By Joe Jackson
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Extra resources for A Cure for Gravity: A Musical Pilgrimage
Navy Days was by far the most colodul thing that happened in Portsmouth. Once a year, the navy would celebrate its preeminence in the town, fly flags from every mast and turret, and invite the public to damber all over its ships. It was a hot summer day, the ice-cream vans were doing record business, and the whole town, the whole world, was happy. ed to descend into the bowels of a baalesMp. I laull;fied at rhe rchin kids who used to roll araund in the firarbor mud at low tide and dive for pennies we threw from the pier.
The boss was a thuggish, piggy-eyed man with gseasy Mack hair. Most of the hair was held in place by Bylcreern; a few strands escaped to hang over a flushed and bloated face. He looked as though his head had been boiled. He also had that way of looking at you that seems to dare you to do something wrong, just so he can show you what would happen. So I marched in and out of the storeroom, taking things off shelves and putting them back agah, thhbng that sureIy this was all same sort of hoax, I was sacked anyway, again without an explanation.
J. " I'd been too p u n g to see them play, but the kind of music they were playing was all around me, once I started to notice it. m e r e were the Beatles, of course, but at the time I made no particular distinction between them and the Merseybeats, or the Swinging Blue Jeans, or Bdy J. Kramer and the Dakotas. It was all clanging guitars, sizzling cymbals, and raw voices. I sat on the floor in my grandparents' house. The floor sloped alarmirrgly; so much so chat the rugs would crumple and have to be straightened out at the end of each day.