Damascus via Bookham

Damascus via Bookham


As I walked into Jackie Jones' birthday party in the Bookham village hall you couldn't have blamed me for feeling disappointed. Even though I had turned 14 only days before and was hardly a man of the world, there was an undeniable lame, tacky naffness to the set up that almost made it look like it had been. Dusty floorboards whirled with the circular patterns of a spinning mirrorball and the dry ice smog flashed blue, green, red, blue, green, red along with the rigid robo-beat of a Stock, Aitken and Waterman single. The dj was a jaded-looking washed-up rocker clad in knackered denim.

Like a pre-pubescent playground, the boys and girls had gathered in opposite corners and were sipping coke or lemonade from little plastic cups and pretending as hard as they could that they were enjoying themselves. I gave a stoic swallow, took a tentative step towards the boys - and then it happened.
By the time I reached them my step had evolved into a purposeful swagger.

The riff simultaneously seized me and tore through me with shocking power. Then the beat joined and rocket-launched the effect another level. When the vocals burst in on top - ecstatic and intense - the combination was overwhelming. I glanced at the dj who was nodding vigorously and appeared transformed, with a new devlish glint in his eyes. I felt a life-affirming rush as whole being buzzed with primal excitement - 'This.....is....Goooooooooood.......this.... is how I NEED to feel...'

When an adolescent boy destined to love Rock 'n Roll hears it (really HEARS it) for the first time, it is a life-changing experience which directly reaches primeval parts of his mind in a profound manner, like a sensory big bang. The music reverberates in the older parts of the brain - the parts most intimately connected with the body. It speaks the primal language of his awakening sexuality, celebrating the purity of the joy to be found therein. There is nothing dirty here. It is the call of the wild, the nose to the wind, the first howl at the moon. It is ancient, animal and pure.

Good Rock 'n Roll reeks of an unapologetic determination to express and enjoy. It works like a religion, complete with its gods, holy texts and implicit promises to the faithful. At 14 I found both school and home insufferably dull and dreary. All my future life options appeared monochrome and bleak. I had entered into an apathetic phase of disinterested passive rebellion. Rock 'n Roll gave me a cause and enabled me to feel so much more alive through effecting a renaissance of my spirit and adding technicolour to my visions of what life might have in store for me. It promised freedom, joy, adventure and path to fulfillment. Thus it quickly became the only thing that really mattered to me. That day in Bookham the scales fell from my eyes and I KNEW, despite what I was repeatedly told, that this was not something that I would 'grow out of' - I was a lifer.

Thus AC/DC will always be very special to me. Within four years Guns 'n Roses, Nirvana, Soundgarden et al. would appear like a succession of prophets. 1991 alone saw the release of Nevermind, Blood Sugar Sex Magik, Use you Illusions 1@2, Metallica, Ten, Achtung Baby and Badmotorfinger. All these bands were touring and at their live peaks, their performances heady with the gravitas of genuine emotional involvement.

You couldn't have blamed me for believing that these golden times were going to last forever.

As soon as I finished school I focused on my journey to the modern Mecca. There was only one place on the planet that mattered in 1993. Once I had saved enough I set out alone on my pilgrimage to Seattle - hometown of Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, Alice in Chains and Jimi Hendrix.