So there we all were last night at The Griffin – great pub on the corner of Brentford Footie Ground – with my friend Lyn’s band playing from its repertoire – mostly ‘sixties and ‘seventies – pulsing they were, just pulsing.
And then suddenly – yup – the women were up and dancing – and – eventually – with slightly more caution – so were the men. Giving it all we’d got we found that sinewy rythm all over again. Nobody can touch the children of the ‘sixties when it comes to getting up and moving to their music and – despite knees going, and bunions sprouting and the twinges that flesh is heir to – Oh how we danced.
And I had a sudden revelation of complete and utter joy – because we were still in the ring, still doing it, still full of f-f-f-fire and not much ice – and gave not a fig for anyone who might stare at us and laugh. This was our music from our time, and it was a great time, one of the most democratic and laid back decades in any timeline and it defined a generation of people who were generally of good intent and for whom money, status, celebrity, elitism and much of the stuff that currently rocks just didn’t signify. I know, I know, The Beatles fell out with each other, The Stones singer got wildly avaricious (so they say, couldn’t possibly comment) and a lot of beautiful people overdid the booze and drugs and died but that came later. Many – most of us – kept that ethos of basic goodness and the pursuit of happiness and mourned its passing. You could see it in The Griffin last night.
And it reminded me of another time when the world looked to be ‘a pleasant exercise of hope and joy for we who were strong in love…’ When Wordsworth wrote of the French Revolution – before the darkness descended there, too – ‘Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive. But to be young was very heaven…’