This begins on a Virgin Train, sometime mid 2011. Window seat. Liverpool Lime Street to London Euston. Two hours and thirteen minutes with no changes, accompanied only by my ever present 80GB iPod Classic and a smartphone. Cliff Richard’s Wired for Sound has just shuffled into my ears, and the train departs. Say what? Cliff Richard’s Wired for Sound? Shuffled into my ears? Who am I kidding? I chose to listen to Cliff, and I’ll defend this record to the hilt. Put simply; Wired for Sound is a beast. A well-mannered, god-loving, roller-skating beast, but a beast nonetheless.
Wired for Sound is a paean to the conduit of music. A celebration of car stereos and portable cassette players. Let’s face it. Cliff loves music just the same as you do. And he’s fucking chuffed to bits that he doesn’t have to wait till he gets home to get his fix. In a pre mp3 age it must have been a wonder to get your mitts on your first Sony Walkman. I certainly remember mine. Portable music, in your hand, “out on the street you know.” Oh yes.
So what’s Cliff been listening too, I hear you ask? Only a bit of Blondie, The Cars and The Knack I reckon. And you know what? It suits him. New Wave is all over Wired for Sound. Sure, it’s watered down and a coupla years too late, but Cliff doesn’t care. Because music can excite. It can unite. It can be the impetus for friendship, for love. If “love means you must like what I like…my music is dynamite.” Cliff’s not talking any shit. Many a time I’ve bonded through music and I guess that’s where I’m going with this…
Wired for Sound; armed with not just a solitary TDK-90 in my pocket, but with my whole sodding record collection. More than 30 years since Cliff first felt “so ecstatic.” I’m about to unashamedly share my thoughts on what’s going on between my ears. Because it’s music I’ve found, and I’m wired for sound.