The Blues

This morning, two things happened that zapped me straight back to my youth.  The radio news screamed this at 8.30 am:

MORE than 30 years after Super Trouper gave them their last No. 1 hit and a decade after turning down a reported $1 billion offer to reunite, it looks more likely than ever ABBA will reform.

Holy Anna’s Blonde Hair, Batman!

Then, opening up an email I found that dad had been playing with his Christmas toy, converting old slides into digital format:

click to enlarge

Growing up in the seventies was all about a mixture of pop musical styles for this Australian.  ABBA was just about to reach its zenith when this pic was taken, I’d estimate.  They won Eurovision in 1974 and without checking the date of the photo, it would have to be circa 1976 or 77.

Growing up in the seventies meant listening to ABBA, Rolling Stones, Sonny and Cher, Carole King, Eagles, Elton John, Wings, Rod Stewart, the Beeeeeeee Geeeeeeees, the disco movement, the scary arrival of Kiss (lol) the onslaught of the punk movement, the end of the sixties tunnel.

Growing up in the seventies meant kids played on equipment without helmets.  There were no soft fall surfaces to cushion the impact, no pigskin gloves to keep palms intact when you (inevitably) fell over your bike handlebars.  There were screenings and stones beneath your feet, and if you were lucky, there might be some asphalt to stop your grazed knees from absorbing all those little bits of dust and debris.

Growing up in the seventies meant kids were seen and not heard.  In our house.  It meant that takeaway nights were usually Friday and involved fish and chips, especially if it was Lent.  Sometimes, you could sit in front of the telly (probably the size of an average microwave) and watch American sitcoms while you ate the fried food from soggy paper.

Growing up in the seventies meant playing with your siblings.  Or kids in your ‘hood, although ‘hood’ really meant the thing at the back of your raincoat that you pulled up so your hair wouldn’t get wet.  You didn’t go on play dates, ever. If you didn’t have anything to do, you’d get given a job, like shining your school shoes or tidying up your room, so you tried never to say ‘I’m bored.’

I often was bored, until I got a new book or pestered someone to play with me.

Invariably, I got sent to my room.  Inevitably, the seventies baby sitting on the swing on the left-hand side missed my company and would implore our parents to release me.  Because she had big eyes and pouty lips and a cute face, they’d agree and we’d start again until one of us cracked it and we’d slap each other.  Someone cried, the other got sent to her room.

Growing up in the seventies meant one big holiday a year, usually to a coastal family hol spot, often with the cars packed to the brim with board games and snorkels and beach towels.

Growing up in the seventies meant weird cars, odd hairstyles, strange sock-and-shoe combinations, stranger shorts and t-shirt tuck ins.

Growing up in the seventies meant no push button phones, no cell phones, no iPods, iPads, iPonies, microwaves, GPS, plasmas (except in your blood, which you spilt when you fell off your swing or your bike) WiiFit, Ninetendo, XBox, laptop, Facebook.  The only Twitter happened in a tree during spring, the only iTouch happened when you were married and allowed to get naked, the only air conditioning came when you opened the car windows.

Alas, your hair would get even more boofy as you cooled.

Growing up in the seventies meant you listened to ABBA on the radio, you couldn’t download their stuff from iTunes, you could preview their latest song or watch concert clips on YouTube.  You sweated on the release of a 12-Inch vinyl LP in an era when that (12-Inch vinyl LP with a hole in the middle) didn’t stand for anything kinkier than an album of songs.

Growing up in the seventies means that I’m getting older, so is my bestie on the swing, our parents, my peers, the girls I went to school with, the members of ABBA … everyone. But it’s okay, because growing up in the seventies means that although there’s a lot of water under that rickety bridge, the folk swimming next to you are along for the waterslide too.

And while they’re around, floating nearby, there’s no better time to grab ‘em than when you’re sinking.

Growing up in the seventies helped to teach me the importance of others sailing similar seas.  I thank them for their lessons.

Random Reads

• June 2, 2011 -- Hungry for Games
• March 25, 2011 -- Cars in Rantsville
• April 23, 2010 -- The Modern Bride’s Handbook – Sporting Glory Edition
• January 19, 2010 -- Apple of My I
• December 27, 2009 -- The Santa Chronicles (aka, Oh, Santa!)