When the World Stops and the Soul Starts
There's a specific kind of feeling you only get when you hear a proper soul record for the first time. Not the "soul-inspired" stuff you hear in a supermarket or a car commercial, but the real, raw, "I've-been-through-the-ringer" kind of soul. I'm talking Aretha, Tina, the stuff that makes your chest feel tight just listening to it.
I spent a fair bit of time singing this stuff back when I was a trouper at Parkdean. Now, if you've never worked the holiday park circuit, imagine a lot of sequins, a lot of lukewarm tea, and a crowd that's mostly just waiting for the bingo to start. But when I got into those songs? The sequins didn't matter. The bingo didn't matter. It was just me and the music.
For me, soul music isn't just about the voice; it's about the survival.
Being a 28-year-old in this country, especially when you're disabled and you've spent half your life arguing with people at the Job Centre who wouldn't know "capability" if it hit them in the face, you learn a thing or two about struggle. You learn that the system is designed to make you feel small.
But then you put on a track by Aretha Franklin and suddenly you're not small. You're huge. You're a powerhouse. You're someone who deserves to be heard.
That's why I love the old records. They don't pretend everything is fine. They don't use "wellness" words or tell you to "just keep positive." They scream. They cry. They moan. They tell the truth about how hard it is to keep your head up when the world is trying to push you down.
Whether I'm leaning on Pete and Repeat just to get across the room, or I'm standing on a stage in a tacky outfit, that music is the bridge. It connects the girl from the estate to the legends of the 60s and 70s, reminding me that being "broken" is actually where the music comes from.
If you're feeling like the world's a bit too much today, do yourself a favour. Bin the pop hits for twenty minutes. Find something with a bit of grit in the vocals and a bassline that hits you in the gut. Let it roar for you.
A bit of a tribute to the powerhouses. Because sometimes you don't need a therapist; you just need a woman with a big voice and a lot of pain to sing it out for you.