Yep. Little old me. Who’d have thunk?
In my mid teens I discovered rock. And unfortunately for my parents, it wasn’t of the geological variety.
I literally fell in love with Guns n’ Roses.
There were others of course. I had flings with Aerosmith and Def Leppard, flirted heavily with AC/DC and Nirvana and occasionally eyed up Motorhead; but in truth, the sound of Slash’s searing guitar riffs, the crazy versitility of Axl’s FIVE OCTAVE vocal range, stole my heart.
In the years between then and now, I’ve played the field more times than Man U. I’ve been seduced by Opera, persuaded by Pop, lured by Classical, grabbed by Grunge and utterly captivated by my eventual partner, Country.
There are moments though, when a certain smell, a kind of summer car heat, a particular road, when I think of them. Like the memory of a first love, I am filled again with a hunger for that tender, youthful craving for some wordless void that only music can begin to voice.