Memories to Savour, Blog 3 - October 2012

 

MacArthur Park and the loss of innocence.

 

MacArthur's Park is melting in the dark,

All the sweet, green icing flowing down.

Someone left the cake out in the rain,

I don't think that I can take it,

'Cause it took so long to bake it

And I'll never have that recipe again, oh no.

 

It was a great summer, a summer of love. Nubile young women in flower patterned mini-skirts and psychedelic music; it had everything for a young man with testosterone rampaging through his veins. The genius known as George Best had swathed through defenses at Old Trafford throughout the winter and was now cutting a different type of swathe through Manchester’s prettiest in the summer. There was a Labour government and Scot McKenzie was imploring anyone who ventured San Francisco way to ‘make sure you wear some flowers in your hair’.

 

I had recently completed my studies in Leeds and was due to begin a lifetime of secondary school teaching at the end of August. I would normally have laboured through the summer to pay for a vacation, but this time I chose to have two holidays and not work. I borrowed the money from my parents and promised to pay them back from my first few wage packets. A mate and I drove all the way to Yugoslavia in an ancient Hillman Husky van, swam and sun bathed in the Adriatic for a few days and then drove all the way back. Everyone said we were stupid to try such a stunt but we did; for the hell of it.

 

A couple of weeks later, I hired a motor cruiser on the Norfolk Broads with two other mates. Is there anything more English than cruising about on a river? On the winding waterways of this part of East Anglia, we took turns at being captain, mate, deck hand and cook throughout the day, mooring outside delightful riverside pubs in the evening. There we quaffed pints of local ale and were wakened each morning by the water lapping against the side of the boat. On the Friday night we moored up at Great Yarmouth, archetypal English sea side resort with Pleasure Beach, pier, pubs and lots of girls. The Yardbirds, second only to the ‘Stones’ as the top rhythm and blues group of the day, were playing at a massive dance hall on the sea front and we stood close to the stage, savouring every moment of the combined guitar talents of rock legends Jeff Beck and Jimmy Page.

 

Once their set was finished, the disk jockey had all the girls dancing round their handbags to the current Motown magic; the young men covertly eyeing them up from the edge. With ‘Dancing in the street’ blasting out, we could wait no longer and my mate and I asked these two extremely pretty girls for a dance. On closer inspection, they were even classier than we thought and because I fully expected to be blown out after one song, I concentrated on perfecting my steps. Now I was to dancing what Eddie ‘the Eagle’ Edwards became to ski jumping but to our amazement, the girls did not pick up their handbags at the conclusion of the Martha Reeves ditty. I assumed that she must have been impressed and therefore concentrated even more on my footwork through the opening bars of ‘The Happening’. Suddenly as Diana Ross sang ‘….Hey life, look at me……..’ this lovely girl edged closer and whispered in my ear.

 

“You don’t need to concentrate so hard on dancing you know. Just relax and enjoy yourself.”

 

Suddenly the clouds of caution cleared and we chatted and laughed as we danced. I took her to the bar and ordered a Pepsi and a pint of Red Barrel. We danced some more and suddenly the lights lowered, the music slowed and we just seemed to drift into each other’s arms. Richard Harris’ ‘MacArthur Park’ it was and we smooched away in that cavernous dance hall, scarcely moving a foot from where we started.

 

The girls were sisters and as they lived barely a half mile from the sea-front, we walked them home. My mate and the sister collared the front door step, we leant against the front gate post, alternately kissing and giggling. Far too soon, sister said that she was working in the morning and that was that. We floated back to the boat and twenty four hours later we were back in Lancashire. We never exchanged telephone numbers or addresses. I cannot remember her name and have never seen her since, but it scarcely seemed to matter because it was that sort of summer. There were no tomorrows, no yesterdays, just living for the day.

 

MacArthur Park was a strange song. It was seven minutes long in an era when singles rarely stretched to three. Jimmy Webb had written it in a neo- classical style as part of a ‘cantata’ and the tune was so melodic. The words were a different matter altogether, although the chorus with the line ‘…..someone left the cake out in the rain….’ will be remembered forever by those who lived through that time. Back in the sixties, no-one really understood the meaning of the lyrics. They were considered to be typical ‘mumbo-jumbo’ drug related words which were prevalent in that period although Webb always said that it was an autobiographical love song about a girl whom he loved and lost in the L.A. park of that name. The strangest decision of all was the choice of singer. Richard Harris was a famous film star of the day, but he could not sing. Even Rolf Harris would have been a better choice. Nonetheless, its haunting melody and metaphor-laden lyrics sent it racing to the top of the charts and Donna Summers’ disco version was a Stateside number one a decade later.

 

I do not believe that it matters if we fail to understand what the composer is trying to say in a song or poem. What is more important is what they mean to us….personally. There are numerous examples of songs which have been interpreted in different ways. Perhaps the best example of all is ‘Jerusalem’. The words were composed by William Blake in 1808 and later set to music by Hubert Parry in 1916. Blake was a believer in sexual equality and free love and there is a school of thought that claims the words to be a celebration of sexual freedom. It has since been interpreted as a criticism of the Industrial Revolution and of the Church of England, has been sung in churches throughout the land to celebrate marriages up to royal level, has been the anthem of the English Rugby Union team and was sung at the opening ceremony of the London 2012 Olympics. It has links with the gay community, was the battle song of the suffragettes and is considered to be a celebration of all that is English. The Women’s Institute sings it at every meeting; it is sung with gusto at the Labour party conference and the line ‘…bring me my chariot of fire….’ was used in the title of perhaps the most successful sporting film ever.

 

You will not find a more mixed bag than that and I make no apologies for having my own interpretation of MacArthur Park. For me it is about the end of your age of innocence; the point in your life when all that was easy, all that was fresh, all that was young comes to an end. From that moment on, no matter how successful you may be, you will never re-create it. The cake has melted, the recipe has disappeared forever.

 

In many respects, my age of innocence had long passed before the summer of love. I did however still have that freedom to generally do as I wanted. I had few responsibilities, but all that was coming to an end. Soon I was to be responsible for the welfare of classes of kids, for the management of my money, for the way I behaved, for the example I had to set. Before, I could be silly, I could be stupid. That was the real age of innocence, when nothing really mattered, when there was nothing to bother about.

 

All of which leads to several interesting questions. Does everyone have an age where they lose their innocence? Some would claim that there are those in society who are actually born evil but such a debate is far too complex for a simple blog. Fortunately for the greater majority, the final loss of innocence is simply a stage through which we have to pass and it is just a matter of when. Does innocence end when you tell your first lie, first defy or deceive your parents, hit someone without due cause? Or can it be linked to your first fumbling attempt at the sexual act or your first taste of forbidden fruit? Is it connected with the onset of responsibility, with starting work, starting a serious relationship or starting a family? Most interesting of all is when do you think you lost your innocence?

 

It is a fascinating notion for you to ponder on. There will be much to think back over, although the exact time may be impossible to locate. It may take an age to come to a definitive answer, but of one thing I am certain. That final kiss on a Norfolk gate post with all the symbolism of MacArthur Park whirling round my head was, in retrospect, far more important than I thought. It was my last embrace as an innocent man.

 

M J Hodkinson