In this time of spring, when God awakes and turns the trees pink, and we start to dream of getting stoned on sunshine, I am always drawn to count myself backwards to the birth of my dreams if only to check how far I have travelled forward on the gravel nature - I can't help but let my mind come to rest at those Council summers, for make no mistake, my dear links, The Style Council were summer just as the teasers, magicians, flirts' and clothes horses of the most admirable kind.
I always associate the Council with the sun and all assorted artefacts precisely because much of the music I was happy to be heard whistling down the strand in bright daylight emanated from their oeuvre and always put a little joie de vivre into my cravat.
Naturally, I was often picked on for my choice of colours and indeed the Council boys and girls - and there were so many of the dear things - were reviled buy the few. But the truth on this patch is that The Style Council were loved by many and that is what counts for not only did they produce music that I still play in the sanctuary of my study when the world closes in and it is time to retreat, but they cheerfully snubbed a smile at their former glories and went their sunny little ways much to the chagrin of the dreamy Oxfam liars.
They wanted the old ways but the Council's answer was simple. -
No, non and Nein, my dear little links, because the bands real war was waged against the lady whose eyes shone with madness and who will soon stand in true judgement of her deeds. The Council hoisted the flag for equality and justice and pointed out - and I think it's rather fashionable now days to do so - that Europe was ours and little island minds had no place in the vast world that ticks over and still fascinates us so.
Indeed this,is the major as to why I left the isles - not long after in fact the sad news of
the Council's demise was relayed to me in Bar Europa by a Kashmir Princess whom I often had to pull a veil over in the heat of the moment. No matter. They came together as friends, put themselves on the map, strived never to cheat their admirers or their myriad chess opponents, fell in love with each other, bore great music and beautiful children, go wedged up and passed a lot of moolah on, turned their frowns upside down and then parted as friends. They were singular in their outlook and angular with their cheekbones but they never lost their dignity.
Indeed. I have to say that the greatest performance I ever saw them give was that of the Royal Albert Hall's in 1989 and before you parlare a parole please check the details of the show - DJ scratching into instruments, House music live onstage for maybe the first time in the country - and you will see why, much to the audience's annoyance, I gave them a standing and still so when that brave night springs to mind.
Naturally, all of us had to move on, all of us who spent time with the band through .records or concertos, and I'm glad to report I think we have all done so with our button downs intact and our Loakes still shining, still pointing forward.
And now the sound of the sea is lapping in my ears and I Musts to return to my other memoirs and think with joy of all the good things that are ours to have. The music business is, like the army, not a job for the pure of the conscious but more often than not light has broken through and lit the path for others.
I am proud to say that I count my dear links The Style Council as a shining
example.
The Cappuccino Kid - Spring of 1998