The bands of the sixties and seventies created the best type of rock n roll. Bright eyed youths collectively transformed into mythical greatness. Young rock gods who looked and played their part. Mysterious and appealing, glorious songs about life and love, sometimes subversive and always enthralling.

The lure of the tour. Exciting new places, fame, money, booze and drugs. Plant with his golden locks, electrifying and howling with presence. The Grace Slick boom or the Jagger walk, presence everything. Mesmerising is Gilmour at Pompeii, blazing guitar and sun, long hair blowing in the breeze. Feeling epitomised by the essence of this musical experimentation.

The sixties began with pop, but ended in full swing. Rock n roll was evolving, with the likes of Howlin’ Wolf or Muddy Waters influencing the headliners. Some evolved by blending all these sounds, graduating away from the pop orientated scene. Whether Sabbath or the Stooges, it was louder, heavier, darker; distortion of old sounds,  rock operas and albums that were an experience. The greats knew how to grab you, and hold you tightly for the ride.

Yet it couldn’t last forever. Many disbanded, some broke, rocked by scandal or lifestyles torn apart by the excess. Creative differences creating divide. Overdoses. Some managed to keep it together but some strayed too far from centre and suddenly the love affair was over.

In the closing chapter, there are Best of albums to fill the void of new material, but they fail to capture a group’s essence, haphazardly flung together and jumping incoherently through eras. The art of the album is found by listening right through on repeat. Zeppelin 1 for pace and roaring rock. For bluesy rock, 2. Early honky tonk Stones, and the rock n roll of later.  Excitement when familiar songs come on the radio, the chorus, rampant musical overture, furious drumming, electric guitar. Rock n roll. Back catalogues a medicine cabinet of mother’s little helpers.

Now, long past their heydays, there is reluctance to reunite. Fogerty, Waters and Plant won’t do it. Some magic is long gone and paths wind differently. The New Wave happened.  A few out there still playing for memories sake. Fleetwood Mac were fabulous, but prime always a tough measure.

What strange beings we are, worshiping them like gods, fevered by our own interests. They’re just human. They bleed, hurt. They’ll always be unreal though,  godlike and untouchable. The band seems to live everything we feel, and want to feel. Being into them brings you close to them, sharing their sweet beat for a few sweet moments of an otherwise dull day.