Come in, come out of the rain

One day in November 1983 I arrived back from my day in the Biochemistry lab at University, to the fourth floor of a Gothic Victorian monstrosity of a mansion. As usual. It was about six weeks after I had finally escaped the battlefield of emotional confrontation and turmoil that constituted my parents house. AKA my home.

I was revelling in the freedom. The alcohol. My new-found friends. The academic stuff was unfortunate, but it was a price that was well worth paying for the freedom. That day, although I didn't know it at the time, was different.

As I pushed the swinging double doors of the corridor open and walked down the threadbare carpet, a single note hit me. Then it hit me again. And again. And again. Hundreds of times. Actually, by the time my Hall of Residence neighbour finally stopped playing it, sometime in February 1984, I probably had heard that single D-note, millions of times. He played that record over and over, every nights for months. At the time it drove me, and all the other residents of the corridor, fucking nuts. He was not playing it quietly either.

But now, nearly 36 years later, I realise what a great experience that was. I do like Simple Minds of course. They are in my top 20 bands probably. I especially like "Waterfront". There may be better songs on New Gold Dream, but it's up there. But I don't love this story for what it tells us about music.

For that day, even though I only realised it many years later, I was finally free. I could do what the fuck I wanted, and as long as I did no harm, no one could stop me. Don't expect this to be a complex Millsian treatise on liberty, I'll leave that to others, and anyway it's been done. Nor was the rest of my life plain sailing. But it all started there.

And the live version is brilliant.

We all need beginnings. All the time. Over and over. Maybe it's just me. Sometimes we need events that are traumatic and shit to really show us how the future is going to be better. Because if you approach it with the belief that you will persist, that you have a small number of genuine people in your life, and that things can and do get better. It is always OK. A new chapter will always open, and it will be better than the last one.

And I like to think I looked a bit like Charlie Burchill.