I’m walking through Leicester Square and there’s a man singing “Wonderwall”. Well, I mean of course there is – somewhere, there is always a man singing “Wonderwall”. It’s just a law of nature. Inevitably though it sets off thoughts in my head about the current Oasis reunion, and I drift into a reverie about which bands I’d like to see re-unite. Who, I ask myself, would get me sitting at my laptop at 9am, happy to spend the day trying to part with 500 quid for a ticket?
I spin backwards in time, to my teenage years, when I went to more gigs than in all the decades since, and I picture myself in the crowd at the Hemel Hempstead Pavilion, cigarette in hand, dancing in front of the stage to Ian Dury and the Blockheads, or the Specials, or Buzzcocks. Or I’m in Victoria Park gazing at the Clash, and X-Ray Spex. This happy daydream hits a brick wall rather sharply when I note that all these people are dead, for heaven’s sake. Well, not all, but many of the key players; my beloved favourites.
So many losses from that generation – Ian Dury, Terry Hall, Pete Shelley, Joe Strummer, Poly Styrene – and that’s before you even get to Ian Curtis, and Ari Up from the Slits, and Shane MacGowan. This won’t do at all, I think. It’s shocking, and it stops me in my tracks.
David Hepworth has just published a book entitled Hope I Get Old Before I Die: Why Rock Stars Never Retire, which discusses the seemingly never-ending careers of the musical generation just before mine. I think of the way in which the Stones, Dylan, McCartney and Neil Young are all still going strong, and it doesn’t seem fair. Where are my youthful heroes, I ask forlornly, and why are they all dead, and why is this bloke still singing “Wonderwall”? Is he just trying to depress me further?
It’s his fault I’m having this train of thought, and I’m going to stop right now. The only reason I’m in Leicester Square at all is to come and see some Jean Cocteau murals. I discovered them recently, thanks to my friend Carol Morley, who brought me to the church of Notre Dame de France in Leicester Place. After being badly bombed during the Second World War, it underwent major restoration, though it’s been a church since the mid-19th century. In 1959 Jean Cocteau painted his murals, depicting the Annunciation, Crucifixion and Assumption.
They are beautiful, as is the whole church, flooded with light from above, and providing a serene sanctuary from the urban madness just outside its doors. It sometimes seems incredible that such places survive within the ever-expanding temple of capitalism that is the modern city. When Carol and I visited we were moved to talk in whispers as we viewed the artworks – the peace of the space seeming to demand that level of respect. Although the church is also a sanctuary for those who might otherwise be sleeping on the streets, and one of them loudly farted while we were delicately whispering, so I suppose there’s a limit to how reverential one needs to be.
I was also amused by the fact that a wooden board painted by Cocteau has been removed from its original location and placed on a side wall. A note beside it remarks drily that it had been covering up a mosaic by the artist Boris Anrep, who had not taken kindly to having his mosaic covered, hence the removal. I loved the hint of artistic waspishness this seemed to describe. I think I would happily read a novel set in late-1950s London in which Cocteau is smoking and painting his murals, while conducting an intense rivalry with another artist.
Anyway, here I am today to revisit the church and its lovely artworks. And perhaps to seek solace. As I gratefully escape the endless choruses of “Wonderwall”, I arrive at the church doors, only to find them locked. “Closed on Tuesdays” says the sign. Looking up at the sky, which is starting to rain, I think – someone’s got it in for me.
[See also: Long-term illness is not a battle to be “won” – it’s a weight to carry forever]
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