a little strange when he saw his own face staring out at him from the magazine, an odd kind of embarrassment which isn't like him. There's often a disconnect between how we imagine something will be and the reality of it actually happening.
To help him feel not quite so weird, I told him about all the letters I wrote to Marvel and DC comics back when I was kid. I was a regular feature of the letters pages in the late 80s and early 90s, and I made quite a few friends as a result. Back then, they'd print your full home address along with your letter, so regular letterhacks would often write to each other as well as to the comics themselves. Nobody thought there was anything strange or worrying about this, and I'm still in touch with quite a few of the comic fans I met through letter writing. Back in the pre-internet days, this was the only way to talk to people who shared your interests, and it was through writing those letters that I became a part of the larger comics community,
The phone rang one night when I was about 16 or 17 and my mum told me that there was a man called Malcolm on the line. "He said he wants to talk to you about comics." I still remember standing there (the phone was still on the wall back then) talking to a man I'd never met before whose name I was only familiar with because he was in even more letters pages than I was. He'd got my number through directory enquiries and he wanted to know if I was interested in joining his APA. I had no idea what an APA was. But I'll talk about that more tomorrow...
The thing is, all these other comic fans I wrote to - and in some cases ended up meeting in person - were real, genuine people who shared my love of the medium. None of my school or university friends were into comics, so the only way to connect with other fans was through writing letters. In the internet age, that seems pretty archaic... but also pretty dangerous. Back then though, nobody worried about aging predators using the letters pages to groom young victims, and there weren't any letters page trolls ready to tear you apart for liking different comics than they did. I'm glad MOTD magazine only printed Sam's first name and no address - if there'd been a possibility of them printing more, I probably wouldn't have let him send that picture in at all. Old man shakes his fist at the sky...
Love is an emotion we primarily link to our hearts,
perhaps because our heart beats faster when we see the person we love. Except
it’s only doing that because that’s what our brain told it to do.
Part of the whole attraction process is strongly linked
to physiological arousal as a whole. Typically, that's going to start with
things like increased heart rate, sweatiness and so on.
Simply thinking about the object of your affections is
enough to trigger dopamine release, making you feel excited and eager to do
whatever it takes to see them.
Then, when you actually do see them, your brain “rewards”
you with more dopamine, which you experience as intense pleasure.
I could go on, but putting aside adolescent hormones and teenage
notions such “being in love with love”, or as Donny put it…
…I think it’s fair to say I was getting a fair few
dopamine hits whenever I saw this girl, spent time with her, or thought about her.
Doesn’t sound quite so romantic, that, does it?
2. Was she actually called Maddie? Well, her name was
Madeline, and that was how she referred to herself. I never heard anyone else
call her Maddie, but I did on occasion. Did I do this as a sign of affection?
Clearly. Was it actually what she wanted? I’m not sure.
The reason I called her Maddie (and possibly one of the
reasons I was so “in love” with her) is because I was obsessed with the TV show
Moonlighting at the time, and its main characters were David (Bruce
Willis) Addison and Maddie (Cybill Shepherd) Hayes. I didn’t particularly fancy
Cybill Shepherd, and “my” Maddie looked nothing like her, but David and Maddie
had a whole “will they / won’t they” thing going on, and in my head I was
confusing fantasy with reality, as teenagers are wont to do. The other thing
that happened in Moonlighting was that David Addison occasionally broke the
fourth wall, and seemed at times to be aware that he was a character in a TV
show. This notion appealed to me greatly, and together with my mate Richard, we
regularly talked about our own lives as though they
were episodes of a TV show. Actually, this was an idea I’d been working on
throughout my childhood – in my head, I had my own TV station (one that
switched over to being just a radio station when I went to bed… it was
complicated). This might seem like irrelevant information, but you’ll need to
know it later. There will be a quiz.
3. Clearly Maddie did know I existed since we had regular
conversations, mostly on the long bus journeyhome where we would often sit together – well,
not together on the same seat, but usually on adjacent seats. And when we got
off the bus, those conversations would often continue while I walked her home –
well, we were going in the same direction, and I carried on up the hill after
she’d crossed the road to go into her own house. Were both of these situations led
by me? I mean, did she ever choose to sit by me or was she always on the bus
when I got on with empty seats in her vicinity? Was I merely preferable to some
of the other losers and malcontents on that bus? Did she secretly want to walk
up that hill on her own but she was just being polite when I tagged along?
Looking back, I might think that. I certainly
manufactured situations in which we could bump into each other or be in the
same place together, but that’s what you do at that age, isn’t it? The whole
thing’s a minefield, and I’m glad I don’t have to deal with it any more. In my
defence, I will offer the rainy lunchtimes we spent together in the music
block, practicing our instruments. (Not a euphemism.) She played piano better
than me, and some other kind of wind instrument (clarinet?) while I had my
tenor horn and we would, on occasion, hang out in one of the practice rooms, mucking
about with music, but mostly just chatting and having a laugh.
(I should perhaps at this point reveal that, about a year
or so later, my friend Simon got so sick of me going
on about Maddie that he went to ask her if she’d like to go out with me.
Because clearly I was never going to do such a thing myself. I was great at dropping
hints, but no way was I going to approach her directly. So anyway, Simon
asked her out for me… and what ensued? Only one of those awful, embarrassing
(for everyone) sitcom scenarios in which Maddie actually thought that Simon was
asking her out for himself (rather than me), excitedly accepting, only to then…
well, you can guess the rest.)
In my previous Self-Help For Cynics Post, I wrote about
the Storytelling Brain. How the brain uses stories to create neural pathways
which teach us how to deal with things that happen to us in our lives. This appears
to be a wonderful thing… until it goes wrong. And when it does go wrong, those
same neural pathways end up reinforcing negative opinions, beliefs or ideas
based on responses to negative experiences. Dr. Faith explains, in her own
inimitable style…
But clearly the storytelling brain has the capacity to be
a serious fucking problem too. We start telling ourselves (and believing)
certain stories about ourselves and the world around us. Our brains are wired
to crave certainty. We WANT to see patterns in what happens to us so we can
make better decisions about the world and how we are supposed to keep ourselves
safe in it.
The emotional brain makes a decision for us and the
thinking brain has to scramble to come up with a reason why.
Which brings me back to the will-they / won’t-they romance
in my 16 year old brain.
It was the end of term. Or, in the TV station of my head,
it was the last episode of the series. Everything was building up to a climax,
because that’s what happens at the end of a series. On our final journey home
together before the holidays, I got up the courage to clumsily drop the biggest
hint so far to Maddie that I was interested in being a little more than
friends. The ironic thing is, I have very little memory of what I actually
said, I only recall that it went as well as it could have done (no outright
rejection, anyway… then again, clearly she didn’t swoon into my arms either)
and that I was left with a distinct feeling that when I saw her again… maybe…
we’d be ready to move up to the next level. Like, I dunno, actually sitting
together on the same seat or something.
As a result, I walked home that night in a state of
euphoria. Which is all in the brain, again! Healthline
explains…
That giddy, euphoric
excitement you feel when spending time with the person you love (or seeing them
across the room, or hearing their name)? You can trace this entirely normal
effect of falling in love back to the neurotransmitter dopamine.
Ah, that pesky dopamine again. I’m surprised it took me so long to get to
that little critter. Harvard
Health goes into more detail…
Dopamine is most notably
involved in helping us feel pleasure as part of the brain’s reward system. Sex,
shopping, smelling cookies baking in the oven — all these things can trigger
dopamine release, or a "dopamine rush."
This feel-good
neurotransmitter is also involved in reinforcement. That’s why, once we try one
of those cookies, we might come back for another one (or two, or three).
Hopped up on dopamine following my seemingly successful
hint drop, I was keen to share this with my friend Richard, who understood the
language of 4th wall breaking imaginary TV shows better than any of
my other contemporaries.
A little bit about Richard, before I go on. We’d been
mates for about three or four years by this point, and along with my other mate
Simon, who I’d known since junior school, we’d formed a pretty tight little
group. Best friends? I’m not sure I’ve ever had a best friend, but the three of
us were as close as we could be without ever using that terminology. Although
Simon and I had the longer friendship, and many shared interests, Rich and I
had bonded over a love of music. That began with Queen (particularly A Kind Of
Magic, which was out around then) and classic Motown. Although lately, his
tastes had been changing. He’d become obsessed with the Smiths (who, at the
time, I hated) and the Pet Shop Boys, a band I liked (bought quite a few of
their singles) but clearly didn’t connect with on the same level that he did. I
liked Neil Tennant’s arch lyrics, while Rich liked the beats. It was the
mid-late 80s, and although I didn’t realise it at the time, I was losing him to
dance music.
I don't like country-and-western I don't like rock music I don't like, I don't like rockabilly or rock 'n' roll particularly Don't like much really, do I? But what I do like I love passionately
On that fateful evening then, I gave him a call to update
him on the end-of-season cliff-hanger involving Maddie… but when he answered
the phone, something was off. There was music playing in the background, and
Rich seemed distracted. As I poured my euphoric heart out, it quickly became
apparent that Rich was only half listening to me, that someone else was there,
and that they were taking up more of his attention. And after a few minutes I
realised that whoever it was, was laughing at me. Laughing at the private
conversation I was having with my friend, at my pathetic attempts at romance,
and that Rich was laughing too.
You call me on the phone, you left me all alone All I get from you is shellshock Another day goes by and all I do is cry All I get from you is shellshock
I stopped and asked Rich what was going on. Who was there
with him? And that’s when he told me.
It was Swanny.
All you need to know about Swanny is that he lived a few
doors down from Rich and that he was a complete and utter arsehole. A couple of
years prior, he’d indulged (along with a few other kids) in some minor league
bullying, of which I was one of his semi-regular marks. And as far as I was
concerned, the scars were still fresh.
“What are you doing?” I asked Rich, meaning, “Why are you
laughing at me? Why aren’t you being the friend and confidant I’ve come to
expect and rely on? Why are you pissing all over my euphoria… with fucking
Swanny!?!”
“Nothing,” said Rich. “We’re just listening to the new
New Order record.”
I hung up the phone and didn’t speak to Rich again for
the next nine months. Eventually Simon managed to get us talking again, and we
made up… in a way. But it was never the same.
When I was a very small boy Very small boys talked to me Now that we've grown up together They're afraid of what they see
Thirty-five years later, I still can’t listen to New
Order. This is something which sets me at odds with large sections of the music
blogging community who worship the ground Bernard and Peter (and whatever the
rest of them are called) make beats on. And it’s all down to my story-telling
brain, which has inextricably linked the anger, embarrassment and shame I felt
that evening in 1988 to New Order’s Technique. Neural pathways have been
created which mean that whenever I hear New Order on the radio, or see another
post pop up about them on one of my favourite blogs, I’m taken back to that
night and all those unpleasant feelings.
"Unpleasant feelings" though... as adolescent trauma goes, I will admit that this is pretty mild. However, the same principle applies to much deeper wounds, in theory.
Since I was born I started to decay Now nothing ever, ever goes my way
Dr. Faith would no doubt tell me that this can be fixed.
That if I started listening to more New Order, thereby allowing my brain to
create new neural pathways which could over-ride the old ones, that would
eventually lead to positive associations and responses, and my opinion of the
band might change. It is possible to re-wire your brain in this way… after all,
as I mentioned earlier, I used to hate The Smiths, and then in my 20s, various
things happened which allowed me to hear them in a new light. If I put enough
energy and effort into it then, perhaps I could make myself like New Order.
Are there any bands you hate because your brain has
linked their music to painful memories?
I would like a place I could call my own Have a conversation on the telephone Wake up every day that would be a start I would not complain of my wounded heart
Post script...
A weird thing happened while compiling this post. I actually sat and listened to the New Order songs above, and I didn't hate them as much as I thought I did.
Now you can call this wishful thinking or a self-fulfilling prophecy, or me just trying to make a point. Wanting to believe in something, then making it so. Theodor Herzl: "If you will it, it is no dream." Surely it can't be as easy as that...?
I saw the trailer for the latest Jason Statham opus, The Meg 2 last week. Another trenchant and prophetic examination of the human spirit in the face of great odds. It also features good use of the following tune...
...a song that Ann & Nancy Wilson wrote about their record company, following a bogus story released to the press about them having an incestuous relationship. No such thing as bad PR.
Anyway, all this got me thinking about Barracudas. What a great name for a band, eh? Almost as good as The Piranhas. And as with Piranhas, there's more than one fish in the sea...
THE BARRACUDAS #1
Let's start in 1964 with an infectious slice of rock n roll written by Bobby Darin...
THE BARRACUDAS #2
1965. Cantwell, Missouri. Close your eyes and imagine you're on a fairground carousel... with a guy called Pete.
THE BARRACUDAS #3
All the way from Bunkie, Louisiana in 1965, it's "the greatest sound this side of Liverpool"... or so their publicist would have you believe. Lead singer John Haas was only 15 when the band recorded their only release, which may explain why he sounds a little Chipmunky. Part of the internet believes that the song was sped up prior to release, and it should sound like this instead.
THE BARRACUDA'S #4
1965 was obviously a big year for naming your band after toothsome sea creatures. These guys were also still in high school (but flunking punctuation) when they produced what youtube describes as an "outta control stomper"...
THE BARRACUDA'S #5
One year later, these guys from Maine also needed to go back to school and Realize how to use an apostrophe.
THE BARACUDAS #6
Spelling was more of a problem for this Californian group in 1966...
THE BARRACUDAS #7
Also in 1966, in Sandston, Virginia, another bunch of Barracudas popped their heads above the water long enough to release this nugget into the world...
THE BARRACUDAS #8
Here's something a little bit different - quirky French Barracudas doing the "Boo-Goo-Loo" in 1967...
THE BARRACUDAS #9
Meanwhile, in Brooklyn, there was no sleep for these guys in 1967. Drummer Peter Criss would go on to achieve fame and fortune in Kiss.
LOS BARRACUDAS #10
Over to Ecuador in 1968 for a cover of the Los Bravos hit Black Is Black, converted to Spanish...
THE BARRACUDAS #11
"Power Pop Punk Surf Garage Rock" from London in the late 70s, though their lead singer was born in Canada. Briefly troubled the chart in 1980 with the wonderful baa-ba-ba-ba chorus of Summer Fun, though today I've chosen their debut single, I Want My Woody Back. A Woody, as Gluck explains in the song, is "a car that we take to the beach". Get your minds out of the gutter.
DIE BARRACUDAS #12
21st Century Barracudas from Germany (hence the "die" article), although they swim in similar seas to many of the previous acts...
THE BARRACUDAS #13
It's 2016 and the Barracudas in Buenos Aires know how to ROCK.
Which Barracudas would you like to go swimming with?
Thank you for showing your True Colours again this week with your excellent answers to Saturday Snapshots. Time after time, you just keep getting them right! Thank you.
This week's winner was (as is often the case) first to get out of bed on Saturday morning, and this week that was FurryBootsCityBoy. Question, FBCB - is that an alias for Lynchie? The reason I ask is because you (re-)appeared round these parts about the same time Lynchie disappeared and you seem to answer lots of questions from the same eras Lynchie specialised in. My detective's nose senses a link... but I may be completely wrong.
Anyway, answers...
10. A phoney Cooke makes tough mutton for Egyptian royalty.
Another one for C, though I understand how Alyson thought Ann & Nancy look like First Aid Kit here. Way before the shaggy 80s dos they were more famous for.
3. Riches... and better weather for coffee drinkers.
Seriously, you wouldn't mess around on Robyn. She would mess you up.
Somebody said you got a new friend Does she love you better than I can? There's a big black sky over my town I know where you're at, I bet she's around Yeah, I know it's stupid I just gotta see it for myself I'm in the corner, watching you kiss her, ohh I'm right over here, why can't you see me, ohh I'm giving it my all, but I'm not the girl you're taking home, I keep dancing on my own
I realise there are many out there who hate the fact that Marshall gave Dido a career as a result of this track, but if you can get past that it's both scary and hilarious. Plus it's the record that proves once and for all that Eminem is a Phil Collins fan...
Dear Mr. I'm-Too-Good-to-Call-or-Write-My-Fans This'll be the last package I ever send your ass It's been six months and still no word – I don't deserve it? I know you got my last two letters I wrote the addresses on 'em perfect So this is my cassette I'm sending you, I hope you hear it I'm in the car right now, I'm doing 90 on the freeway Hey, Slim, I drank a fifth of vodka, you dare me to drive? You know the song by Phil Collins "In the Air of the Night" about that guy who could've saved that other guy from drownin' But didn't, then Phil saw it all, then at a show he found him? That's kinda how this is You could've rescued me from drowning Now it's too late, I'm on a thousand downers now, I'm drowsy And all I wanted was a lousy letter or a call I hope you know I ripped all of your pictures off the wall I loved you, Slim, we could've been together – think about it!
And of course, I can't post that without also posting this*, which I still find hilarious. Your mileage may vary. (*Enjoy your holiday, Jez.)
It doesn't get more 80s than this. I was 15 when this song came out. It soundtracked my teenage desperation...
You don't know how long I have wanted To touch your lips and hold you tight, oh You don't know how long I have waited And I was going to tell you tonight But the secret is still my own And my love for you is still unknown Alone
You've no idea how much those lyrics still make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I was reading a US article the other day that called Morrissey a "one hit wonder" and cited this track as said hit. What a bizarre world.
That aside, can you imagine anything more bizarre than being stalked by Mozzer? "Call the cops!", as Shaun Ryder would say.
Oh, by the way, while I like the new Morrissey single a lot and am looking forward to the album, I do wish he'd keep his mouth shut while promoting it.
Actually, I could probably devote a whole Top Ten to Wedding Present Songs wherein David Gedge ends up stalking someone. Here's one of the best.
Why do my steps get this small When I reach your front door And I wait outside for you to come back out And your light goes out You don't know me but I'm still here And God the last time I saw you You were, oh, this near And there's a thousand things I wished I'd said and done But the moment's gone...
The guys from Tommy Tutone employ a very similar pick-up strategy to Randy Newman.
Jenny, Jenny you're the girl for me You don't know me but you make me so happy I tried to call you before, but I lost my nerve I tried my imagination but I was disturbed
Jens gets stalked by a girl from the post office. They all fall for him, psychogirls.
She sent me an SMS But it felt more like an SOS, a cry for help I know your life has been a mess You cried yourself to sleep as a child In your mommy's dress and your summerdress But stop following me, psychogirl I have enough problems to deal with on my own Just turn around now, psychogirl Your eyes are like knives, cutting into my bones And if I'd be your psychologist, who would be the psychologist's psychologist?
Line up her if you'd like Debbie Harry as a stalker...
I'll walk down the mall, stand over by the wall Where I can see it all, find out who ya' call Lead you to the supermarket checkout, some specials and rat food Get lost in the crowd...
1. Elvis Costello - I Want You
Genuinely one of the scariest songs ever written. So good, they made a film out of it.
It's the stupid details that my heart is breaking for It's the way your shoulders shake and what they're shaking for I want you It's knowing that he knows you now after only guessing It's the thought of him undressing you or you undressing
There is plenty for a third volume. If I'm not arrested first.
One of the reasons I do this blog is because it forces me to listen to songs that exist in my record collection that I've never listened to before. This was ripped from one of those free magazine CDs a few years back... and it's pretty cool.
Because we don't get enough Bee Gees round these parts.
7. Spearmint - Alone In A Town
According to google, this song does not exist. Which is a crying shame because it's a tragic story of Shirley Lee's loneliest student Christmas. Track it down and share his misery.
Do not watch the video. Remember this song without sullying your eyeballs with the worst excesses of 80s pop nonsense. No wonder Paul King ended up working for MTV.
First Gilbert gets dumped at the altar, then his mum and dad pop their clogs. No wonder he wants to top himself...
In a little while from now,
If I'm not feeling any less sour
I promised myself to treat myself
And visit a nearby tower,
And climbing to the top,
Will throw myself off
In an effort to make it clear to who
Ever what it's like when your shattered
Left standing in the lurch, at a church
where people 're saying,
"My God that's tough, she stood him up!
No point in us remaining.
We may as well go home."
As I did on my own,
Alone again, naturally
Pure suicide anthem joy. No wonder Morrissey was a fan. 1. Love - Alone Again, Or
One of the greatest songs of the sixties, just mesmerising. Love that Spanish guitar.
