Liverpool Stories
The stories on this site are not included in my book.
The tales are snapshots of my life in Liverpool, the home of the Beatles, and the echo chamber of the Mersey Sound that in the sixties resonated around the planet like an acoustic Tsunami. The stories cover a period of 50 odd years and so they touch on every aspect of my life from the rites of passage to the passing of youth. I hope you enjoy them.
Thank you for the music - A musical heritage
By John Williams
I was forty when our first child arrived, which means I have a household full of modern shaped people whose musical values are somewhat at odds with mine. To my boys the Beatles are those fellers who had a museum built in their honour in downtown Liverpool. It feels at times as if that building contains the sarcophagus of my youth.
We do share some things however, mainly my money, my car and my Chanel Monsieur. Daily conversations begin with me trying to ingratiate myself with them by showing an interest in their music which is simultaneously playing in the bathroom, kitchen and living room, and all from different musical sources. They usually go something like this.
Me: "That's nice. Who is it?"
Son: "Dad! I told you the other day! The Boogie Pimps!"
Fancy me forgetting them!
I must admit though that sometimes their choice of bands disconcerts me because I was nurtured on groups with names that evoked warmer times, such as the Beach Boys, KC and the Sunshine Band and to this day I still smile at the sound of Donavan's `Sunshine Superman'. So you can imagine my unease when, as if in some strange reversal of expectations possibly due to imminent global warming, my boys enthuse about Cold play, Snow Patrol and latterly the Arctic monkeys.
Of course there are times when we are singing from the same song sheet. Only the other week, as we drove into town so that my boys could satisfy their lust for new clothes, new shoes and new gadgets I found myself listening to their I-pod and singing along with a chap called Eamon, whose record was fairly recently at number one in the charts. He was singing about a young swain apparently disappointed with his girlfriend who, as I recall, had an oriental sounding name. The heartrending refrain went something like,
"Fukyu Yoohoe I don't want you back."
I couldn't help thinking at the time how refined modern songs are now that youngsters are no longer influenced by depraved albums such as `Never mind the bollocks'.
Does that make me crazy...probably.