Mick Fleetwood once said that the first time he saw me walking back from school in Notting Hill Gate he knew I was the girl he was going to marry. We were both sixteen and it was the summer of '64. The first time I saw him play at Brentwood Town Hall, I felt as though I'd been plugged into an electric socket.
John McLaughlin plays the guitar with a fluency of expression rarely seen. Others, like Coltrane and Miles, have possessed this fluency, and like McLaughlin, used it as a way to tap into a spirituality which today eludes most musicians. But what links these musical geniuses is an intensity of self-enquiry borne of a golden era of music.
Serious-minded songwriters have returned. Gone is the foul, metastasising era of Stock Aitken and Waterman and their 'Hit Factory', swept aside at long last by a tide of musicians dedicated to making music of depth that resonates with a music-loving public, a public which is awakening from its own bad dream of botox, gussets and 'Zig-a-zig-ah'.