A Lake and a Troika

December 8, 2024

It is 1975. I am a teenager, listening for the first time to a protest song by Greg Lake. The tune mesmerises me, the riff stiffens the hairs on the nape of my neck. I want to hear it over and over, but I don’t get pocket money: I just have to hope they play it again on Top of the Pops.

For two years I hum that melody.

Then my brother, who has left home and now has a wage, tracks down the single of I believe in Father Christmas, and presents it to me with a Biba poster as my Christmas present. Finally, I get to wear it out with playing.

Two more years pass and I leave home. I, too, have a wage. By now I’ve learnt the riff from that song has its origins in classical music, but I don’t know what or by who.

A year later I discover a classical record store in Muswell Hill and, badly but hopefully, hum the tune to the old gentleman behind the counter.

‘Prokoviev,’ he says, and hands me Lieutenant Kije. This, too, gets played until scratches and time make it obsolete.

It is nearly fifty years later. And the sound of those sleigh-bells, heralding the nearness of the troika, still makes me to pause, close my eyes, and remember hearing them for the first time.

And if Christmas is a time for reflection and gratitude, then I am thankful for having a brother who knew what would make me happy, even if he had to wait a few years to do it. And for an old man in a shop who could understand my mumbling.

This is a link to Greg Lake’s I believe in Father Christmas.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yfY4b1NszpY

And this is to the Prokofiev piece.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7GUzJ7fQBtg

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Encore this post!

💬 Respond

Beverley Dalton

I was always the kid sent to the back of the class for talking too much. But all that constant chatter was merely word-practice, it seems, and my loquacity was a great grounding for being a writer.
The only teacher who never banished me to the back was himself a writer. He used my name as a character in his first book. This was a good omen, I feel.
Now I’m writing a memoir of my vagabond years, spent living full-time in an old, American motorhome. And I’ve discovered my writing voice means I’m actually the secret love-child of Bill Bryson and Bridget Jones.
Well, why not? Somebody should be.