Teenage Seventies

A short reverie of yesteryear

With the introduction of the jukebox to our local cafe, the age of rock ’n’ roll was born. It also gave me a small interest, changing the records week after week, and, to the local girl’s surprise, I was able to predict successfully what was going to be at the top of the charts the following week.

Most of the time, it was easy, I just had to watch the girls, with their sighs and their hearts on their sleeves, to take a stab whether the next number one would be a love song or a bouncy rock ’n’ roll number.

Across the street from the cafe was the local dance hall. It was not much use to me, being physically incapable of rhythm and having no sense of balance, but on a Sunday, it was different; there was the cafe, the singers, and two hours of nonstop entertainment. From my table at the front of the bandstand, I watched the would-be hopefuls get up there and sing their hearts out in the hope of winning a contract to sing with a Scottish band or the chance to get into any of the local summer shows.

I enjoyed collecting song lyrics, and that made me popular among those my age, seeking to learn what they could about the new songs. A song was no sooner released or on the jukebox when I was asked for the words. I supplied them in exchange for a soda pop. Maurice was a friend of mine; he was blind, sang, and played piano, but as a person, he was offhand, sometimes rude to those he depended upon to help him.

I suppose it was for this reason he latched on to me to take him about from place to place, and though he must have known taking him about was draining on my resources, he never offered once to buy me as much as a cup of coffee.

In selecting a central character for ‘A serenade for Susan Rafferty’, I used him and made him a more sociable person than he really was or ever could be. Most of what I wrote about him was true: his determination to let nothing, not even his blindness, stand in his way of being in a local summer show. Sadly, Maurice never made it, and it was only a matter of time before he ultimately dropped out of my life.

As a story, I allowed Maurice a chance of romance and a measure of success to come into play and color his life. I’ll always wonder whether or not the story was a success because of it.

I would hate to think that anyone might criticize what I’ve written, tearing it apart simply because what was a way of life back in the 60s is unacceptable today.

Take David, a young lad who was chased around London by every fourteen-year-old, was one of those young hopefuls, and went on to become a success, not because of his talent, he had very little, but he was the British hunk of youthful good looks. David didn’t think his name had star potential and took on the surname Essex. His dad was a London docker.

Before he became a success, we stamped around London with Tommy Steele, who was already breaking ground in the business, and always finding a way to get into a scrap or two in a pub or two.

The only claim to success back then was booze, girls, and nightclubs.

Benny was the same; but six weeks into a recording contract and he was dead.

In the and 70’s and early 80’s many hopefuls refused to accept when their big chance had been and gone. I was prouder of my friendships with failures who succeeded in other careers. There were too many teenagers who knew it all, living in a world of self-delusion simply because they couldn’t or wouldn’t face the truth.

Today, I have become that kind of teenager. Delusional.

The poetic license of old age allows me much freedom to make things happen that wouldn’t usually happen, so I learn to go with it and enjoy it.

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