From the moment I heard the strains of “This Is A Low” fade out as the sun went down in Mile End in the summer of 1995, I knew I wanted to make music like that. Well at least try to.
I was a wet behind the ears student and I’d had a very musical upbringing. But a different kind of music. Choirs, orchestras, string quartets, I’d enjoyed them, but this was different. There was something magical and transcendent about the sounds coming from the stage, something more visceral and authentic than any performance I’d ever been involved in, however polished.
For the next 3 years at University, I did nothing about it. I used to regret it. Surely that would have been the ideal time for finding a band to be in. It was the height of Britpop and I was in London.
After University some friends in London invited me to play bass with them in a band they called The Stand. I used an old, beaten-up bass donated to me by a different friend and I only played with them a few times in someone’s garage I think, but I was bitten.
The next few decades I sang and played in various bands. I sang in the first few and then later learnt some rudimental guitar so I could strum along and write my own songs. Some were better than others. One I thought was very good, it burnt brightly but far too briefly, and I still mourn it ending. There were some gigs in pubs, some basic recordings, some awkward auditions, some arguments and I learnt a lot about control and compromise. Most of all, though, there was camaraderie, fun and a sense of achievement.
I got married, I had a son, I got divorced, I turned forty. As I entered middle age it didn’t seem dignified making original music in an unknown band anymore. The people I knew my age still playing gigs were in covers bands, frequently playing at an excellent standard, but playing other people’s music.
I didn’t want to do that. The beauty of creating and expressing original music and emotion was the bug that had bitten me way back at that Mile End Blur gig. But my perception was that many thought a band making original music at a more advanced age was somehow undignified. Or pointless as “you’ll have no chance now of making it”, a view that completely underestimates the power of art and creativity for its own sake.
Then it struck me, as technological progress had democratised music production, why couldn’t I start recording my own songs with some help from musical friends. An iPad was now a powerful recording tool, and I could use it to record and create my own songs. And I could share them with the world, whether it was listening of not.
And The Neighbourhood Association was born.