I once heard a quote, “a person does not truly die until the last person who knew them, to speak their name, also dies.” I find much beauty and poignancy in such an observation. It is one that gives context and comfort during those periods when context and comfort are not in abundance. It is within this context that I write a small piece on 3rd May, each year, for my parents. During the final years of their lives, I took regular photographs of my parents so I could share them with their grandchildren, great-grandchild and wider family. Stored securely on a memory stick on this day I take that memory stick out, select a photograph and write a little something. Initially on closed social media platforms like FaceBook and more lately on open media like this from last year. This photograph was taken a couple of weeks before Mum’s health deteriorated rapidly over a very short period of time.
They had a routine, which generally consisted of them living separate lives during the day with occasional chats as one of them would make a pot of tea or meal. Dad, in the front room with his latest model building project. Mum, in the back room, reading and watching the latest soap. Pet dog seeking attention from either one of them. Each evening they would share their meal, cuddle up, natter and watch TV.
In my final year with them, I got the opportunity to hug them, share stories, tell them how much I loved them, explain to them how proud I am to be their son. As a family, to express in their later years that it was an honour to care for them. This became the foundation for coming to terms with not having them physically in our lives. It’s the small stories that become important. My dad asking for, “gingersnap biscuits to be put in his pocket when we put him in his box.” My mum reminding us, “make sure your dad gets his meals” during last days she was able to communicate. The search for my mum false teeth after she passed away and then to find her gnashers many months afterwards in the back of my car without any rational reason why they should have been there. I’m also happy to report that nothing gives me more satisfaction than hearing their grandchildren and great-grandchildren share these small anecdotes.
30 minutes mix of digitally transferred phonograph records from the age of 78rpm, which changed the face of music forever and ushered in the age of rock n roll. Things would never be the same again with the exception that as then and as today the musician gets ripped off. Expect the odd crackle, pop and the unexpected. For those who went before and to those who stand on their shoulders. I salute you.
I recently stumbled upon a dusty box of old cassette tapes—handcrafted mixtapes I either recorded myself or swapped with friends back when I was about 16 or 17, sometime between 1977 and 1979. Now carefully digitized and uploaded here, these tapes open a raw, authentic window into the gritty DIY punk scene of the late 1970s.
The tracks on these recordings have likely been buried in obscurity for decades, featuring a treasure trove of bands from my native north-east — most of whom I was lucky enough to see live in those chaotic, electric days. When better-known groups appear, I’ve deliberately picked lesser-known cuts to keep the spirit underground alive.
As you might expect, the sound quality is a little rough around the edges—authentic tape hiss and all—but that’s part of the charm. So buckle up for 45 minutes of unfiltered noise and rebellion, captured at a time when the internet was still a wild dream, and punk was a loud, vivid reality.
Irregular Frequencies 