There is no doubt that the heady combination of music and driving can embed memories which are not easily put away.
Just a few minutes ago, a song came on the radio – ‘Where the Streets Have no Name’ by U2.
A good song, a long guitar intro, a catchy Edge riff, lively all-in-all.
But for me… well, it never fails to transport me. Back to 1991 Kensington, London W8.
Unable to get employment in my chosen profession after a year away in Australia, I went working as a builder’s labourer on an office-refurbishment project. Our mission was to rip out the third floor and put it back in differently.
It was a Saturday afternoon and me and the three other guys had worked hard, beating down plasterboard stud partitions with sledge hammers. Dusty, blister-inducing work.
We should have gone on until five but the boss had headed for Romford so we packed it up at 3.30.
I was heading for High Street Kensington tube to go home when Terry offered me a lift.
The other three were heading east and they could drop me off easy at Hyde Park Corner.
We piled in the car, me in the back, turned on to High Street and off down past the Albert Hall, Hyde Park sitting airy on the opposite side.
And then the radio came on and that U2 song was just starting and the lights were all green in front of us and all the Saturday-afternoon shopping people looked so good.
We cruised down along the park, sun shining, windows open. A hard days work done, money in pocket, and the prospect of Saturday night in London stretched out promisingly before us. And we smiled.
And that was it.
I’m sure they dropped me at the station. I’m sure I got home, showered and ate. But I don’t know.
All I know is the song and the drive and the feeling.
And it comes back every time I hear the song.
I guess it always will.
Just a few minutes ago, a song came on the radio – ‘Where the Streets Have no Name’ by U2.
A good song, a long guitar intro, a catchy Edge riff, lively all-in-all.
But for me… well, it never fails to transport me. Back to 1991 Kensington, London W8.
Unable to get employment in my chosen profession after a year away in Australia, I went working as a builder’s labourer on an office-refurbishment project. Our mission was to rip out the third floor and put it back in differently.
It was a Saturday afternoon and me and the three other guys had worked hard, beating down plasterboard stud partitions with sledge hammers. Dusty, blister-inducing work.
We should have gone on until five but the boss had headed for Romford so we packed it up at 3.30.
I was heading for High Street Kensington tube to go home when Terry offered me a lift.
The other three were heading east and they could drop me off easy at Hyde Park Corner.
We piled in the car, me in the back, turned on to High Street and off down past the Albert Hall, Hyde Park sitting airy on the opposite side.
And then the radio came on and that U2 song was just starting and the lights were all green in front of us and all the Saturday-afternoon shopping people looked so good.
We cruised down along the park, sun shining, windows open. A hard days work done, money in pocket, and the prospect of Saturday night in London stretched out promisingly before us. And we smiled.
And that was it.
I’m sure they dropped me at the station. I’m sure I got home, showered and ate. But I don’t know.
All I know is the song and the drive and the feeling.
And it comes back every time I hear the song.
I guess it always will.