Tracey Thorn is a musician and writer, best known as one half of Everything but the Girl. She writes the fortnightly “Off the Record” column for the New Statesman. Her latest book is Naked at the Albert Hall.
I’m a baby boomer, which means I could easily join in with cynical dismissals of millennials, but I don’t want to. I’m listening to them, and I think they’re great.
Listening to her talk is comforting in itself, I am soothed by her voice in the room.
Struck down with an inevitable flu over the festive period, our writer recounted the books she enjoyed over the past 12 months.
From the Long Players series: writers on their most cherished albums.
In 1976, when I was 14, I “got GORGEOUS pressies – hairdryer, earrings, perfume. Really GREAT day.”
If you’re the right age, these sounds whirl you back in time to those first records you owned.
Glitter appeared, and was thrown in the air, and we made our way to the dancefloor.
On the whole, we’ve been housebound, and by God the house is quiet.
At the foot of the steps is a Hollywood star bearing my name. Well, a Hullywood star.
It’s just the normal midlife cocktail of domestic worries, teenage children and ongoing health issues.