March 1970

I emigrated to Canada in 1970, arriving at Toronto "Malton" Airport, as it was known then, on March 15th; around 2 pm.

I spent 3 fruitless months job hunting before a position, sort of, dropped into my lap. A great job for 4 1/2 years before my next step in adulthood.
Those years were filled with hours of commuting on the 401 with a Mini-load of friends. All singing along to the hits on the radio.
However, there was one particular track, and album, forever associated with March 1970.

The album of my immigration days. No. 1 when I left the UK, No. 1 when I arrived in Canada. Everywhere I went, people were playing it.

Yoko Ono

February 18, 2020 was Yoko Ono's 87th Birthday. Quite amazing, given that she is still putting out Dance Music that is popular in the clubs. I understand that it is really  a DJ Re-mixing her older material, however,  her unusual style of singing is accepted now; although when John Lennon was her biggest supporter from mid-1968 onwards, very few Beatles fans appreciated his commentary about her "Art".
Leap Years
On February 29, 1968, the Royal Albert Hall in London realized that there was an  extra day in February and they had not scheduled any  performances. (Hard to believe that no-one had a calendar in the office!) Ornette Coleman, the American multi-instrumentalist jazz artist, was in town and on short notice agreed to perform on that evening. 

A friend of mine from our school days, was a big Ornette fan and asked if I would like to go to the show; and,  I agreed. The biggest surprise was that Ornette had a special guest along with his Quartet - - it was Yoko Ono. My friend and I went to unusual modern music performers from time to time but nothing prepared us for Yoko!
Her style of Japanese "singing" was pretty much just a loud screeching wail.
It was quite an endurance to sit through her performance.

Oh, well, at least I could say that I knew about Yoko just before she and John became one of the most famous couples in the world. (February  1968, John was still in India.)

  

Andy Warhol

It was summer 1966, July 14 to be precise, I was in a big 707 flying to New York City. I was so excited. The whole aircraft was full of British students that belonged to a club which chartered planes for cheap travel to North America.

I was sitting in the aisle seat reading a book when two other passengers started talking about art. The guy in the window seat was pompous and opinionated and pretty much running down any artists after Michelangelo. The guy in the middle seat, looked a little older than us 20-somethings and was  more reserved and measured  in his comments. I looked up from my book and said that I liked a lot of modern art, even if I didn't understand it on a technical basis. And then I shut up and the two of them went on.

A little later, the guy in the middle seat who name was Marc, quietly asked me what sort of modern Art did I  like? I said that  Jackson Pollock and Andy Warhol were among my favourites. Quietly, Marc said to me, " Would you like to meet Andy?"
Would I?!
Do you know him I asked? Marc told me that he had just completed his Masters in Fine Arts at the University of York, and  had been spending summers in New York City for a couple of years, and he had met Andy many times. He was pretty sure that he was going to see him again; he  just didn’t know when exactly. As I was going to be in New York for a week or so,  he gave me his phone number, where  he would be staying in Manhattan, and told me to call him.
I did call Marc, and he told me which day and what time he would be going to Andy Warhol's studio and I should join him there. I was beyond excited!

The studio was the famous 'Factory' where Andy did much of his  creative work. The 'Factory' was located on the Fifth Floor of a building at  231 East 47th Street in Manhattan.  It was a  wonderfully bright sunny Saturday afternoon and the place was buzzing with people, clearly quite a few of them were hanger-ons,  just like me.

That was how I got to spend an afternoon with Andy Warhol while he was editing, with a lot of enthusiasm, a  film that he was working on.

The man I met on the plane was Marc Lancaster, that I have since discovered became a famous art critic in New York.
It was an amazing summer to be in America.

The Day the Music Died

I know that I belong to the 99% group of the population.

But in old age, looking back on my life, I realize I had a pretty unique and privileged life, all be it, a very definitely middle class one. Just not the typical middle-class expected from someone growing up and being educated in a London suburb.

One of the unusual aspects of my childhood was that when I was about 12 my parents got a daily newspaper delivered to the house just for me; by that, I mean a newspaper of my choice. In the 21st-century in North America it is difficult to appreciate how literate the British population is. All classes, working class  to landed gentry, read daily papers and were well served  by a huge choice.

My parents choice of newspaper was the Daily Express and the Daily Mail, I chose the Daily Mirror, for the very 12-year-old reason that I liked their comic pages. (It was usually considered as a paper for the working classes. It supported the Labour Party in its political outlook.) Although, to its credit, the Daily Mirror had a terrific political correspondent who wrote under the pen name Cassandra. ( Look it up! ) I came to appreciate his analysis more when I was older.

My dad would wake me up with a cuppa tea and a paper. Now if that isn’t the epitome of privilege I don’t know what is.

One of my most striking memories a good 61 years ago was of  February 4 1959, when I woke up to the daily mirrors headline reporting on the death of Buddy holly, Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper.

The day the music died. As Don Maclean sang in American Pie.