IT was thanks to my dad that I fell in love… with music. He died ten years ago today – October 26, 2013 – and his influence helped shape my successful career as a music writer and journalist.

As it’s the anniversary today, I’ve revisited the eulogy I gave at the service, remembering Maurice Cole and the music we shared, to write this post, although I’ve changed little of the original…

As a child I loved the sound, the sight, even the smell of Dad’s long-playing records in their cardboard covers. They held a special magic for me, the memory of which has never diminished.

There was Bert Kaempfert, Buddy Holly, the James Last Orchestra, and Louis Armstrong. Johnny Cash sang at Folsom and San Quentin prisons, and Marty Robbins sang gunfighter ballads.

Because Maurice loved his music.

When he set about building his own first hi-fi, I was full of wonder. There were big grey Quad boxes, glowing valves and a volume dial that surely went all the way up to eleven.

“What does it do?” I asked. “You’ll be able to hear the musicians breathe,” he told me. And, d’you know, he was right. It was nothing short of a revelation.

When the time came, he bought the first album I’d ever asked for. It was Simon & Garfunkel’s Bridge Over Troubled Water. Not fashionable these days, but a major release back then.

We listened to every note together, read all the lyrics together. “I am just a poor boy, though my story’s seldom told…” The Boxer was our favourite track. One day I’d painstakingly pick it out on guitar.

When I reached the age of 15, I was desperate to go to my first rock concert. A couple of my schoolmates had just been to see Canned Heat and I was green with envy.

I’d heard The Strawbs were good, so my dad queued up in Manchester to buy tickets. Those were the days when it was first come, first served at the box office. 

A few days later we saw them on a TV show called Disco 2. They strummed their guitars, playing jangly folk rock – and they were bloody awful. Dad and I looked at each other aghast.

He managed to swap the tickets for a gig by The Byrds. Roger McGuinn’s Byrds. The line-up you see above. McGuinn, Clarence White, Skip Battin, Gene Parsons. Lovers of the bayou.

I wanted to fit in so my dad took me to a shop in Blackpool where I got kitted out. Yellow flowery shirt, blue flares, a big steel buckled belt, a suede jerkin. If he raised an eyebrow, I missed it.

I thought I looked the bee’s knees. Truth was, I looked more like a very camp window cleaner. We got to the Free Trade Hall to find everyone wearing faded T-shirts, denim and greatcoats.

Read more: The Byrds Free Trade Hall setlist and more

I didn’t care. We loved every minute. On May 11, 1971, Eight Miles High stretched out to nigh on half an hour with a lengthy drum and bass duet. I was hooked. We both were.

We went to see Sha Na Na, Creedence Clearwater Revival, John Mayall, BB King, Fairport Convention, Santana, Wishbone Ash and many, many more together. 

And each time it was a toss-up as to which of us had enjoyed the gig more. His favourites included the night Creedence came to town, the brilliant BB King and gravel-voiced Maggie Bell.

We saw three different John Mayall bands – the Jazz Blues Fusion line-up was his favourite – and he became such a regular visitor to the Free Trade Hall that the security guards knew him by sight.

Once, I was offered tickets to see a string quartet playing an obscure piece – but I couldn’t go. Dad and mum went instead, “Are you sure you’ve come to the right place?” the man on the door asked them.

They sneaked out during the first interval. “Didn’t reckon you’d last that long,” grinned the doorman.

Our love affair with music never ended. In his later life, I loved being able to take him to gigs in Birmingham, including the chance to see two of his heroes on the same bill, Ray Charles and Van Morrison.

I even tempted him to dare the dimly-lit surrounds of Ronnie Scott’s jazz club during the Birmingham Songwriters Festival to share with him one of my favourite bands, The Prayer Boat.

When I turned 50, colleague and columnist Maureen Messent said to me: “You’ll have to stop going to see all those noisy rock bands, get some slippers and listen to The Bachelors.” 

Read more: The night Creedence played Manchester

“You should meet my dad,” I replied. “He’s 80 and loves his Creedence. You can hear it down the street!”

At his funeral, I had him played into the chapel with Creedence’s Long As I Can See The Light and ended with the Glenn Miller Army Air Force Orchestra blasting out the St Louis Blues March.

The latter was as per his own instruction. Many years earlier he’d told me that the Miller classic was the way he’d like to sign off. He wanted to leave people with a smile on their faces.

In his 80s, I’d introduced dad to the blues guitar of Joe Bonamassa. He’d introduced me to Gaelic folk groups he’d discovered. That’s something I’ll always do.

Whenever I hear great music, I’ll still say: “You should hear this one, Dad!” Because I’m sure he’ll be listening somewhere.

Thank you Dad. Miss you.

In loving memory of Maurice Cole 1924 – 2013. My mum, Jean Cole, died just a few months later in April 2014. They’d barely spent a day apart since they married.