Peter Sarstedt… ‘Where Do You Go To My Lovely’
Isn’t it fabulous how music fixes time and place – it’s not a question. I remember this record as a young boy living in an English, south coast Devon holiday resort called Torquay. The faded Victorian grandeur of a turn of the last century health spa certainly the type of location Wes Anderson could have done something with.
Listening to and diving into the sophistication of ‘Peter Sarstedt’ song: Where do you go to my lovely’. Thinking of Sophia Loren and taking a girl called Susan for a curry and bottle of Mateus Rose to the Taj Mahal on Abbey Road. Benson & Hedges cigarettes and a diesel train shaped Ronson lighter, swopped at school, in the pocket of a bad lapelled jacket.
The record always reminds me of the apartment of a school friend whose mother worked in a nightclub called the Hideaway. The house was built on the top of a cliff and a huge picture window looked out across the town, the harbour and the crescent shaped Bay.
Bruce Reynolds the Great Train Robber had lived a little further down the road, he’d actually hired a cot from the remnant shop on Market Street during his stay.
That record – that front room, view and the experimental snogging of prepubescent’s in tight Levis’ now forever enmeshed with Marlene Dietrich, the haut couture of Balmain and exotic locations such as Boulevard St Michel.
…And you wonder – are the children still begging in rags on the back streets of Naples?