Yesteryear came flooding back with the weekend's newspaper headlines

It was a sound I had never heard before and the sentiments fitted my mood as if chosen by a Hollywood music arranger. The sound lasted two minutes, 17 seconds although I did not know that precisely then, only that the sound did not go on long enough. I was uplifted, carried away.

The next morning I awoke with the memory fresh in my mind and, after inquiries, duly headed for the local record shop in the lunch-hour and came back armed with my copy of All I Have To Do Is Dream by the Everly Brothers to add to my collection, which was heavy with Buddy Holly and The Crickets A few days later my father ridiculed the harmonies, as he tended to ridicule anything I was involved in, claiming he heard those “syrupy, sick-inducing harmonies” in every barracks he had ever been in during the war.

Of course, history now confirms he was well adrift, for despite the British and American record industries trying their damndest, they were unable to unearth anything or anyone in the world that remotely sounded like the Everly Brothers.

I bought all their records, kept tabs on them throughout the 60s, 70s and into the 80s and even interviewed them for an hour at the back of the Gaumont in Watford. I did not know it then but a 15-year-old Buckinghamshire girl was in the audience that night, and she also had all the Everly records. They had been “my boys” from when she was eight after hearing Bye, Bye Love for the first time. In her adolescent dreams she intended to have two girls named Donna and Philipa when she grew up and married.

Ironically, the first record she bought was Peggy Sue, so years later when we got together, Ellie and I found we had much in common.

Two years ago, with that peculiarly American slant on such things, Buddy Holly’s 75th birthday was celebrated some 53 years after his death, with a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. It was funded in part by Paul McCartney, who has booked the space beside Buddy’s for his own star when he can spare the time to be inducted. Apparently any name for consideration has to be accompanied by a $15,000 refundable cheque but, here’s the catch, you have to have a valid claim to significance in entertainment.

A concert was held starring many big names, a tribute record was brought out which is worth a listen, but in the induction ceremony, Graham Nash, formerly of the Hollies and Crosby, Stills and Nash, was called to the stage and introduced as the “world’s greatest high harmony singer.”

Nash accepted the applause but stressed the well-intentioned introduction had been wrong. “The greatest high harmony singer in the world is sitting two rows back,” he said, pointing to the greying Phil Everly.

Phil made his final concert appearance at that celebration, having come out of retirement simply “because it is for Buddy”. The Everlys and Holly had been great friends; Phil was a pall bearer at the funeral while grieving brother Don “took to my bed for a fortnight, totally confused by everything”.

I telephoned Ellie last Saturday morning but our daughter had already informed her of the news so she knew Phil Everly was gone. Ellie had been a folk singer, doing the clubs in her younger days, and had always stressed that she had learnt harmony by listening to Phil while Don sang.

Clearly Phil had still been in her thoughts when recently she chose a password for a commercial account.

The weekend was full of reflections. Back in 1966 I bought a black long-haired kitten. We were struggling to find a suitable name and 24 hours later, as we sat down to watch a World Cup with a couple of friends, we were no closer. Some 90 minutes passed and the name became obvious and our cat was duly named after five-goal Eusabio.

The Portuguese footballer lit up the 60s for us, along with Best, Law, Charlton, Marsh, Greaves and company, and played on into the 70s.

So the following morning after Phil Everly had died, when the news arrived from Portugal, I was reflecting that yet another good man was gone.

They were a preferred part of the fabric of our lives. Our heroes or favourites made the difference, brightened the day or the horizon.

I can still see Eusabio that Saturday afternoon in 1966, bending to pick the ball out of the net and purposefully taking it back to the centre circle because he needed to score four more that game in order for his side to win. And he did.

I never got involved in the drug culture, not for any other reason but that I always found a few pints of beer and a good record could take me where I wanted to be. Music was my drug and remained so for 50 more years, so I can still see The Vines, in Rochester, that summer evening in 1958 and recall that feeling of being transported, uplifted or giving me a high.

That is a comforting fact because try as I might listening to Take That, Justin Bieber and company in more recent years, I cannot get off the ground let alone gain a high.

So it is good that the old memories linger on and particularly we are grateful for that after a poignant weekend.

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