How I lost my love for music (and how I found it again)
By Princess Stomper
I’m not sure when I first fell in love with music: it has always been part of my life. One of my only memories of my grandfather, who died when I was four, was hugging his knees as he took a break from conducting a choir. My grandmother and mother took part in those am-dram Gilbert & Sullivan shows, and I can’t think of a conversation growing up that didn’t take place with a soundtrack.
Maybe it was listening to Bowie in the back of my parents’ car:
Or maybe it was ABBA. They’re such incredible songs, it’s no wonder I still feel the same about them:
I would lie back with my eyes closed, three or four years old, floating on waves of contentment. The first record I think was mine was ‘I Want To Be Free’ by Toyah, a year or two later. The lyric “I don’t wanna go to school” really resonated with me – I was learning that music could be cathartic, that I could hear a song and think “someone understands how I’m feeling”:
When I was 10, my parents’ tastes gave way to my sister’s, which was acid house and Pink Floyd. The latter was my first true obsession. Other girls had Jason Donovan on their walls; I had Dave Gilmour. Pink Floyd had made pretty much every type of music in their time, from the fledgling punk-metal of ‘Nile Song’ to the vibrant dance of ‘Any Colour You Like’, but it was The Wall that I loved most, because it felt like I was being ripped apart and rebuilt note by note: