Although books are everything, music is always going to be my first love.
When I was an awkward teenager, growing up in suburban South Manchester in the mid 90’s, music was my constant escape. Sure, books provided some solace, but for my everyday, constant needs – music was my sanctuary. I found solace in the spiralling guitar riffs, the haunting piano notes and the silky, husky, keening vocals. And of course, one particular band would be the saviours of my very soul.
That band was Oasis. Five cocky lads from a couple of miles away from my home. They played their own instruments and wrote their own songs and had a bloody great time while doing so. They blew the country away with their swagger, parka’s and Mancunian drawl. And I fell head over heels in love with their songs. They spoke to me. – a lonely girl in her bedroom, in a rough estate. They woke me up from my slumbering existence, and I began to live. I made friends (that would last a life-time). I made a decision which would shape my life, deciding to become a journalist at the very moment they walked onto stage at Maine Rd, April 27th 1996. I stood in the stands, and remembered every single thing. I’d later write a ten page review.
As I grew older, my music horizons widened. I delved into Manchester’s musical heritage, especially – falling just as heavily for The Stone Roses, The Smiths, The Charlatans, James, The Inspiral Carpets, The Happy Mondays, The Verve… I soon began to reach out further, deciding as a proud northern lass, I’d support any band from the north, and subsequently fell hard for The Las, Cast, Shed Seven, Ocean Colour Scene… Welsh bands began to creep into my radar, with especial enamour for Catatonia, Manic Street Preachers and The Stereophonics. Basically, as long as the band were from the UK and played their own instruments, they were mine and I was theirs.
By the time I was old enough to hit the night clubs, my friends and I would head to indie clubs, while the rest of the sixth form would be off at more traditional clubs. But we’d still be hit with a spate of dance music, namely The Prodigy, Chemical Brothers and Fatboy Slim. And, we’d dance to them; bouncing around the dance floor, waving out cigarettes and bottles of Smirnoff Ice high in the air as we did so.
At university, I diligently studied all the branches of journalism, but still had my heart set on being a fully fledged music journo, The one who would go off on tours with bands and write huge features in Q, Select and Vox. I’d wind up being the editor in chief of the NME. All the while, writing my first book while the band were sleeping off their hangovers on the tour bus. Needless to say, that never happened – but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t happy with my life. Instead, I met the love of my life, had my Moonlings and still managed to attend numerous gigs and write reviews and my book. Just not in the way I expected.
So, what’s prompted this? I’m sat at home on a Saturday evening, with less than a week until The Witch Laws is officially launched on Kindle, and I’m watching Glastonbury on TV. A young girl is on the stage, singing her heart out and pogo’ing around – Olivia Rodrigo. My daughter used to watch her on Disney’s Bizzaardvark and more recently High School Musical: The Musical: The Series. Last night, I watched Billie Eilish. And they both surprised me. These young girls, not even old enough to drink in the United States, blasting their hearts out in genre-bending anthems that even I, an ‘indie snob’ (as I’ve been called a lot), quite enjoyed. Billie Eilish with her not quite dance, not quite pop, not quite rock tunes and dazzling light show. Her voice like an angels’ when she so desired it to be so, other times slightly rasping and scathing as she informs “I’m a bad guy, duh.” I still remember her thanking Johnny Marr while accepting her Oscar for best song – the guitarist of The Smiths and collaborator of the theme song for No Time To Die, the song Eilish accepted the Academy Award for back in March. I made a point of adding some of her tracks to my inspiration playlist; the one that I stick my ear-buds in when I’m really determined to get into the flow of book 2.
Rodrigo surprised me in a different way. As mentioned, I’ve known of her for a good while, thanks to my teenage daughter, I was expecting sickly sweet pop from her – having seen her perform Drivers License at the Brit Awards. I certainly was not expecting a potty mouthed punk princess to skip her way onto stage and belt out guitar driven, mosh pit inducing anthems. She was as far away from the family friendly, wholesome Disney brat as you could get – and I was completely there for it. Again, I made a point of sticking some of her more alternative sounds onto my playlist.
Just last weekend, my husband was channel surfing and happened upon The Stereophonics on BBC2, performing live from the Principality Stadium in Cardiff. Although I’m not a fan of their later releases, I was sent into a spiral of nostalgia as they slipped into their back-catalogue. Just one strum, just one chord of Traffic and I was on my feet in the living room singing at the top of my lungs. As Kelly Jones sings the one word ‘Wait…’ for the last verse, the hairs on my arms rose to standing as the crowd promptly sang the full verse back to him. By the time the first searing note of Local Boy in the Photograph, played, I was almost crying. It had been so long – too long since I’d been at a concert, and even though I was in my living room, it was almost, almost, as if I was there. Watching them with my husband was extra special, as it was at a Stereophonics concert that we had our first proper date (and his first ever gig).
In April, my daughter attended her first ever concert, 5SOS, at Leeds Arena. She loved it, and came out of the arena barely able to hold herself together. She was crying, her voice was raw (and would be for the next few days), but also elated. She asked me about my first live experience and I smiled as I told her about seeing Oasis in a stadium when I was 16. A few days later, with a still croaky voice, she asked if we could watch that gig on YouTube. We snuggled on the sofa and I smiled as the memories flooded in of that night.
Tonight, Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds will be on the Pyramid Stage at Glastonbury, on just before Paul McCartney. While I doubt he’ll care that he changed one lonely girls life from a few villages over from his own, it’s kind of nice to imagine he does. Especially as he chose my name for Don’t Look Back in Anger. Whenever that song is played, a little bit of my soul slides away, back to that lonely teenage girl, to tell her that everything will be worth it in the end.
Sall