Distant Voices, Still Lives

Sailing on no honeymoon

Just separate chairs in separate rooms
Jesus, please
Make us happy sometimes
No more shout
No more fight
Family life

It's interesting how arrested many of us are by the Blue Nile song 'Family Life'. I have always thought that it was something to do with the way that singer Paul Buchanan tremulously presents us with shards of personal memory that resonate as universal recognition. Everyone's family life is different, but we all hold moments of collective clan memory that equate to personal pain. That tussle to retain and release what pleases or injures is a mournful shuffle towards something... less. Even if it is a memory full of emptiness - that clumsy dance with the 'everyday' - the cruelties stay with us as a part of our personal history. Of course there's beauty too, but that is often ephemeral, idealised in retrospect. Scars are held as badges of family honour, a kinship of ritual that ties and binds. It's a strange loyalty that we have to the overwhelming burden of a past imperfect. Our fragility and strength are often bequeathed to us by a patriarchal parent: we remain tethered to, and haunted by the sound of their voices. Our past becomes us, as our past becomes us...

Sorry to rattle on but... last night I watched 'Distant Voices, Still Lives', Terence Davies' impressionistic take on a working-class family's life in 1940s and 1950s Liverpool. It is based on Davies's family and is chillingly familiar. Everyone is hopeful for 'happier', but are happy with their lot. The tableau is masterfully held together by music: old familiar tunes, offered as mantras to soundtrack the misery and mirth. I reckon that Paul Buchanan might have watched it before penning his masterpiece. Give it a go: you'll know exactly what I mean.