Echoes of nostalgia: Remembering singers Vera Lynn and Max Bygraves
Feeling a touch nostalgic one evening last week, I put on an old CD and listened once again to an iconic voice from the distant past which was once held in great affection by the people of that era and inspired hundreds and thousands of World War 2 servicemen and women as they went into battle.
That pure and patriotic voice belonged to the incomparable Vera Lynn. When she died at home in London at the age of 103 a few years ago, tributes, led by Queen Elizabeth and the British royal family poured in from all around the world.
Had you to ask anyone of the younger generation today what they know of Lynn you would probably get a blank stare and a shrug of the shoulders. That would be perfectly natural as she was a part of another era.
In fact, go to any church bazaar or charity shop these days and you will find any number of old vinyl records and tatty old tapes of her recordings.
But to the diminishing number of WW 2 veterans and to people who lived in that era, Lynn was a symbol of hope and encouragement during the dark days of the war and her passing would have brought great grief.
I clearly remember Joyce Greig, wife of my friend and predecessor, Sandy Greig, former editor of The Rep in Queenstown (now Komani) telling me, that as a young bomber command airman who flew more than 28 missions over Nazi Germany before he was 21, Sandy would recite in his mind those lilting and beautiful inspirational words of her most famous song: “We’ll meet again, don ’ t know where, don ’ t know when but I know we’ll meet again some sunny day …” before his giant Lancaster Bomber and their brave and youthful crew took to the pre-dawn skies to engage the enemy, not knowing if they would ever see England or their loved ones again.
Among those who were saddened by the demise of this great war-time patriot are my English wife Naomi and I, who were children of war-time parents. Both of us, now married 60 years, were early teenagers in those turbulent years and well remember the uplifting songs.
When the mood takes us, we still listen to old Lynn tapes in the solitude of our little flat at Berea Gardens, and permit ourselves a brief wallow in nostalgia!
Another of our favourite entertainers was the wonderful Max Bygraves. This beloved British artist passed away in of all places, the Australian Gold Coast, where he lived the last years of his life. He was 89.
Many older East Londoners will remember the occasion, 60 years ago, when Bygraves performed to a packed Colosseum Theatre in Caxton Street.
A line in one of the numbers he belted out that evening asked “will you still need me, will you still feed me when I’m 64!”
Sixty-four? Not very old by today’s standards but an age which young people in the audience on that long-ago evening would probably have considered very old indeed.
I read a recent survey which revealed the average person wants to live to 83 and that a quarter of us wouldn’t mind hanging on until 100.
About 25 years ago, British playwright Alan Bennett, in his play, An Englishman Abroad, wrote: “If you live to be 90 and can still eat a boiled egg, they think you deserve the Nobel Prize.” Today he might want to increase the target and set a more demanding challenge!
I would like to see a survey on a related subject: at what age do people start reading the obituaries in their newspapers first? I reached that landmark a few years back — not only to check if any old friends or acquaintances had recently shuffled off but also to look at the ages achieved by the departed and speculate on how much longer I might expect for myself.
Advances in medicine, of course, are a major factor and various triumphs in the careers of my now wide-spread family help keep a spring in my step but would I like to live as long as 100? I think not.
Another old saying today’s youngsters might like to keep in mind is: “Don’t mock old age, it’s a privilege given to very few.”