Face the Music : 70 second read by Farriz Mashudi 04/07/2020
The Beatles are better than the Bay City Rollers.
I know that. Only, this was the hole I’d dug myself into. No way Sandra could know she was right. Ever.
Vicky’s big sister, five years older than us, whom we hated with all our guts — was still right, however, even if the ‘Fab Four’ was more mainstream than we liked. The way Sandra lorded her Beatles records over us, it was all Vicky and I could do to stand by our dumb-looking Scots. Like them, we dared to be different.
But, “HELP!” our big round eyes screamed in secret, if only to each other. Two record purchases in, at eight-and-a-half, we’d already out-grown them. Deep down we knew they were lame. The tartan dungarees; shoulder-length mullets in ginger, brown and blonde; the gormless smiles. It made no sense, my father, said.
A Glen Campbell aficionado, he would know.
But once you’d chosen your side, you stuck by it, whatever the music. What was the point of sides, otherwise?
It was soon after Julie and her family moved out that the Chilean, Picarts arrived. Besides Vicky, Sandra and their mother — their father, when he wasn’t studying, and maybe even when he was, thickly bearded, was a political activist.
“Here, in Canada we have asylum,” Sandra said. That explained the red Che Guevara T’s. My neighbour Robert’s was black. He’d pay me to water the tomato plants growing on his porch, the ones with the same leaves as marijuana. But they weren’t, were they?
‘Stupid’ and ‘Silly’, Sandra would call us. So, we clung to the Rollers with greater conviction, wishing all the while we could tell her how much we loved the pretty charm bracelet she got with her period. Sounding like the end of a sentence, the transition and trinket that came with it even made us look forward a little to growing up.
Till then, it was the Bay City Rollers.