The recent passing of Paul Cheong, a Singapore entertainment personality, not only brought a flood of tears to his nearest and dearest, including fans, but a rush of memories to the baby boomers who grew up alongside him.
In the 1970s — I know, half a century ago in what seems like nanoseconds — Singapore had a pop scene.
No, really, truly, a bona fide swinging pop scene. With pop groups you never called “boy bands” (only Simon Cowell did much later) who gave themselves monikers like Pests Infested, Flybaits, October Cherries, Heather and the Thunderbirds, X-periment, The Quests, The Straydogs.
(The late great Siva Choy would call the OC the December Buah Dukus.)
They played in hotel lounges, nightclubs, discos, clubs, tea dances, and special functions (events then).
At such occasions, Paul Cheong might be the compère, or the deejay.
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Words positively archaic to Tiktokkers and influencers.
Compère, deejay? The compère is someone who’s on stage or upfront, speaking into a microphone, announcing what’s happening, the action to come next, basically prepping guests or diners or patrons or the wild bunch of ravers, on the evening’s programme.
The deejay spins the records on the turntable to get party people in the groove. (Please ask an elder to translate the latter.)
The deejay’s vocabulary would be thick with words such as “release” and “single” and “chart topper” and “album” and “Billboard”. He’s talking vinyls.
We bought “singles” which was a standalone hit song with a B-side (never played), and “EPs” (extended play) had four songs. And the “album” was a collection of the group or singer’s music and songs.
Apple (music) was a miraculous fruit that kept doctors at bay.
iTunes was the man you called when your piano keys came unstuck.
And Spotify was a severe case of acne.
Instead we had Talentimes, first on radio, then in television.
Singing (or playing musical instrument) competitions were open to the public of course.
Over time, Talentimes produced the Pat Boone of Singapore, the Nat King Cole of Singapore (the father of singer Rahimah Rahim), the Elvis Presley of Singapore (MP Darryl David’s father) and so on.
The very first winner of Singapore TV’s first Talentime was a Mr T. F. Tan, an octave short of the Enrico Caruso of Singapore.
Meanwhile across the pond, a schoolteacher from Penang, Frankie Cheah Boo Seng, was crowned the Frank Sinatra of Malaysia.
(You may well ask, how come no the Taylor Swift of Singapore?
Uncle, sit down, you want to incur the wrath of her fans?
There is ever only one Taylor Swift.)
Paul Cheong was the Cliff Richard of Singapore.
I worked on Fanfare, Singapore’s first, perhaps only, pop magazine, a weekly tabloid that splattered all its pages with local and foreign pop stories.
Paul and his contemporaries were regular features.
He was good-looking, had what we described as “a microphonic voice” (were we ever that young?!) and was a real nice Serangoon Gardens boy to boot.
Some wag described us – Fanfare – as the Rolling Stone of Singapore.
Nope, not Mick Jagger and his pensioner cohort.
The rock bible! The American publication!! The last word on pop and rock!!!
This is the result when you know how to stream but don’t know how to read.
The joint was jumping in the 70s, in pop music, in fashion, in movies, the term “lifestyle” had yet to spawn.
While we were not exactly Carnaby Street, Singapore did have a swing ring about it. Vibe, baby, vibes.
I can’t quite recall when it all came to an end…no, I do.
It was the day John Lennon died.
RIP Paul.
