As much as I love loads of current music, I’m a 60s and 70s girl at heart, so when it comes to buying albums I tend to spend my money on the mountains of old stuff I’ve yet to catch up on.

But following a couple of recent visits to see 54321 at Liverpool’s Cavern Club on a Sunday afternoon, curiosity got the better of me and I invested in their debut album ‘What We Did With Our Days’.

The Wirral-based band comprises four brothers Rory, Olly, Barney and Callum Taylor and cousin Liam Capleton who are no strangers to live performance. In 2011 they supported Babybird and Toploader and are regulars around the Liverpool circuit, including their Cavern Club residency and popular appearances at Liverpool’s famous Mathew Street Festival. They usually throw in a couple of self-penned tracks at their Cavern covers gig – ‘Casino’ and ‘The Astronaut’ – both of which are catchy and powerful live tracks. So having become familiar with them, I kind of expected the rest of the album to take a backseat and not strike me quite so hard…but I was wrong.

After giving the album a good hammering, the other 9 tracks soon came into their own. I’ve read previously that the guys are influenced by bands like Queen, The Police and U2 but there is such a diverse mix of sounds here that it’s impossible to narrow it down – subtle elements of Squeeze, Elvis Costello and The Finn Brothers are also definitely apparent, which makes me a very happy girl indeed.

The album is very ‘British’ in its production with more than a fleeting nod to Nick Lowe. The sound is clean and tight – no grunge or over-thrashing – the mix is crystal clear and every track is classy and well written and, if ‘Casino’ and ‘The Astronaut’ are anything to go by, will translate impressively into much heavier live versions.

Stand out tracks for me are ‘Desdemona’ and ‘9 over 9’ which take on a more American feel that wouldn’t be out of place on The Breakfast Club soundtrack. ‘Lights On You’ and ‘Not Tonight Josephine’ boast hooks that Guy Chambers would be proud of and ‘Boys and Arrows’ is a powerful ballad that I can only imagine gets a good smashing when played live.

‘What We Did With Our Days’ doesn’t claim to offer you musical innovation or a break-through sound that’s going to change the world of pop music – what you get is a generous collection of fresh, unspoiled tracks that will have you singing along in no time. Rory has one of the best new voices you’re likely to have heard, with a range I can only describe as an audible feast. The musical talent of this band is so blatant that it makes you wonder exactly how the music industry can sleep at night.

Buy it – you won’t be disappointed – and I would strongly recommend you see them live whenever you get chance.

Download the album on itunes or visit www.thisis54321.com

I wasn’t going to write a blog about Davy Jones today, not because his death hasn’t made me sad, because it has. But because, as much as I’ve always liked The Monkees, I am by no means an authority on them and didn’t really feel qualified to comment on Davy’s life to any great extent.

However…I’ve just been reading Twitter, and the overwhelming comments on there about him have inspired me to say a few words.

Something strange happens when a celebrity dies. We grieve, but in a way that kind of takes us by surprise. We expect to grieve when a loved one dies, but these are people who we have probably never met and who probably don’t even know we exist – so why do we afford them such an outpouring of emotion?

My earliest recollection is of course John Lennon in 1980. I was only 9 and not a Beatles fan then, but was more than aware of the sadness that had struck so many people when the news came from New York.  I also remember, at aged 9, buying my first Lennon single (Just Like) Starting Over – albeit postumous, perhaps that was the start of what later moulded me into me.

My next memory was Eric Morecambe in 1984, because I remember that it seemed to make my Mum and Dad a bit sad and indeed, since learning more about him over the years, I now appreciate why.

But the first celeb to really hit me when he went, was Freddie Mercury. I came down for breakfast before work and turned on Breakfast TV to the sad news that Freddie had died. My reaction surprised even me. I wasn’t what you’d call a Queen fan, but obviously as a music lover I realised what we’d lost and how sad it all was.

The phone rang – it was my brother, calling to see if I’d heard. And we shed a tear together. My Mum emerged from the kitchen to see me crying in front of the TV and seemed confused at how the death of someone we didn’t know could upset us so much. But that’s the whole point. When you’ve grown up with the image of someone, always there, present on your TV, present on the radio and part of the soundtrack that defined your youth, you DO know them.  They and their music are part of you.

A friend once made the observation that I apparently “cry at everything”.  My initial response was to be slightly disgruntled at what had seemed like a derogatory slur on my senstive nature, but then I decided I’d take it as a compliment. Because I don’t cry at everything, I cry when something moves me. And if I’m moved a lot, by the things I see, hear and feel on a daily basis, then that makes me proud and makes me feel alive.

So, when I started reading Twitter tonight, my heart went out to all the people who did love Davy, because I know they’ll be feeling a little bit empty tonight, because a part of their childhood has gone.

I love the fact that The Monkees had the last laugh – having been manufactured for a ‘Beatles’ type project, they were initially stiffled by their management and not really allowed to apply themselves creatively to their music. I get the impression they were treated a little like circus animals, being poked with sticks and told to ‘be funny for the fans’. But once they’d found their feet and demanded some rights, what transpired was a credible and very cute little band who banged out some of the sixties’ most memorable tunes. Aside from all the obvious party tracks like “I’m a believer”, “Theme from The Monkees” and “Daydream Believer”, there were some absolute pop-corkers like “She”, “A little bit you, a little bit me”, “Last train to Clarkesville”, “Steppin’ Stone” and not forgetting…”Randy Scouse Git”!

As The Monkees themselves said “People say we Monkey around, but we’re too busy singin’”.

And finally, let’s not forget, Davy was a northerner who cut his teeth on the cobbles of Coronation Street – which makes him good enough for me.

RIP Davy Jones – a white knight on his steed.

You came back! And with such lovely positive comments – thanks so much.

So where was I?….

Right….while all those mind-numbing jobs were going on, there was one thing that would keep me going. My bit of light at the end of a Mersey tunnel. Liverpool. Little did I know at the time it would become the place I would come to feel most safe and at home, but just for now it was simply something to look forward to, when the daily drudge seemed never-ending.

Remember Freddie and May? Well, I took them up on their offer. Or more to the point, Mum couldn’t wait to cart me off for a week. So, I trundled off to Liverpool – not sure exactly when, but I figure early 1988 – for my first real trip away from home on my own.

I was collected from the grandeur of Lime Street Station and delivered safely to a very northern looking street in Garston. I remember the train track running right along the bottom of the back garden and how what started off as a window-shaking din soon went unnoticed after the first 3 or 4 had rattled by.

Freddie and May were great hosts. Home-made cake, steaming Scouse and a good strong cuppa were always on tap – and I was introduced to the whole family, who took me under their collective wing, determined to show the ‘Brummy’ a good time.

I came out of my shell a lot that week and plucked up the courage to head into the City Centre on my own. The Liver Building has always been an absolute wonder to me – so unbelievably pretty, yet completely powerful, like a towering Dominatrix keeping watch over her man-servants. Never before had I felt a building demand such respect – and 24 years later, having witnessed The Empire State and the Pyramids, it is still one of my all time favourites and never fails to create a smile and a goose-bump every time I see it.

Also vivid is the memory I have of whistfully gazing over the Mersey, bag of chips in hand, when a gang of greedy seagulls descended, making off with said chips in the general direction of Birkenhead. How bloody rude. And tell me how you deal with that when you’re stood on your own in a strange city with people pointing and laughing?

I wandered, miffed, into the centre of town, where I spotted a ‘Beatle Bus’. I’d heard of The Beatles and I vaguely remembered they were from Liverpool. Dad had a few of their albums in his collection (only up to 1966 cuz apparently they “went down hill with all that wierd Sgt Pepper stuff”) so i figured it’d be a nice way to pass a couple of hours and I might just learn something in the process.

The Beatle Tour is a famous part of Liverpool’s culture and the guys who run it are passionate and proud. I sat on the bus, listening to the crackly cassette (1988 don’t forget!) of Beatles tunes – some I recognised, some I didn’t. Giggling quietly to myself at the fantastically adenoidal scouse accent delivering the narrative.

Eventually we turned up a quiet, shady street which I now know to be Beaconsfield Road in Allerton. The bus stopped outside the iconic red gates of Strawberry Fields. At this particular time, I was relatively unaware of their significance, but got off the bus and dutifully had my picture taken next to them – something nice to show Mum and Dad when i got home I thought.

I got back on the bus and waited for the die-hards to finish fawning.

Then it happened. My bolt of lightening moment – and I’ll never forget it.

The tour guide changed the cassette. Strawberry Fields came on. I was sat on the bus, staring out of the window at Strawberry Fields – listening to John wanting to take me down cuz he was going to….

My brain didn’t quite know what to do with the information, but I knew it was special. And 24 years later, typing that last paragraph has made me cry.

Hearing John recall his childhood in the very spot I was sitting, was SO powerful, from that point I was completely hooked. I might not have known it right then, but I was.

Next stop Penny Lane. A very short, frankly very dull street on the outskirts of town. Tourists had stolen the street sign so often that the council had given up replacing it long ago and had scrawled a scruffy painted version on the wall at the end of the road. It was hardly Gracelands.

So the tour guide played Penny Lane, and proceeded to point out all the landmarks mentioned in the lyrics, as we drove past each one. The bank, the barber’s, the shelter in the middle of the roundabout. Another lightening bolt – and now i was desperate to GET OFF the bus and BUY SOME STUFF!

Drawing the tour to a close, the bus dropped us in Mathew Street (I seem to remember you could drive down it in those days??) and I shot straight into The Beatles Shop where I purchased a gorgeous book of Black and White photographs by Dezo Hoffman and Alan Partidge’s favourite Beatles’ Album, The 20 Greatest Hits.

On the train back to Garston I stared at Dezo’s photos, trying to work out how four normal scouse lads could do what they did. Where does talent like that come from? Were they born with it? Was it just coincidence that 4 cheeky young mates (well, 3 when it came to singing) could harmonise so beautifully it could make you cry? I just couldn’t figure it all out.

At the end of my week, I left Garston knowing I’d be back. Telford was home – for now. But all of a sudden I felt uneasy there – from that moment, it would never be what I wanted.

Mum and Dad could hardly keep their faces straight when I arrived home full of stupid questions like “Mum, do you remember the Beatles??” To which she fondly remembered how my Grandad had labelled them “yobs who need a haircut”.

They told me everything they knew and think they enjoyed the fact I was taking such a sudden interest in all things sixties – but none of us quite realised what effect those Boys and their City would continue to have on me.

It was the start of something special, and as I watched the sun going down, the eyes in my head saw the world spinning round.