A Surfeit of Bubbles
John Shaw, possessor of a fine beard and a Renault 4, had the best musical judgment of anyone I ever met. Ostensibly studying History at Keble College, Oxford, his real role in life was impromptu educator. ‘You have to listen to this new band’, he would say, popping into my college room down the road, ‘they’re called The Ramones. Part of this new thing called Punk’. And he would put on a record and we’d all go ‘wow’, then ‘thank you John’ before rushing out to buy the album for ourselves. John’s musical taste was as wide as his frequent smile; another time it would be the Alan Parsons Project, or Duncan Browne, someone you have never heard of, but you really should (start with ‘The Wild Places’. It’s absolutely magnificent).
But what John had in musicality, he somewhat lacked in - how can I put this? - emotional insight. ‘He’s a sexual Didcot’ said Paul Wiffen, guitarist and flautist and synthesisist in the student band for which John was our roadie, his Renault 4, known inevitably as Ramone, our only means of transport. We all laughed, and sort of knew what he meant. John was the man who thought ‘I’m not in Love’ by 10CC was a song about a man who wasn’t in love.
You’ll recall the intermission in that multi-layered masterpiece in which a woman repeatedly intones ‘Big boys don’t cry. Big boys don’t cry….’. John, like many of us at the time, probably thought that was right. Stiff upper lip and all that. Not very British to show emotion. Except …
Except when listening to music, obviously. Most things by Bach. Beethoven 9 when the choir comes in. Sibelius 2 when it goes into the last movement. Nimrod. I’ve been practising spontaneously welling up at music for a long time, my youthful ability to hydrate my cheeks discovered rather unexpectedly in the New Theatre, Oxford. I walked in and saw a Bosendorfer grand piano, a string bass, and a drum kit with two bass drums. Surely that couldn’t be ….? But it was indeed Louie Bellson, the only jazz drummer who played that way, joining Niels-Henning Ørsted Pedersen on bass, possessor of more names than you can shake a bow at, and on piano, inevitably, wonderfully, Oscar Peterson. I cried nonstop through that; tears of joy at the overflowing creativity and brilliance, the mutual understanding, the sheer exhilaration of three impeccable talents enjoying each other, lost in improvisation, for our very considerable delectation.
Today, I’m an equal opportunities bawler. I cry at films, and the genius of ‘I’m Sorry I haven’t A Clue’, and in the opera house, and sometimes even at the cute kids on ‘You’ve Been Framed’. ‘Diven’t bubble, man’, kids used to say at school, in the Geordie vernacular, but it’s good to cry. Lately, I have been honing my abilities to well up unprompted at a series of life events: my son’s graduation, oldest daughter’s thirtieth, middle girl’s first Prom concert with the BBC Singers - all marvelous opportunities to feel the lip quiver and the mouth crease in imitation of Edna Everage, before the eyes start sprouting liquid like an exuberant garden sprinkler. Someone once told me ‘if you start crying at a funeral, look at the ceiling and it will stop’, which I am happy to report just doesn’t work. Not for me, anyway. But why try to hide it? These recent tears, of pride, and joy, happiness and gratitude, came tumbling out, suggesting that for all life can be difficult, it’s often wonderful too. Diven’t bubble, man? Why no: bubble as much as you fancy. Bubbling is good for you.
There have been other tears of course: when my lifelong friend Ian died, and Bob down the road, both losses exacerbated when the well-known woman I was briefly dating decided that would be a perfect time to dump me, claiming I was interested in her because of her fame - in truth the least interesting thing about her. She had a habit, when feeling sorry for herself (which happened a lot), of filming herself crying, then putting the video on Instagram for her million or so followers, presumably to manifest an emotional honesty that turned out to be rather lacking in real life. I tried it myself as I mourned those two close friends, concluding that pointing a camera at yourself in moments of emotional distress is deeply weird and massively unhealthy. And it’s hardly narcissistic at all, to stick it on Instagram, is it. Bubbling is good …. filming it ain’t.
As tears go by, life dumps stuff on us; I cried at John Shaw’s funeral too, beyond sad that he died so young and never found the personal happiness his generosity of spirit so richly deserved. But each time I hear Blitzkrieg Bop, one of the hundreds of musical triumphs I know because of him, we’re back in a college room, and I smile at his beguiling misunderstanding of ‘it hides a nasty stain that’s lying there’. It was right for his passing to be marked by flowing emotion.
And then, this week, another kind of tears invaded my life. One of my dearest friends has been going through terribly difficult medical treatment, which if successful will save his life, and if not will hasten his demise. We’ve all been terribly worried, praying for success, taking comfort in his incredible spirit and positivity, relieved he approached this life-changing treatment in the best physical shape in the forty years I have been privileged to be his pal. Anxiety and love, mediated by a desire not to be a bother, meant there were sometimes gaps in the news, where you want to say ‘how are you doing’ but know you should keep schtum and first let him find out.
And then, one morning, the news came; his body was responding to treatment, and he’d be let out of hospital early to continue to recover. I called him to rejoice, and couldn’t get a single word out, the gratitude and relief just overpowering everything, as the tears cascaded down my cheeks and onto the kitchen table. He’s home now, and sent a picture lying on a sofa, his dog on his lap, eyeing him adoringly. That was a champagne moment: full of bubbling.
Big boys don’t cry? Yes we do - and we’re glad of it.
