I went to see Joan Armatrading perform last night at the Albert Hall. This is the second time I have made a grave error of judgement regarding my choice of partner at a concert. I took my daughter to see The Scissor Sister’s and at far too young an age exposed her to the world of lipstick lesbians and erotic on-stage frolics. Last night, I took a glamorous girlfriend and exposed her to a lot of old ladies holding hands. On a purely observational basis, I noted that there was a big difference in the calibre of lesbian totty, between the two events. I suspect that this might be due to the very different styles of the leading women –the woman from the Scissor Sister’s comes very close to equalling Elton John in the gorgeously camp, costume change department, whereas Joan came on stage wearing a pair of black pyjamas.
I had forgotten that Joan was a well-known lesbian and had had a relationship with Valerie Singleton (or is that just an urban myth?). I don’t understand why she is a gay icon – she doesn’t sing about lesbians, she sings about not having a boyfriend. She’s still got a fantastic voice, although the high notes didn’t quite make it. As soon as she started with “I am not in love”, I found myself transported back in time to my smoke filled student room, making mad, passionate love to my tortured soul of a boyfriend. How does music do that? Take you back to somewhere else so vividly. Has anybody harnessed the extraordinary power of music to it’s maximum effect? I know that it is used in helping Alzheimer sufferers remember things, but it could be bigger than that. Must make a note to write down all my significant albums, so that when I have lost the plot completely, my children can help me remember my life. Although I suspect the ones I remember most are the ones I listened to when I was in love, which means that I will assume that I spent my whole life shagging. Which is not a bad thing to think. Even if it isn’t remotely true.
This particular boyfriend harnessed music like no other in the art of seduction (and still does for that matter). There was nothing as powerful as receiving a carefully crafted tape from him through the post on the long summers when we were apart. He moved me more than any other man did. Unfortunately, I discovered after two years that one cannot live by cassette tapes alone. Having said that, I am gutted to hear that the cassette tape is officially dead. Girls need boys to make them compilation tapes, it is part of the initiation process of love and desire. Long live the cassette tape.
