It was summer 1979 when I first encountered Sparks. It was the end of my second year in high school and the friendships I had formed extended beyond kids who lived nearby and who I’d met at Play or Primary school, and this also meant expanded horizons and interests.

Who was on Top of the Pops on a Thursday night was a regular playground topic of conversation. As an eldest child rather than one with older siblings, I found myself at a disadvantage, having no sibling filter to shape my tastes and prevent me from declaring a like or dislike for a particular song or artist which could potentially expose me to derision.

Sparks’ appearance was worthy of discussion because they looked different and a bit weird, but also the repetitive catchy nature to 12-year-old me of the song they performed – ‘Beat The Clock’.

As it happens, it turned out those friends with older brothers and/or sisters, were already familiar with Sparks. But not only that, for both the Bowie/Glam tribe and those who had transferred their allegiances to the ‘Punk’ tribe, Sparks seemed to have universal appeal, and even some of the Punk older brothers and sisters, secretly admitted to still playing their Sparks records, despite it not necessarily being cool to do so.

Whilst being aware of Sparks and their continued existence, I can’t say they made any impression on me beyond that first and early encounter, until their 2014/2015 collaboration and hook up with Franz Ferdinand under the guise of FFS. I bought the LP of the same name and, when tour dates were announced, liked it enough to decide to go see them at the Albert Hall, Manchester.

The setlist concentrated on the FFS songs but afforded a section for each of the bands to play a few of their own songs. Standing in front of me, was a father and daughter, who I assume, were probably attending for the same and different reasons, him – Sparks, her – Franz Ferdinand, both – FFS.

During the Sparks songs, and one in particular, which is my choice this time, the father came ‘alive’, much to the amusement and enjoyment of his daughter. Completely lost in the moment, arms aloft, singing every word. That ability in those moments to recite word perfectly the lyrics to a song that you’ve perhaps not listened to in full for 25+ years. Your muscle memory unashamedly reliving your 15 year old self dance moves from the youth club discos.

His daughter looking at her dad, probably seeing him like this for arguably the first time in her life, but loving his unbridled happiness. The music had taken him somewhere else? He’d escaped? Maybe back to an age or a point of time of innocence, happier, simpler times. The shackles off. I didn’t know either of them nor did I interact with them, but there was something special and joyous in experiencing and witnessing that moment they shared. So my essential choice of tune for the power of music and my memory of this is:

The Number One Song in Heaven