This Little Girl by Gary US Bonds
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Hugh Jones
East Oxford, England, New Year’s Eve 1985
In east Oxford, well away from the stone walls and dreaming spires of the ancient university colleges ordinary people lived in ordinary houses on ordinary streets. Even the pubs were ordinary and uninviting.
Our house there, in unremarkable Percy Street, was at the end of a long terrace; two up, two down and a small garden at the rear. Suzanne, a book editor at Oxford University Press, owned the house and her housemate was me, then working on Oxford’s premier free newspaper, the Oxford Star.
The New Year’s Eve party was something of a last-minute affair, organized when we discovered nobody was going to invite us out. Our friend Steve was responsible for the music, seeing as he was a musician of some talent and writer of the Oxford Star’s music column Rock Star (his own title). Steve hailed from remote and tiny Guernsey and had come to Oxford to experience the big smoke.
This was the height of Thatcher’s Britain. Unemployed miners filled dole queues, welfare was under attack, Northern Ireland was ablaze, but we figured the time was right for a party.
Steve had a huge stack of albums sent to him during the year by record companies keen for even the briefest of mentions in his column. The two of us recorded a mix tape of dance tracks onto audio cassettes.
His favourite band at the time was Level 42, while I insisted on a fair representation from Dire Straits and Eric Clapton. We mined his collection of Genesis, David Bowie and The Police, and even managed a track or two from The Band.
One album Steve had collected was Dedication by a bloke we knew nothing about called Gary U.S. Bonds. Odd name, we agreed, but the point of interest was that much of Dedication had been either written or produced by Bruce Springsteen, somebody we knew pretty much everything about. The Boss had been barnstorming across the world that year promoting Born in the USA and Steve and I were complete believers. If Bruce thought Gary U.S. Bonds was ok, then so did we.
Well before midnight our little house was full. People were dancing in an area little bigger than a billiard table. The temperature outside was barely above freezing yet a thoughtful partygoer had opened wide the front window. Music engulfed the street, empty bottles were being carefully thrown into the bushes, late arrivals were being welcomed in across the ledge.
The track we chose to record from Dedication was This Little Girl. Its bouncy beat became the soundtrack to our party:
Here she comes, walking down the street
You know she's walking just like she's walking to come and see
Oh she's so young
And she's so fine
I know what's on your mind, know what you want to do
But if you mess with her, I'm gonna mess with you
You better watch your step, you better stay in line …
It must have been played dozens of times as frenzied dancers fiddled with the stereo to rewind the cassette. It stirred the feet like nothing else and the words were easy to learn and sing. Loud. Very loud.
This little girl is mine
Oh this little girl is mine
Oh this little girl
This little girl
This little girl is mine
So frenzied was the atmosphere, midnight came and went without Auld Lang Syne or champagne toasts. Sometime around 3am guests from another party several streets away arrived to join us. They were colleagues who had declined our invitation for a more formal NYE function, but soon they had their shoes off and were dancing to Gary.
When I finished up sometime after 4am the music was still cranking and people were still dancing. I suspect our neighbours gave thanks for their double glazing.
Hours later, when cleaning up, we fired up the stereo but our party cassette had died. Wound and rewound, the thin brown tape had reached breaking point. Sadly, we consigned it to the pile of streamers, party poppers and plastic cups now filling our bin. RIP.
Steve gave me his copy of Dedication after the party but somewhere along the line it just disappeared. Steve returned to Guernsey and went into public relations, starting what has become a hugely successful PR company. I left Oxford for the Middle East once the weather warmed up and Suzanne sold the house. We see one another occasionally and reminisce about that triumphant New Year’s Eve bash, the likes of which neither of us have repeated.
Hugh Jones is an experienced media manager and journalist. He worked for News Limited in Australia for more than 20 years in a wide variety of editorial roles, including as a newspaper editor.
East Oxford, England, New Year’s Eve 1985
In east Oxford, well away from the stone walls and dreaming spires of the ancient university colleges ordinary people lived in ordinary houses on ordinary streets. Even the pubs were ordinary and uninviting.
Our house there, in unremarkable Percy Street, was at the end of a long terrace; two up, two down and a small garden at the rear. Suzanne, a book editor at Oxford University Press, owned the house and her housemate was me, then working on Oxford’s premier free newspaper, the Oxford Star.
The New Year’s Eve party was something of a last-minute affair, organized when we discovered nobody was going to invite us out. Our friend Steve was responsible for the music, seeing as he was a musician of some talent and writer of the Oxford Star’s music column Rock Star (his own title). Steve hailed from remote and tiny Guernsey and had come to Oxford to experience the big smoke.
This was the height of Thatcher’s Britain. Unemployed miners filled dole queues, welfare was under attack, Northern Ireland was ablaze, but we figured the time was right for a party.
Steve had a huge stack of albums sent to him during the year by record companies keen for even the briefest of mentions in his column. The two of us recorded a mix tape of dance tracks onto audio cassettes.
His favourite band at the time was Level 42, while I insisted on a fair representation from Dire Straits and Eric Clapton. We mined his collection of Genesis, David Bowie and The Police, and even managed a track or two from The Band.
One album Steve had collected was Dedication by a bloke we knew nothing about called Gary U.S. Bonds. Odd name, we agreed, but the point of interest was that much of Dedication had been either written or produced by Bruce Springsteen, somebody we knew pretty much everything about. The Boss had been barnstorming across the world that year promoting Born in the USA and Steve and I were complete believers. If Bruce thought Gary U.S. Bonds was ok, then so did we.
Well before midnight our little house was full. People were dancing in an area little bigger than a billiard table. The temperature outside was barely above freezing yet a thoughtful partygoer had opened wide the front window. Music engulfed the street, empty bottles were being carefully thrown into the bushes, late arrivals were being welcomed in across the ledge.
The track we chose to record from Dedication was This Little Girl. Its bouncy beat became the soundtrack to our party:
Here she comes, walking down the street
You know she's walking just like she's walking to come and see
Oh she's so young
And she's so fine
I know what's on your mind, know what you want to do
But if you mess with her, I'm gonna mess with you
You better watch your step, you better stay in line …
It must have been played dozens of times as frenzied dancers fiddled with the stereo to rewind the cassette. It stirred the feet like nothing else and the words were easy to learn and sing. Loud. Very loud.
This little girl is mine
Oh this little girl is mine
Oh this little girl
This little girl
This little girl is mine
So frenzied was the atmosphere, midnight came and went without Auld Lang Syne or champagne toasts. Sometime around 3am guests from another party several streets away arrived to join us. They were colleagues who had declined our invitation for a more formal NYE function, but soon they had their shoes off and were dancing to Gary.
When I finished up sometime after 4am the music was still cranking and people were still dancing. I suspect our neighbours gave thanks for their double glazing.
Hours later, when cleaning up, we fired up the stereo but our party cassette had died. Wound and rewound, the thin brown tape had reached breaking point. Sadly, we consigned it to the pile of streamers, party poppers and plastic cups now filling our bin. RIP.
Steve gave me his copy of Dedication after the party but somewhere along the line it just disappeared. Steve returned to Guernsey and went into public relations, starting what has become a hugely successful PR company. I left Oxford for the Middle East once the weather warmed up and Suzanne sold the house. We see one another occasionally and reminisce about that triumphant New Year’s Eve bash, the likes of which neither of us have repeated.
Hugh Jones is an experienced media manager and journalist. He worked for News Limited in Australia for more than 20 years in a wide variety of editorial roles, including as a newspaper editor.