A stretch of coastline, a huge storm and eight pieces of string.
It begins in October 1979 when, over two consecutive nights, I went to a concert by ex-Genesis guitarist Steve Hackett in Bradford and then, the following evening, saw Supertramp playing at Wembley Arena in London.
In many ways, this is the archetypal, the original elephant. Not because of its age or the length of time that I’ve had it but because of its provenance.
As every fan knows, the primary function of the World Cup is to facilitate the filling in of the wall chart.
The whole rationale of the white elephant is that it should be utterly useless. Venerated, perhaps, but in practical terms a burdensome extravagance designed to ruin the recipient.
Endless renewal is the perpetual motor of rock and roll. Always has been, always will. Musical genres come and go, bands change direction, reinvent themselves for better or worse.
I don’t know how many USB drives I’ve acquired, lost, borrowed or given away. They rattle around in drawers and lie hidden at the bottom of bags.
The young man in the sweatshirt and grubby blue jeans stands out amidst the genteel splendour of the opera house, an ugly intrusion like a foul weed in a bed of delicate perennials.