This Kid’s

S1E7

The oblong train threw itself down the tunnel at suffocating, breakneck speeds that seemed to defy reason and yet didn’t feel reasonably fast enough. The heat begged the latter, to be clear. The car was full of people and a thick, hot air that sat with you in the same way as the claustrophobia of news you can’t control. We were all getting where we were going but nobody seemed as happy about it as we should. When a few of us disembarked across the gap we minded and filed onto the escalator disappearing into the network of pipes and dull grays punctuated only by half-sized posters advertising the same twelve performances, medicines, and government notices. The London subway is a classic marvel of transportation that in the summer months ostensibly performs its ambitious function within an underground pizza oven. A convenient alternative to the financial and chronological problems of London traffic combined with the unique opportunity for people to become living Pizookies.

I pulled my in-ear headphones out as the escalator reached its summit and scrambled to ready my pass to allow exit out of the station and onto the sidewalk of suburban London with those I’d very much like to blend in within for a bit. I was in south London, far enough that there wasn’t a tourist in sight - or in any conversation as they tended to be louder than the average Londoner by a large margin. I needed to find my destination without staring at the map on my phone and ideally without talking and giving away that I wasn’t from there. I walked by open ladders of painters, commuters rushing in suits, and tittering children behind a wall in their daycare. About a mile of slight turns and watching for street signs I found the right road and, eventually, the right number of house. It was up for sale and recently renovated, although not so much that it was unrecognizable as a nearly hundred year old row house. It also happened to be where David Bowie was born and spent the first few years of his life. Somehow it had managed to not have a marker or blue circle designation, but sure enough, it was the house. I took a few pictures and a deep breath. Then walked back to the station.

I’d only landed that morning and after dropping my bags proceeded to scratch most of my unplanned to do list off. St Paul’s Cathedral, Tower Bridge, Tower of London (a sort-of tradition to hit on landing days), and Bowie’s birthplace were all lined through now. The Globe was also on that list. Shakespeare’s Globe had been lovingly recreated (and repopulated as it acts as a performing space for both his works and others) nearly 30 years prior. In fact, the last time I was at The Globe, alongside my theatre mentor Joe and other college students for our monthlong excursion to London, we were surrounded by sawdust and construction as it was finishing off the last stages of being (re)built. Returning brought up a few memories and made me thankful for my longtime friendship with the professor who had brought me here. Of the two professors who chaperoned the trip of mostly sophomores and juniors at our small liberal arts college in Virginia, sadly, only Joe had survived. He was and is a relatively calm and studious force in his students and friend’s lives, even in retirement. In 1997 that Joe is largely still the Joe we see thirty years on.

What felt like the longest day ever, no nap, all adrenaline, finally came to a literal rest as I returned to the hotel and was finally able to get in my room. I collapsed on the bed, knowing I shouldn’t try for a nap this late in the day and let my exhaustion carry me to a normal slumber later. Soon. I charged my phone and settled in.

And then I saw the text.

Joe had had a heart attack. Recently got out of surgery. Recovering but… I read and re-read through the lines and felt a sinking in my stomach where the elation surrounding the memories of a trip three decades ago had been. I couldn’t shake the weird timing. I couldn’t not swell with emotion to think this could’ve been a very different text; I chose to be thankful and wrote back and then to him. Sobered and teary eyes carried me to get ready for the rest of the evening, the entire start of my trip now in a very different relief against the setting sun.

The Tale of the Tape: UFO - Strangers In The Night

( Doctor Doctor” first heard at Iron Maiden show in 2013)

I was embarrassingly late to UFO. That’s in my own estimation, as no one probably cares but me when I finally got into them. When I finally discovered them and really dove into their catalogue (and particularly the live shows) I would almost hate-listen, mad at myself for missing so many years having not been able to enjoy them. The first time that I would count truly “hearing” UFO would be in the early aughts when I would explore influences on Iron Maiden’s Steve Harris. Like anyone waiting for an Iron Maiden show you’d be treated to UFO’s “Doctor Doctor” as the song played over the PA before the band would take the stage. I’d do the rabbit hole of all their albums, their lineup changes, and definitely enjoyed and appreciated them. But even with all that respect for their accomplishments and greatness - it’s the live album Strangers In The Night that stuck with me. Like a medal around their neck, Strangers In The Night swings as a representation of a band at its height in a way almost no other live album does. The precession, swagger, and interplay of instruments make for one of those albums that could only have been made exactly when it was by who it was. The song choice, momentum, and punctuation of the beats clearly outlines a band who knew what the hell they were doing even if there’s a hint of excess at the edges that spoke to what was also happening behind the scenes. The remasters since its release (sometimes with baffling choices but largely additive to the legacy) only further spin gold from its straw. Every time I listen to this live record I feel like I’m catching up for lost time on both sides of our equation.