I went a bit mad in 2019. My parents were dying, my son had unwillingly moved in. Work seemed impossible. Little did I know I was rehearsing for the global madness that erupted a year later. Just as well. By 2020 my son was stuck – desperately wanting to move out couldn’t; my parents were distanced by dementia and lockdown; I hated WFH but was scared to go to work. At least I’d had some practice at madness. In the middle of this turmoil – and we all have a story – I found solace in a peculiar place: the life and work of Status Quo.
I’ve always liked Status Quo. They were the first live band I saw – at the Market Hall Carlisle in May 1979. It was their If You Can’t Stand The Heat tour and – as Cumbria had yet to catch up with punk and New Wave – was the social event of the year. I was a fortnight away from my 14th birthday and it seemed impossibly grown up to be in the midst of a patchouli scented denim clad crowd. I wish I could say I remember it in detail, but apart from the noise – Christ it was loud – and the shadowy figures swirling across a smoky stage, my main recollection is having my face pressed against the studs on the back of the jacket worn by the giant grebo in front of me.
I achieved a glimmer of school-wide fame later that year by delivering an assembly with my pal Daryl. The headmaster’s bargain to the Fourth Year was he’d play Status Quo in assembly if SOMEONE would stand up and explain what all the FUSS was about. We sealed the deal, quivering on the school stage with a stilted rundown of 10 top facts about the Quo gleaned from the1979 Top of the Pops Annual. We sat down smugly – mission accomplished – while the music teacher played the opening bars of (I think) Caroline on the record player. If I’d expected the hall to explode in a frenzy of headbanging I was sadly disappointed. My peers sat in rows, as stone faced as they were in any assembly, my reputation as a shameless attention whore confirmed.
I didn’t give Quo much thought after that — although they cropped up with cheerful regularity on my playlists – until 40 years later stuck at home with an unhappy line-backer and the prospect of orphanhood, when I watched a three hour documentary – Hello Quo . It takes the viewers on a journey from 1962 South London school kids to national treasures, via Butlins, cocaine addiction, divorces, double denim, Live Aid, break ups, reunions and heart attacks. It took me back. Most of my contemporaries reference punk as their coming of age era, but my rite of passage was deeply mainstream. For most of my adolescence, my chief goal was to marry John Travolta (still would, to be fair). Yes, I liked the Police but they looked too serious; I didn’t get Siouxie and if I’m going to be honest, to my mind, the Sex Pistols took it too far. All that spitting. Every now and again, Status Quo would turn up on Top of the Pops and Rick Partfitt’s shirt, unbuttoned to the waist and mane of Viking locks were enough to push dreams of dancing up the aisle with John Travolta to one side for a moment. Then there was Francis Rossi, the pony tailed cabin boy all grown up with a glint in his eye and a lass in every port. They were thrilling.
But they are so British. So blokey. So straight: sledgehammer chords and one syllable lyrics. And yet – that (and I’m sorry to use this word – but nothing else will do) they have that bromantic chemistry that worked for Bowie and Ronson, Pete and Carl, Gerard Way and Frank Iero and countless other lead singers and guitarists … Watch a YouTube video from one of their 70s hits, where Francis swings his waist long hair aside and flashes a smile at Rick; their schtick during Roll Over Lay Down where they meet stage right to whisper and chuckle together before parting to explode into the final chorus; the interviews where they finish each other’s sentences – or where one is sulking with the other – and you’ll see the kind of sexual tension Torville and Dean would have sold their souls for.
My friend Sarah and my daughter Jessie openly object to my deep love for Quo. Jessie considers it her moral duty to stop Alexa dead in her tracks if Roll Over Lay Down comes up on shuffle. But there’s something primal about my reaction to those mid 70s hits. As the intro of ROLD progresses to the bluesy chorus – before a word is sung – my hypothalamus floods dopamine into my system in the same way the bars of a hymn might comfort a nun. This goes against every ideological cell in my body. I mean – come on – three imperative verbs for a kick off ‘roll over, lay down and let me in’. Yet even though it’s hardly the most sophisticated foreplay, the warm bed, the tired grubby bloke back from a gig expecting a quick shag for the least effort, still kind of appeals even to this most hardened 80s feminist.
They met at Butlins in the 60s – the month I was born: Ricky was in cabaret with identical twin girls he was – depending whose version you believe – knocking off at one point or another. Francis was an intense mod and they struck up a partnership – marriage they called it – that lasted until Rick in 2016. I’d love to write that story for one of those three part biopics BBC Four do so well. Frame and Ricky: A Love Story.
I have sometimes wondered if my Quo Obsession (or Quobession … I know … sorry) is a form of displaced grief. To tell you the truth, there were times when I’ve felt more bereft at missing out on a fling with the late Mr Parfitt (his chat up line was ‘my name’s Dick, do you like it?’ I mean, what girl could resist?) than the death of my own parents. It’s certainly a wallow in nostalgia when life seemed simpler. Whatever it is, it’s a puzzle. I need to get cracking on my screen play and even if it never comes to anything (mind you, I bet the writers of Bohemian Rhapsody though the same …) it might provide a little therapy.
sezl: 50 + 