Too old?

Be honest (sort of)... am I too old for a pair of brothel creepers?

I saw a pair in a magazine today and they whisked me magically back to circa 1984 and my original pair of brothel creepers, black and white and gorgeous.

The ones I'm lusting after right now can be found here (click Footwear then Creepers - I want the Leopard print ones).

I know that this is strictly a nostalgia trip but they are so cool and they will so make me feel 16 again. Is that a good or a bad thing? Why do I even want to go there?

All I know is I can't stop thinking about them.

[Kind] comments please.

Rocktober Day Twenty Seven: Anchorage

I can't believe I almost overlooked one of my all time, hands down favourite songs, ever.

One of the problems with human psychology (at least my human psychology) is that we are always looking back or looking forward, it's difficult to focus on the present, I guess because being in the present we are always kind of dealing with it right now.

Looking back on life tends to be done through rose tinted nostalgia glasses. Everything was better way back when. I have a few girlsfriends who date back to my wilder days and there's nothing better than letting our minds float back to those good ol' days and remember who we were before we became what we are.

This song is about that for me. Looking back on a life of freedom and innocence, to a special time between friends. About moving on from friends but always having them in your heart. It makes my skin tingle from the very first note and that last line "Leroy says keep on rocking girl..." just makes me want to cry and cry and not ever stop.

This is a comment I saw when I found this song on YouTube. It really sums up my feelings too.

"This song is amazing. Every time I listen to it, it takes me to somewhere I don't even know, but it's somewhere I want to be."

Thank you, Michelle Shocked, for something very special.

Anchorage (original sweet clip from YouTube)

I took time out to write to my old friend
I walked across that burning bridge
I mailed my letter off to Dallas but her reply came from
Anchorage, Alaska

She said, Hey girl it's about time you wrote
It's been over two years, my old friend
Take me back to the days of the foreign telegrams
And the all night rock and rolling
Hey Chel we was wild then

Hey Chel you know it's kinda funny
Texas always seems so big
But you know you're in the largest state in the Union
When you're anchored down in Anchorage

Hey girl I think the last time I saw you
Was on me and Leroy's wedding day
What was the name of that love song you played?
I forgot how it goes
I don't recall how it goes

Anchorage
Anchored down in Anchorage

Leroy got a better job so we moved
Kevin lost a tooth, he's started school
I've got a brand new eight month old baby girl
I sound like a housewife
Hey Chel, I think I'm a housewife

Hey girl what's it like to be in New York?
New York City, imagine that
What's it like to be a skateboard punk rocker?
Leroy says send a picture
Leroy says hello
Leroy says keep on rocking, girl
Keep on rocking

The Beginning of the End

When I think back to the moment when I went from being a sweet, goody-two-shoes, library monitor child to a blue haired, penis-shaped-earring wearing, running-away-from-home, moving in with a household of skinheads at 15, teenage nightmare, I think I can trace it back to a day in 1980 at the old Bondi Junction Cinema when I saw the movie Foxes. It starred Jodie Foster but for me the big star was Cherie Currie. She played the tragic, bad girl Annie and she changed my life.

For me seeing that movie and falling in girl love with Annie/Cherie Currie was the first step on the road to teenage rebellion. I hadn't thought of that movie and that moment and that time in my life for a very long time. It is funny how such an important moment (and believe me, I knew it was an important moment the minute I came out of that cinema, feeling punch drunk and knowing at a certain level that nothing would ever be the same again) became a blind spot in my memory.

What brought it back into close perspective recently was getting an email from Popcorn Taxi about the upcoming movie The Runaways. I had seen bits in the entertainment media about this movie but hadn't registered much except that it starred that blank faced Kristen Stewart (who seems to have all the personality of a damp kitchen sponge, from what I have seen of her on the teev). I almost deleted the email outright (though Popcorn Taxi have delivered tasty treats in the past, lately there hasn't been much to interest me) but seeing the name Cherie Currie triggered something. An actual lightbulb moment!

The event they were advertising was a preview screening of The Runaways with a live, via satellite, chat with Cherie Currie (actress and member of the actual Runaways). Seeing that name opened a floodgate of memories and I sat shaking at my desk, remembering so clearly coming out of that screening of Foxes 30 years ago and feeling the foundations of my life shift under my feet.

So on 7 July I'll be dragging my long suffering sister to this night of nostlagia, if that is even the right word for it. I don't know anything about the band The Runaways and I didn't know Cherie Currie was in it, so this will be something of a learning experience as well.

All I know right now is that I need to get my hands on a copy of Foxes. In equal parts I desperately want to see it again and I am terrified of seeing it again. I am so scared that actually seeing what is potentially (undoubtedly!) a very poor 80s teenage angst piece of schlock will shatter the exquisite feelings I remember from that time. Is it best to cling onto the memories or watch it again and re-examine it from a 42 year old perspective? What do you think?

There is so much to say about last night I am finding it hard to know where to start. I went in with a few expectations, mainly to do with the possibility of bumping into some of my old crowd. I had little expectations for the performance.

Going alone meant I could sit in the icy confines of the upstairs stalls at the Enmore Theatre and people watch in peace. The crowd was pretty much how I imagined it, 40-50 year olds, some with their teenage kids. All of us reliving our past. I was surprised (or maybe not) by the number of adult men revisiting their flattops and their Rude Boy jackets with the red tartan lining. Yes, we all had our Doctor Martens on. One gent even turned up in full uniform: the turned up jeans, Docs, white t-shirt and black braces hanging from his waist down round his knees. Have some dignity, man!

I was looking for familiar faces but quickly realised those faces would now be 25 years older and just a tad wider and wrinklier, just like my own. Surely my chances of recognising anyone were slim. I did see one Sam Lightfoot, a singer in a band I saw once or twice in the day. My brain still won't produce the name of the band but I'm hoping it will come to me eventually.

Sitting there, waiting, thinking, threw me down a deep, dark well of nostalgia. My god, the people who were so important to me in the day. Melissa and Kelly, Katrina, little Billie who you could pop in your pocket, she was so small and elf-like, Cathy George who started as an enemy and turned into the best of friends. The boys, oh the boys! Big Brett and Little Brett, Little Michael, Big Brian and Little Brian (the cold night we shared a pash in the dirt behind the Royal George Hotel), John Duffy (the king of the skinheads), my own sweet, lost Neil (what could have been...), so many others. Fuck the memories are bittersweet, aren't they. What a perfect word bittersweet is. So apt and right for just this sort of traipse down memory lane. Whatever happened to these people who meant so much to me a million years ago?

The concert itself was awesome, beyond awesome. There are no words to describe its total awesome-ness. The boys still have it. I assume they had it in the day but they never toured here so this was my very first (and I am guessing very last) taste of The Specials live. Terry, gruesome as ever, playing the straight man, shuffling around at the front, mumbling his lyrics, just as he should be. Neville and Lynval, the clowns, dancing, jumping, getting the crowd going. All of us young again and having the time of our lives.

It was such a wonderful surprise that the whole audience, all of us old, creaking fogies, were fucking into it. The ska beat is hard to resist and we were all up on our feet from the first note, dancing, singing along. I used to be scared of going to concerts alone, until I went to Robbie Williams and had the best time. When I'm alone I can go crazy and not care. There's no-one around who knows me to judge me. What do I care what the goons next to me think? Is there any greater pleasure in life than yelling out the words to Little Bitch at the top of your lungs along with 5,000 like-minded Rude Boys and Girls?

There was a weird moment for me towards the end. During the encore they launched into Longshot Kick the Bucket, a ska favourite. The crowd went wild and suddenly I wanted to cry, I almost cried. The emotion hit me so hard, it was like a fist in the gut. The day is gone, it won't return, I can't recapture it. Today is another day, a different day, but a little part of me wants to re-live that day. The day when I was so alive, so free, so passionate and spiky, when everything was possible.

My only tiny disappointment about last night was the lack of Stupid Marriage in the set. Yes, they did Too Much, Too Young (would have been lynched otherwise) but for me those two songs go together: a couplet.

But the end was true and real and perfect. Enjoy Yourself, how could they have written that almost 30 years ago?

Enjoy yourself, it's later than you think
Enjoy yourself, while you're still in the pink
The years go by, as quickly as you wink
Enjoy yourself, enjoy yourself,
It's later than you think