I'd barely listened to rock music until my husband died. It was just what I needed to blast away the tears
I have to admit that until it happened, I'd never thought of the Rolling Stones as bereavement music. The truth is I've never been much of a rock chick. I agreed with Brian Eno that baby boomers only "return to rock music again and again … to feel like kids". He makes a pretty good case for the therapeutic impact of "emotionally neutral" ambient music, music that is as "ignorable as it is interesting".
Indeed, I used to think that made sense. But when my husband Peter died, I realised the last thing I wanted was "emotionally neutral"– what I needed, in fact, was the exact opposite. So I drove through France blasting out Keith Richards' Talk is Cheap, which I found in an Oxfam shop, feeling a cathartic release. In my view, there was more to it than just a desire for youth. There was something particular about the clanging density of the best of the Stones that made me feel, for the first time in months that, pain and loss notwithstanding, there might be more fun lurking about if I kept my eyes open for it.
The early days after Peter's death were filled with more familiar music: evensong at New College, Oxford, choral communion at Christ Church, and a rumbustious funeral in a packed church of gorgeous readings, Handel sung and played by family, and invigoratingly noisy hymns.
And then it was over. I found myself filling time and, for the first time in my life, avoiding all the music that had been the background of our life. That meant Radio 3 was now strictly off limits. No concerts, certainly no opera – there were too many memories and there would have been too many tears shed. Virginia Ironside says in her terrific book on bereavement You'll Get Over It, "listen to music if you want to cry". I didn't.
The curious thing was, the one acceptable form of music was 60s rock. Now, I admit that I did inadvertently book Ozzy Osbourne and Black Sabbath for the Edgbaston Youth Club dance in the 1960s (not quite what was expected), but that was pretty much my only experience of rock until that point.
It meant my first big live gig wasn't until I went to see the Stones' last concert at Hyde Park, the ticket obtained by my slightly bemused daughter. Astonishingly, they were not only clearly having a blast but also rather good. I felt that same rush I experienced when I was driving through France.
There's an enormous amount of learned guff written about rock – the power of particular rhythms and chords; the obsessive search for "the groove", the "sound" and the "lost chord", but it's certainly no worse than the pseudoscience written about complementary therapy and cancer in my own field.
But some of it did ring true. I'm with Keith Richards when he says: "What you're looking for is where the sounds just melt into one another and you've got that beat behind it … it's your actual rock and roll … simple, haunting powerful sounds."
It was what I needed; something powerful to blast away all the other thoughts. And is that core belief so different from modern classical music?
So began a new journey. As an academic, I approached the music systematically and ploughed through rock star chronicles, timelines and mythology (Bob Dylan's chronicles, Patti Smith, Pete Townshend, Keith Richards' life). But I only got to page 4 of Morrissey's Penguin classic – even I have my limits.
So, there we have it. At the age of 60, I have become fascinated with oldie rock music, rockers and their meaning to my generation. I'm starting to think there's something in this groove business. Maybe it's time for a compilation album of bereavement rock music – perhaps Spinal Tap will take it on tour. Reported by guardian.co.uk 11 hours ago.
I have to admit that until it happened, I'd never thought of the Rolling Stones as bereavement music. The truth is I've never been much of a rock chick. I agreed with Brian Eno that baby boomers only "return to rock music again and again … to feel like kids". He makes a pretty good case for the therapeutic impact of "emotionally neutral" ambient music, music that is as "ignorable as it is interesting".
Indeed, I used to think that made sense. But when my husband Peter died, I realised the last thing I wanted was "emotionally neutral"– what I needed, in fact, was the exact opposite. So I drove through France blasting out Keith Richards' Talk is Cheap, which I found in an Oxfam shop, feeling a cathartic release. In my view, there was more to it than just a desire for youth. There was something particular about the clanging density of the best of the Stones that made me feel, for the first time in months that, pain and loss notwithstanding, there might be more fun lurking about if I kept my eyes open for it.
The early days after Peter's death were filled with more familiar music: evensong at New College, Oxford, choral communion at Christ Church, and a rumbustious funeral in a packed church of gorgeous readings, Handel sung and played by family, and invigoratingly noisy hymns.
And then it was over. I found myself filling time and, for the first time in my life, avoiding all the music that had been the background of our life. That meant Radio 3 was now strictly off limits. No concerts, certainly no opera – there were too many memories and there would have been too many tears shed. Virginia Ironside says in her terrific book on bereavement You'll Get Over It, "listen to music if you want to cry". I didn't.
The curious thing was, the one acceptable form of music was 60s rock. Now, I admit that I did inadvertently book Ozzy Osbourne and Black Sabbath for the Edgbaston Youth Club dance in the 1960s (not quite what was expected), but that was pretty much my only experience of rock until that point.
It meant my first big live gig wasn't until I went to see the Stones' last concert at Hyde Park, the ticket obtained by my slightly bemused daughter. Astonishingly, they were not only clearly having a blast but also rather good. I felt that same rush I experienced when I was driving through France.
There's an enormous amount of learned guff written about rock – the power of particular rhythms and chords; the obsessive search for "the groove", the "sound" and the "lost chord", but it's certainly no worse than the pseudoscience written about complementary therapy and cancer in my own field.
But some of it did ring true. I'm with Keith Richards when he says: "What you're looking for is where the sounds just melt into one another and you've got that beat behind it … it's your actual rock and roll … simple, haunting powerful sounds."
It was what I needed; something powerful to blast away all the other thoughts. And is that core belief so different from modern classical music?
So began a new journey. As an academic, I approached the music systematically and ploughed through rock star chronicles, timelines and mythology (Bob Dylan's chronicles, Patti Smith, Pete Townshend, Keith Richards' life). But I only got to page 4 of Morrissey's Penguin classic – even I have my limits.
So, there we have it. At the age of 60, I have become fascinated with oldie rock music, rockers and their meaning to my generation. I'm starting to think there's something in this groove business. Maybe it's time for a compilation album of bereavement rock music – perhaps Spinal Tap will take it on tour. Reported by guardian.co.uk 11 hours ago.