There’s several reasons I haven’t written anything on here, none of them actually any good.
Or maybe one is, in that I've just been too tired. This seems to happen every year, that I get to December and simply gas out and then head off home for Christmas week, where a few days of being fed by my mother replenishes my energy levels for another ten months or so. It’s pathetic, really, that I still need this at the age of 32.
There was also a fun few hours in hospital a bit ago, where I had a lump of plastic and metal shoved into my chest with no little force. The loop recorder (as they call it), is supposed to take a snap shot of my heart activity next time I have a black out, on the assumption someone I know is around to activate the thing with this little box thing I carry around with me. All I can say is that the process of putting it in may be the most painful experience of my life – but, hey, the girls love a scar. More importantly, a good friend of mine (who I hope reads this) is going through a hell of a lot worse at the moment, which puts my petty moaning into sharp relief.
What I have managed to do is a little bit of gaming, reading and listening to music.
The Last of Us
‘Citizen Kane of Gaming’, according to one review, which is a gross an overstatement as you’ll hear all year, for an experience that is essentially Resident Evil with a higher budget.
To it’s credit, the acting is excellent, especially Troy Baker as Joel, the male lead, and the storyline, although not exactly as amazing as Charlie Brooker makes out, is engaging to the degree that you keep playing through some somewhat atypical survival horror sections to see what happens next. That you spend the game playing as a man driven to amorality by virtue of just trying to survive in a world gone to shit is an interesting slant – especially as he makes no attempt to apologise or feel bad about his actions.
The Last of Us is about a linear a game I’ve played since Final Fantasy XIII (which also starred Troy Baker, funnily enough), which isn’t my cup o’tea most of the time, but it managed to look pretty enough to keep me interested and to it’s credit, the combat sections can provide some cool moments: blowing up a group of four armed-to-the-teeth soldiers with a well-placed nail bomb was a satisfying a game a moment as I’ve had all year.
Solid 8/10 experience for the whole package, but nowhere close to what the hype what have you believe – the game dynamics would get 6/10 from me on a good day.
Grand Theft Auto V
Call me shallow (because I am), but I bought right into the hype for this at the last moment. I had resolved to wait till the price come down a few months after release… but no, I ended up picking up on release and booking the following day off work to put in some serious time.
GTAV doesn’t give you much more leeway in the actual storyline than The Last of Us (bar one choice at the end which gives three different conclusions) but has a stronger perception of choice. Between missions, you’re free to explore a huge city, play games or just get up to the usual chaos you can in these games.
There’s issues with the storyline, in that Rockstar don’t seem to have got a handle on how to write good female characters. Like The Last of Us, there is a torture scene – but here, you have to take an active part rather than just watch. It made for an uncomfortable moment, but that’s the nature of the character you are playing at that time – he’s a complete psychopath with very little in the way of morals or grip on reality.
It hasn’t quite topped Vice City as my favourite GTA title, but it was a rewarding playthrough in any case, with plenty of laughs and moments of total awesomeness. More so than TLoU, it pushes games as a serious form of entertainment by sheer dint of how much it sold in the days after release – can only other medium compare with those figures?
Autobiography by Morrissey
Despite the likes of Private Eye getting all uptight about the sums being thrown around for the rights to this, Stretford Moz’s tome was among the most anticipated books of the year, surely?
As it was, we learn the guy sure can moan. It seems everyone in the world has at some point fucked him over, his mother excepted, or died young, though Elton John, of all people, leaves a positive impression in their single meeting. The details of his childhood are interesting, but there’s relatively little about the Smiths period – the man himself could justify this with the fact it made up only a small period of his life (five years), but it’s the part I would wager the majority of us are interested in. Apparently, he also remains in the dark as to why Johnny Marr quit.
What we do get is almost the same amount of space dedicated to the court case that pretty much put the mockers on the chance of there ever being a full Smiths reunion. Fair enough, it does appear Moz was done over by a vindictive judge, but he goes on, and on, and on. It sets a tone for a downhill slope, as his comeback ten years ago is described in a series of numbers of chart placings and attendance figures at gigs. The revelations of his romantic forays with men and women seem scant consolation for wading through the rest.
Catherine Wheel
I’ve actually made some inroads into writing a piece of this band, who are my favourite musical discovery of the year despite them not having released a note in over ten years. If I can sort my shit out, I'll try to finish my overview of their work.
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Tuesday, 17 December 2013
Sunday, 4 November 2012
Football in the Family
As I've written before, football has changed to an incredible degree over the past decades. Players are paid more, top level grounds are of much better quality for players and spectators and just about every professional game in England is filmed for posterity. Often, the past is made to look overly romantic by people who weren't there, much like many aspects of life.
Journalist and broadcaster Gary Imlach's My Father and Other Working Class Football Heroes is a book I really should have read a long, long time ago. The central thread seems to be one of regret of a son not asking his dad more questions when they had the chance, and a mission to fill in the blanks of his own knowledge of the old boy's life, but there's also plenty on the realities of being a footballer in the post-war era.
Stewart Imlach was a genuine football star of the late 1950s, playing for Scotland at the 1958 World Cup and starring for Nottingham Forest when they won the 1959 FA Cup. A long way from his roots in a Scottish fishing village, the kind of place everyone leaves, not moves to. A star in youth football, he was picked up by Bury, quickly making a name as a quick left winger. Becoming a much watched player, he's soon on his way to Derby County, a move which doesn't work out, and he's passed onto Forest, where he plays his part in the their last shot of glory before the Clough years.
In that game, he was considered by most witnesses, including the legendary Stanley Matthews, to be the Man of the Match. He was a hero at the top of his game playing for a team with the potential to win further honours. However, football being as it was at the time, within a matter of years, he has dropped down two divisions through various managers' whims. At Coventry City, he is sold on by the man who did more for players' rights than just about anyone - Jimmy Hill. The author manages to interview the man, and is initially shocked when he can't remember the exact details of why he didn't want his dad - only to reflect that Hill would have dealt with hundreds of footballers over his long career.
Where the book succeeds best is showing the life the players had: Imlach Snr spent his summers doing various joinery jobs to bring in extra cash, he first finds out about his transfer by reading it in the local paper and there's the fact that Scottish players lost out financially from being in the squad that went to the World Cup. There's also vindictive managers and those that run the game treating players as little more than serfs due to the "Retain and Transfer" system that they were so reluctant to scrap, despite it turning out to be infringing on players' rights as workers.
Towards the end of the book, Gary Imlach works on trying to get his father awarded an actual "cap" from the Scottish FA: at the time, they were only given to players who played in a "Home" international against England, Wales or Northern Ireland. Even in the modern era, the authorities remain obstructive and inept. An English company makes him a replica instead, much to the old player's pride. That the Scottish FA should behave in such a way towards a man who represented his country with honour comes across as contemptible.
My Father and Other Working Class Football Heroes works excellently as a biography and a general football book - essential reading for fans of the game.
Journalist and broadcaster Gary Imlach's My Father and Other Working Class Football Heroes is a book I really should have read a long, long time ago. The central thread seems to be one of regret of a son not asking his dad more questions when they had the chance, and a mission to fill in the blanks of his own knowledge of the old boy's life, but there's also plenty on the realities of being a footballer in the post-war era.
Stewart Imlach was a genuine football star of the late 1950s, playing for Scotland at the 1958 World Cup and starring for Nottingham Forest when they won the 1959 FA Cup. A long way from his roots in a Scottish fishing village, the kind of place everyone leaves, not moves to. A star in youth football, he was picked up by Bury, quickly making a name as a quick left winger. Becoming a much watched player, he's soon on his way to Derby County, a move which doesn't work out, and he's passed onto Forest, where he plays his part in the their last shot of glory before the Clough years.
In that game, he was considered by most witnesses, including the legendary Stanley Matthews, to be the Man of the Match. He was a hero at the top of his game playing for a team with the potential to win further honours. However, football being as it was at the time, within a matter of years, he has dropped down two divisions through various managers' whims. At Coventry City, he is sold on by the man who did more for players' rights than just about anyone - Jimmy Hill. The author manages to interview the man, and is initially shocked when he can't remember the exact details of why he didn't want his dad - only to reflect that Hill would have dealt with hundreds of footballers over his long career.
Where the book succeeds best is showing the life the players had: Imlach Snr spent his summers doing various joinery jobs to bring in extra cash, he first finds out about his transfer by reading it in the local paper and there's the fact that Scottish players lost out financially from being in the squad that went to the World Cup. There's also vindictive managers and those that run the game treating players as little more than serfs due to the "Retain and Transfer" system that they were so reluctant to scrap, despite it turning out to be infringing on players' rights as workers.
Towards the end of the book, Gary Imlach works on trying to get his father awarded an actual "cap" from the Scottish FA: at the time, they were only given to players who played in a "Home" international against England, Wales or Northern Ireland. Even in the modern era, the authorities remain obstructive and inept. An English company makes him a replica instead, much to the old player's pride. That the Scottish FA should behave in such a way towards a man who represented his country with honour comes across as contemptible.
My Father and Other Working Class Football Heroes works excellently as a biography and a general football book - essential reading for fans of the game.
Sunday, 28 October 2012
Closer to the Truth?
As a fan, it's been strange seeing the rise of Joy Division from cult act to existing in the mainstream. In 1997, it was hard to find out much about them. In 2012, they are rightly considered one of the seminal bands of British pop music, influencing countless others and being the topic for endless dissection.
There's been films, documentaries and plenty of books. In the print camp, there's another, albeit one with a greater deal of authority than the others. Unknown Pleasures - Inside Joy Division is bassist Peter Hook's record of the lifetime of the band, following on from his account of the Hacienda nightclub through the 1980s.
When writing his own memoirs, the wrestler Mick Foley relates some advice he was given about it not being about settling scores. Well, our Hooky has elected to disregard that, leaving us a book that could be subtitled Why Bernard Sumner is an Arsehole, such is the amount of petty potshots at his one time close friend.
Which is a shame, actually, as the other vast majority of the book is a really enjoyable read for fans of the band. There's plenty of information I'd not heard about before and the writing style flows well through a story where (you'd imagine) everyone knows the ending. Where it scores best is the tales of being in a band on the make: there's the off-told tale of Hooky buying his first bass the day after seeing the Sex Pistols at the Lesser Free Trade Hall, but also plenty of the struggles of writing material, finding the right people and then scraping for gigs in the ultra-competitive Manchester punk scene.
The fascinating aspect of Joy Division is how everyone fell in place in the manner it did. Hook and Sumner are both struggling nobodies in 1977, self-taught and fired up. Within two years, they end up with an enigmatic frontman, one of the best drummers around, the perfect manager, the perfect producer and the one label who'd let them all get on with the job.
It's not just the band and the other well-known figures who Hook regales. Friends Terry Mason and Twinny act as roadies and mischief makers, figures from Hook and Sumner's Salford roots there to keep their toes on the ground when the plaudits start rolling in.
The figure of Ian Curtis looms large over everything, understandably, and Hook is at pains to point out the man he knew, in contrast to the bad husband of his widow's only account, Touching From a Distance. As many have done, Hook questions who the real Curtis was, and whether all the people in his life were players in some grand piece he was conducting.
A little note from the ending also tells its own tale - in the list of those mentioned no longer with us (sadly way too long) is "New Order". Hook's conflicts with his former bandmates have been all over the media for a while now, but one point from the Joy Division history backs him up: the surviving three never considered continuing under that name as they had long understood that if anyone left, the name would be scrapped. You may wonder why New Order weren't the same, and that they had best been left in the past after their initial split in the mid 90s.
Unknown Pleasures is a more than worthwhile read, then. Some great pics too! The question is, how do the others remember the same events?
There's been films, documentaries and plenty of books. In the print camp, there's another, albeit one with a greater deal of authority than the others. Unknown Pleasures - Inside Joy Division is bassist Peter Hook's record of the lifetime of the band, following on from his account of the Hacienda nightclub through the 1980s.
When writing his own memoirs, the wrestler Mick Foley relates some advice he was given about it not being about settling scores. Well, our Hooky has elected to disregard that, leaving us a book that could be subtitled Why Bernard Sumner is an Arsehole, such is the amount of petty potshots at his one time close friend.
Which is a shame, actually, as the other vast majority of the book is a really enjoyable read for fans of the band. There's plenty of information I'd not heard about before and the writing style flows well through a story where (you'd imagine) everyone knows the ending. Where it scores best is the tales of being in a band on the make: there's the off-told tale of Hooky buying his first bass the day after seeing the Sex Pistols at the Lesser Free Trade Hall, but also plenty of the struggles of writing material, finding the right people and then scraping for gigs in the ultra-competitive Manchester punk scene.
The fascinating aspect of Joy Division is how everyone fell in place in the manner it did. Hook and Sumner are both struggling nobodies in 1977, self-taught and fired up. Within two years, they end up with an enigmatic frontman, one of the best drummers around, the perfect manager, the perfect producer and the one label who'd let them all get on with the job.
It's not just the band and the other well-known figures who Hook regales. Friends Terry Mason and Twinny act as roadies and mischief makers, figures from Hook and Sumner's Salford roots there to keep their toes on the ground when the plaudits start rolling in.
The figure of Ian Curtis looms large over everything, understandably, and Hook is at pains to point out the man he knew, in contrast to the bad husband of his widow's only account, Touching From a Distance. As many have done, Hook questions who the real Curtis was, and whether all the people in his life were players in some grand piece he was conducting.
A little note from the ending also tells its own tale - in the list of those mentioned no longer with us (sadly way too long) is "New Order". Hook's conflicts with his former bandmates have been all over the media for a while now, but one point from the Joy Division history backs him up: the surviving three never considered continuing under that name as they had long understood that if anyone left, the name would be scrapped. You may wonder why New Order weren't the same, and that they had best been left in the past after their initial split in the mid 90s.
Unknown Pleasures is a more than worthwhile read, then. Some great pics too! The question is, how do the others remember the same events?
Thursday, 9 August 2012
Outside the Top
When pundits and hacks bemoan "spoilt, overpaid footballers", it's easy to forget that most of the lads out there playing the game for a living aren't like Wayne Rooney, earning £100,000+ a week, living in a mansion and shagging call girls at any opportunity.
One of these was Chris Hargreaves, a man whose career over 20 years never made the top flight. Instead, he went from his hometown club Grimsby Town to Torquay United via Hull City, Hereford United, Plymouth Argyle, Northampton Town, Brentford and Oxford United. Never staying at one club for too long, his story is that of the perennial journeyman footballer.
A tale of which we can read about, as Chris has put his story down in Where's Your Caravan?, an entertaining tale of life in the lower rungs of English pro football. In an interesting approach, he tells his tale inbetween descriptions of his life at the time of writing: recently retired, he's worried about providing for his family, like any other Joe on the street.
It appears that Hargreaves didn't employ a ghost writer for this, doing it totally on his own steam. It's an admirable approach, and to his credit, he's not too shabby. Though there's plenty of "to be fair to him" and "credit to him" peppering the pages, as well as plenty of periods where it seems every other paragraph ends with a "!", the prose flows very well.
However, I do have gripes that could have been avoided with a decent editor. Some basic errors such as confusing Oxford United and City and the years Manchester United won the Champions League should have been spotted, and the bits where Chris turns a little bit "Sun Reader" don't fit well with this reader. I also wonder if Mrs Hargreaves was given a copy of the manuscript before it went to press.
But all is made up with his honesty of life as a footballer, and Hargreaves is nothing but upfront with his own failings, admitting he may have partied a bit too hard in his younger days, and that some bad decisions effectively ended his chances of making the top flight.
Where the book works best is the periods where our narrator is uncertain of his future - especially once he gets past 30 - and there's the constant worry of getting a new contract - it's a life shared by many others and it's not surprising to read of many of Hargreaves' teammates who are absolutely disillusioned with the game. One, Paul McGregor, gives up football in the belief he'd have a better time being in a band.
As a footballer's autobiography, Hargreaves deserves praise for making a much better read than the likes of Rooney or Gerrard would ever knock together. He's a bit of a lad too much a times, but also has a nice line in self-deprecation. Best of all, he doesn't hold back on slagging off those he feels wronged him in the past: as a youngster on trial with Everton in the mid 1980s, he gets revenge on Adrian Heath and Pat van den Hauwe for acting up.
Certainly, he manages to give an insight into being a footballer that is just earning a living. For that, it's a decent read for anyone with an interest in the game.
One of these was Chris Hargreaves, a man whose career over 20 years never made the top flight. Instead, he went from his hometown club Grimsby Town to Torquay United via Hull City, Hereford United, Plymouth Argyle, Northampton Town, Brentford and Oxford United. Never staying at one club for too long, his story is that of the perennial journeyman footballer.
A tale of which we can read about, as Chris has put his story down in Where's Your Caravan?, an entertaining tale of life in the lower rungs of English pro football. In an interesting approach, he tells his tale inbetween descriptions of his life at the time of writing: recently retired, he's worried about providing for his family, like any other Joe on the street.
It appears that Hargreaves didn't employ a ghost writer for this, doing it totally on his own steam. It's an admirable approach, and to his credit, he's not too shabby. Though there's plenty of "to be fair to him" and "credit to him" peppering the pages, as well as plenty of periods where it seems every other paragraph ends with a "!", the prose flows very well.
However, I do have gripes that could have been avoided with a decent editor. Some basic errors such as confusing Oxford United and City and the years Manchester United won the Champions League should have been spotted, and the bits where Chris turns a little bit "Sun Reader" don't fit well with this reader. I also wonder if Mrs Hargreaves was given a copy of the manuscript before it went to press.
But all is made up with his honesty of life as a footballer, and Hargreaves is nothing but upfront with his own failings, admitting he may have partied a bit too hard in his younger days, and that some bad decisions effectively ended his chances of making the top flight.
Where the book works best is the periods where our narrator is uncertain of his future - especially once he gets past 30 - and there's the constant worry of getting a new contract - it's a life shared by many others and it's not surprising to read of many of Hargreaves' teammates who are absolutely disillusioned with the game. One, Paul McGregor, gives up football in the belief he'd have a better time being in a band.
As a footballer's autobiography, Hargreaves deserves praise for making a much better read than the likes of Rooney or Gerrard would ever knock together. He's a bit of a lad too much a times, but also has a nice line in self-deprecation. Best of all, he doesn't hold back on slagging off those he feels wronged him in the past: as a youngster on trial with Everton in the mid 1980s, he gets revenge on Adrian Heath and Pat van den Hauwe for acting up.
Certainly, he manages to give an insight into being a footballer that is just earning a living. For that, it's a decent read for anyone with an interest in the game.
Monday, 16 April 2012
Family Values
Books about rock bands can be incredibly dull, especially if you’re a fan. Long drawn out descriptions of how everyone met, dry descriptions of how dull the recording process is and lists of chart placements. If you’re lucky, you get the various members calling each other names over who had the last brown M&M backstage in Kansas in 1980.
The exceptions tend to be about those bands/singers with unique personalities: the Smiths and the Clash spring to mind. To that, we can add British Sea Power, who have the advantage of their one-time manager Roy Wilkinson also being a journalist. Also, he was the older brother of two of the band, perhaps putting him in the ideal position to write Do It For Your Mum - a kind of memoir of his time pushing them onwards through the dodgy world of being a fairly successful band.
To this listener, British Sea Power may well have been the only band of the first decade of this century that really mattered. Their albums were superb, their live performances usually compelling. I remember first seeing them somewhere in London not long after they’d signed to Rough Trade, having known one of the people who did their press. She’d told me they were “from your way”, though we only caught the last 15 minutes of their show. However, this involved them stomping their way from a one-chord glam/drone rock affair, with their guitarist climbing the lighting rig and their keyboard player arming himself with a military drum, leaving the stage to march through the crowd. Clearly, I thought at the time, this was a band worth getting into. Wilkinson’s book has tales of people who thought the same, but to the extremes. There are fans who cover hundreds of miles to see a show on the other end of the country before turning up for their job the next morning – typical of a lot of bands, I would imagine.
But the crux of the story contained in Do It For Your Mum is around another member of the Wilkinson family.
Even as the band forms in the late 1990s, Ronald Wilkinson is a World War Two veteran well into his 70s, having brought up his six children in the small Cumbrian village of Natland. When his two youngest sons Scott and Neil form a band, he suddenly takes a deep interest in both them and indie rock in general. Nick Cave becomes a firm favourite - the only other musician to his ears who can be ranked higher than British Sea Power.
Indeed, it’s the tales of Wilkinson Snr that make up the best parts of the book. He’s constantly questioning Roy about the band, wanting to know every aspect of their development and why things aren't moving faster. He tells his son that he’s tried to contact U2 about getting a support slot, reasoning that even though the Irish supergroup are “charlatans, everyone knows that” it’ll be “good exposure”. Reading every text source he can get his hands on, he also urges his sons to further heights with the words “do if for your mum, do it for the Butthole Surfers”, having decreed the heroes of 80s Underground Indie to be a A Proper Band.
As stated, the book works due to Roy Wilkinson’s skill as a writer. The band themselves don’t really appear all that much: having interviewed Neil “Hamilton” Wilkinson and guitarist Martin Noble many years ago, I can confirm they’re lovely chaps, and the feeling in the book is that the whole band are a bunch of laid-back types who deal with the madness of being in a rock band with some ease. For the main part, at least - eventually, the road takes it toil and crankiness turns to quasi-revolt towards their manager's ideas.
Pressures begin to tell on him as well. There’s a touching moment where he reflects that while working with the band has brought him much closer to his dad (to the degree it actually begins to annoy him), it causes him no shortage of understandable angst at causing his relationship with his daughter to suffer.
There's also his frustration at not being able to push the group to the heights enjoyed by former support acts like the Killers and the Libertines. It's an understandable position: the band were hardly death metal and many of their singles had both the melodic strength and anthemtic nature of, say, Mr Brightside. Yet it appears that British Sea Power will have to be content with what they have. A shame, but there's always the music and there's always family: Do It For Your Mum is a worthy tribute to the values of both.
The exceptions tend to be about those bands/singers with unique personalities: the Smiths and the Clash spring to mind. To that, we can add British Sea Power, who have the advantage of their one-time manager Roy Wilkinson also being a journalist. Also, he was the older brother of two of the band, perhaps putting him in the ideal position to write Do It For Your Mum - a kind of memoir of his time pushing them onwards through the dodgy world of being a fairly successful band.
To this listener, British Sea Power may well have been the only band of the first decade of this century that really mattered. Their albums were superb, their live performances usually compelling. I remember first seeing them somewhere in London not long after they’d signed to Rough Trade, having known one of the people who did their press. She’d told me they were “from your way”, though we only caught the last 15 minutes of their show. However, this involved them stomping their way from a one-chord glam/drone rock affair, with their guitarist climbing the lighting rig and their keyboard player arming himself with a military drum, leaving the stage to march through the crowd. Clearly, I thought at the time, this was a band worth getting into. Wilkinson’s book has tales of people who thought the same, but to the extremes. There are fans who cover hundreds of miles to see a show on the other end of the country before turning up for their job the next morning – typical of a lot of bands, I would imagine.
But the crux of the story contained in Do It For Your Mum is around another member of the Wilkinson family.
Even as the band forms in the late 1990s, Ronald Wilkinson is a World War Two veteran well into his 70s, having brought up his six children in the small Cumbrian village of Natland. When his two youngest sons Scott and Neil form a band, he suddenly takes a deep interest in both them and indie rock in general. Nick Cave becomes a firm favourite - the only other musician to his ears who can be ranked higher than British Sea Power.
Indeed, it’s the tales of Wilkinson Snr that make up the best parts of the book. He’s constantly questioning Roy about the band, wanting to know every aspect of their development and why things aren't moving faster. He tells his son that he’s tried to contact U2 about getting a support slot, reasoning that even though the Irish supergroup are “charlatans, everyone knows that” it’ll be “good exposure”. Reading every text source he can get his hands on, he also urges his sons to further heights with the words “do if for your mum, do it for the Butthole Surfers”, having decreed the heroes of 80s Underground Indie to be a A Proper Band.
As stated, the book works due to Roy Wilkinson’s skill as a writer. The band themselves don’t really appear all that much: having interviewed Neil “Hamilton” Wilkinson and guitarist Martin Noble many years ago, I can confirm they’re lovely chaps, and the feeling in the book is that the whole band are a bunch of laid-back types who deal with the madness of being in a rock band with some ease. For the main part, at least - eventually, the road takes it toil and crankiness turns to quasi-revolt towards their manager's ideas.
Pressures begin to tell on him as well. There’s a touching moment where he reflects that while working with the band has brought him much closer to his dad (to the degree it actually begins to annoy him), it causes him no shortage of understandable angst at causing his relationship with his daughter to suffer.
There's also his frustration at not being able to push the group to the heights enjoyed by former support acts like the Killers and the Libertines. It's an understandable position: the band were hardly death metal and many of their singles had both the melodic strength and anthemtic nature of, say, Mr Brightside. Yet it appears that British Sea Power will have to be content with what they have. A shame, but there's always the music and there's always family: Do It For Your Mum is a worthy tribute to the values of both.
Friday, 2 March 2012
History Lesson
I can't help but admit that I'm a total geek when it comes to the history of Manchester United. I love knowing obscure facts and trivia. The worst part is that I can't help correcting people on such things - such as the dad of a friend talking about us beating West Ham 6-1 in 1966 and me butting in "it was in 1967, actually".
Because of this, I've really enjoyed Andy Mitten's series of books featuring former players talking candidly about their careers. We're The Famous Man United and Glory Glory! covered the 1980s and 1990s, now United! United! does the same for the 70s.
It was the most turbulent – and least successful - decade for the club since the 1930s, with five managers overseeing the legendary Busby team of the 60s decline into relegation. A single FA Cup win (plus the Division Two championship) were all the silverware fans had to cheer.
From 1973 to 1977, the club was managed by the flamboyant Tommy Docherty. Though his first full season saw the club endure relegation, they bounced back with a style sure to make older Reds misty eyed, based on youthful energy and skillful wingers. In 1977, they defeated Liverpool 2-1 in the FA Cup final a year after losing out to Southampton – a victory made sweeter as it prevented them from winning an unprecedented treble that United themselves would do in 1999.
All looked good: the forward line of Jimmy Greenhoff and Stuart Pearson (both interviewed here) offered flair, strength and mobility, wingers Gordon “Merlin” Hill and Steve Coppell had pace, unpredictability and industry backed up by young full backs Jimmy Nicholl and Arthur Albiston. The general view was that United would challenge for the big prizes.
Days after the cup victory, it was revealed Docherty was having an affair with the physio’s wife and was sacked with immediate effect. He was replaced with the more sedate Dave Sexton, whose more studied style of play never endeared him to the crowd, not helped by his sale of Stretford End heroes Hill and Pearson, replaced by the industrious Mickey Thomas and aggressive target man Joe Jordan.
Being a well- known hardcore United fan doubtless worked in Mitten’s favour in getting stories from the former heroes. We get honest opinions on teammates and managers. Martin Buchan, captain throughout the second half of the 70s into the early 80s, is complimented by many for being a great leader but is also described as "maybe not as intelligent as he thought he was" by another.
The managers also polarise opinion, especially Sexton, who did have his admirers in the team, such as Lou Macari while others believe the job was too big for a man who intensely disliked dealing with the press.
More so than the previous books, subsequent fortunes of the players after United vary wildly. Joe Jordan is enjoying no little success as assistant manager to Harry Redknapp at Tottenham Hotspur and Sammy McIlory has done wonders as manager with both Macclesfield Town and Morecombe. Gordon Hill runs a soccer school in Texas while Buchan (stated as being "cooler than the Fonz" by fans impressed by his smooth style on and off the pitch) works for the Professional Footballers Association.
At the other end, cult hero Jimmy Greenhoff lost everything when he was a cheated by a partner in an insurance business and, sadder still, has not spoken to his brother Brian, also a United player in the 70s, in decades. Gerry Daly (of the chant “five foot eight, underweight, Gerry Daly’s fucking great”) has suffered terrible personal tragedy and ill health. Several players remember Scots hardman Jim Holton, whose United career was stopped in an instant by a broken leg at Sheffield Wednesday and would die of a heart attack aged 42. Mitten fondly recalls the crowd’s chant of "six foot two, eyes of blue, big Jim Holton’s after you" by stating the man was six foot one, had brown eyes and if he did want to get after anyone, he’d have needed a motorbike to do so. All the same, Holton was good enough to represent Scotland in all three of their undefeated games at the 1974 World Cup, including a credible draw against reigning champions Brazil.
It’s true that this generation of players may be the last for whom playing for one of the biggest clubs in the world wasn't a ticket for life. Many have gone back to "normal" lives once the playing days ended: much-maligned reserve goalkeeper Paddy Roche works as a delivery driver, something you can never imagine a current top-flight player ever having to do outside gross financial mismanagement. Indeed, Lou Macari expresses incredulity when he hears of a "fringe" United player of today buying a £900,000 apartment.
The only negative I take from the books is that I'm jealous of the author for living my dream job - but at the same time I recognise the hard work the guy has put in since founding United We Stand when he was 15. True Reds won't do much better than investing in to his fine work documenting the history of our club.
Because of this, I've really enjoyed Andy Mitten's series of books featuring former players talking candidly about their careers. We're The Famous Man United and Glory Glory! covered the 1980s and 1990s, now United! United! does the same for the 70s.
It was the most turbulent – and least successful - decade for the club since the 1930s, with five managers overseeing the legendary Busby team of the 60s decline into relegation. A single FA Cup win (plus the Division Two championship) were all the silverware fans had to cheer.
From 1973 to 1977, the club was managed by the flamboyant Tommy Docherty. Though his first full season saw the club endure relegation, they bounced back with a style sure to make older Reds misty eyed, based on youthful energy and skillful wingers. In 1977, they defeated Liverpool 2-1 in the FA Cup final a year after losing out to Southampton – a victory made sweeter as it prevented them from winning an unprecedented treble that United themselves would do in 1999.
All looked good: the forward line of Jimmy Greenhoff and Stuart Pearson (both interviewed here) offered flair, strength and mobility, wingers Gordon “Merlin” Hill and Steve Coppell had pace, unpredictability and industry backed up by young full backs Jimmy Nicholl and Arthur Albiston. The general view was that United would challenge for the big prizes.
Days after the cup victory, it was revealed Docherty was having an affair with the physio’s wife and was sacked with immediate effect. He was replaced with the more sedate Dave Sexton, whose more studied style of play never endeared him to the crowd, not helped by his sale of Stretford End heroes Hill and Pearson, replaced by the industrious Mickey Thomas and aggressive target man Joe Jordan.
Being a well- known hardcore United fan doubtless worked in Mitten’s favour in getting stories from the former heroes. We get honest opinions on teammates and managers. Martin Buchan, captain throughout the second half of the 70s into the early 80s, is complimented by many for being a great leader but is also described as "maybe not as intelligent as he thought he was" by another.
The managers also polarise opinion, especially Sexton, who did have his admirers in the team, such as Lou Macari while others believe the job was too big for a man who intensely disliked dealing with the press.
More so than the previous books, subsequent fortunes of the players after United vary wildly. Joe Jordan is enjoying no little success as assistant manager to Harry Redknapp at Tottenham Hotspur and Sammy McIlory has done wonders as manager with both Macclesfield Town and Morecombe. Gordon Hill runs a soccer school in Texas while Buchan (stated as being "cooler than the Fonz" by fans impressed by his smooth style on and off the pitch) works for the Professional Footballers Association.
At the other end, cult hero Jimmy Greenhoff lost everything when he was a cheated by a partner in an insurance business and, sadder still, has not spoken to his brother Brian, also a United player in the 70s, in decades. Gerry Daly (of the chant “five foot eight, underweight, Gerry Daly’s fucking great”) has suffered terrible personal tragedy and ill health. Several players remember Scots hardman Jim Holton, whose United career was stopped in an instant by a broken leg at Sheffield Wednesday and would die of a heart attack aged 42. Mitten fondly recalls the crowd’s chant of "six foot two, eyes of blue, big Jim Holton’s after you" by stating the man was six foot one, had brown eyes and if he did want to get after anyone, he’d have needed a motorbike to do so. All the same, Holton was good enough to represent Scotland in all three of their undefeated games at the 1974 World Cup, including a credible draw against reigning champions Brazil.
It’s true that this generation of players may be the last for whom playing for one of the biggest clubs in the world wasn't a ticket for life. Many have gone back to "normal" lives once the playing days ended: much-maligned reserve goalkeeper Paddy Roche works as a delivery driver, something you can never imagine a current top-flight player ever having to do outside gross financial mismanagement. Indeed, Lou Macari expresses incredulity when he hears of a "fringe" United player of today buying a £900,000 apartment.
The only negative I take from the books is that I'm jealous of the author for living my dream job - but at the same time I recognise the hard work the guy has put in since founding United We Stand when he was 15. True Reds won't do much better than investing in to his fine work documenting the history of our club.
Wednesday, 27 July 2011
Put Down The Pen
Something I only just realised today is that authors, like bands or singers, tend to have a short time at the top of their game. They can be fashionable for a time - film adaptations, being asked to appear on radio/TV shows, write columns for broadsheets etc etc - before the relentless ticking of time creeps up leaving you gasping in the wake of the next pretender to the throne.
What got me thinking of this was flicking through Nick Hornby's High Fidelity for the first time in a good few years. From the mid 90s to the early part of the last decade, Hornby had it all rolling in his favour. His debut football-themed autobiography Fever Pitch sold by the shedload and got taken on big-time by a new generation of football supporters to the degree that many old school fans blame him for the sanitation of the game through the 90s. High Fidelity and About A Boy were equally successful follow-ups to the degree that he even got away with having a bunch of essays on his favourite songs published.
All three of his first books, in turn, were made into films, with Colin Firth, John Cusack and Hugh Grant playing the main characters. Given that all the protagonists were, at least in some part, based on Hornby himself, it must have been a buzz to have three handsome devils play the roles.
And yet, and yet... it seems to me, albeit somebody who's rarely had his finger on the cultural heartbeat, that Horny's star has fallen since those heady days. For starters, his third novel, How To Be Good, came across as a load of middle-class toss and for all his supposed love of music, his dismissal of British Sea Power from looking at a picture of them alone gave me the impression he preferred his music to be as safe and predictable as rock music allows.
Re-reading High Fidelity, one thing struck me hard. It's a decent novel, certainly, with some great lines and jokes, but the plot doesn't hold up to much scrutiny - would any self-respecting woman really take back a man who owes her thousands of pounds and cheated on her - and for a novel written by a guy in his mid 30s, it does come across as being the work of a much younger man at times.
All of which is not to take anything away from the chap. He made the top of the pile where countless others didn't and I'm sure his healthy bank balance, collection of awards and writing an album with Ben Folds means he doesn't give a toss what anyone thinks. That said, I do think his music journalism is third rate at best and 31 Songs was one of the most tedious books I've ever read.
What got me thinking of this was flicking through Nick Hornby's High Fidelity for the first time in a good few years. From the mid 90s to the early part of the last decade, Hornby had it all rolling in his favour. His debut football-themed autobiography Fever Pitch sold by the shedload and got taken on big-time by a new generation of football supporters to the degree that many old school fans blame him for the sanitation of the game through the 90s. High Fidelity and About A Boy were equally successful follow-ups to the degree that he even got away with having a bunch of essays on his favourite songs published.
All three of his first books, in turn, were made into films, with Colin Firth, John Cusack and Hugh Grant playing the main characters. Given that all the protagonists were, at least in some part, based on Hornby himself, it must have been a buzz to have three handsome devils play the roles.
And yet, and yet... it seems to me, albeit somebody who's rarely had his finger on the cultural heartbeat, that Horny's star has fallen since those heady days. For starters, his third novel, How To Be Good, came across as a load of middle-class toss and for all his supposed love of music, his dismissal of British Sea Power from looking at a picture of them alone gave me the impression he preferred his music to be as safe and predictable as rock music allows.
Re-reading High Fidelity, one thing struck me hard. It's a decent novel, certainly, with some great lines and jokes, but the plot doesn't hold up to much scrutiny - would any self-respecting woman really take back a man who owes her thousands of pounds and cheated on her - and for a novel written by a guy in his mid 30s, it does come across as being the work of a much younger man at times.
All of which is not to take anything away from the chap. He made the top of the pile where countless others didn't and I'm sure his healthy bank balance, collection of awards and writing an album with Ben Folds means he doesn't give a toss what anyone thinks. That said, I do think his music journalism is third rate at best and 31 Songs was one of the most tedious books I've ever read.
Tuesday, 12 July 2011
To Live and Die in L.A.
What with having no interest at all (and even a mild contempt towards) the whole L.A. scene between the end of the 60s and the mid 70s, Warren Zevon quietly passed under my radar. Sure, I knew Werewolves of London, Lawyers, Guns and Money and Roland The Headless Thompson Gunner. I'd even heard some of his work in the latter period of his life: I Was In The House When The House Burned Down is a great song.
But that seemed enough, somehow. He was slightly tainted by association with my own prejudices. I mean, Mick Fleetwood and John McVie provided the rhythm track on Werewolves. Fleetwood Mac? Fuck off! But no matter, there'd been an inkling of wanting to find out more from reading a few articles before his death and when I got the chance to borrow I'll Sleep When I'm Dead: The Dirty Life and Times of Warren Zevon, I decided to take it.
"Dirty" being the key word here: narrated by Crystal Zevon, his wife through the 70s and mother to his daughter, it features interviews with the cast of people who drifted in and out of our man's life. And given that life covered being a songwriter for the Turtles, half of a folk duo and bandleader for the Everly Brothers before he got his own record deal, there's a lot of people involved.
From early on, he had an interesting life. The son of a gangster involved with some heavy people, he picked up on music quickly and even managed to talk to the composer Stravinsky on a couple of occasions in his youth. By the time we're in the late 60s, he's making a name as a songwriter and building up a solid alcohol habit that would build into horrific addiction by the 70s.
It's this side of his personality that is the most interesting throughout the first half of the book. Tales of his drinking binges are legion and shocking - it's amazing that he managed some kind of functionality as a working musician throughout this time. Apparently, shortly before his death he insisted his ex-wife write this book and leave nothing out, and she certainly doesn't. We see his at times petty personality, constantly getting into conflict with those who want to help his career, such as Jackson Browne. Most harrowing of all are the times he beats up his wife during his worst periods as a drunk.
It's this aspect that can make it hard to sympathise with Zevon as a human being. By his then wife's accounts, he was capable of hitting her, then passing out in a heap and remembering nothing when he woke up. In an equally dark moment, she confesses that in her own battle with a drink problem years later, she had hit their daughter with no memory of it when the drunken fog lifted.
Doubtless Zevon's alcoholism affected his career to the degree that after his second album Excitable Boy, his fortunes went into freefall that only a few albums later, he was dropped by his label, leaving him to sink further into his bad habits. Only an intervention by close friends and family sees him sober up, and even then after a few false starts.
Though the rest of the 80s and 90s, Zevon continues to play to a committed audience, still helped out by friends who remain loyal despite his at times testing personality. The drink problem being gone seems to help the emergence of a case of OCD, which he improbably shares with his neighbour - one Billy Bob Thornton. Girlfriends come and go, in no part due to his apparent addiction to shagging any woman who offers themselves.
Given the book starts with an account of his last moments alive from a close friend, by the time we reach the year 2000, the spectre of the terminal cancer that would kill him looms over. Faced with death, he returns to heavy drinking but still manages to record a final album featuring the likes of Bruce Springsteen (a long time admirer of his work). More importantly, he lives long enough to see the birth of his twin grandchildren.
I'll Sleep When I'm Dead: The Dirty Life and Times of Warren Zevon is not an easy read. It possibly shows how much someone can get away with when other people regard them as a genius. Has it made me want to hear more of his music? Perhaps, in the hope it can help me understand a very troubled man who still managed to touch a lot of people.
But that seemed enough, somehow. He was slightly tainted by association with my own prejudices. I mean, Mick Fleetwood and John McVie provided the rhythm track on Werewolves. Fleetwood Mac? Fuck off! But no matter, there'd been an inkling of wanting to find out more from reading a few articles before his death and when I got the chance to borrow I'll Sleep When I'm Dead: The Dirty Life and Times of Warren Zevon, I decided to take it.
"Dirty" being the key word here: narrated by Crystal Zevon, his wife through the 70s and mother to his daughter, it features interviews with the cast of people who drifted in and out of our man's life. And given that life covered being a songwriter for the Turtles, half of a folk duo and bandleader for the Everly Brothers before he got his own record deal, there's a lot of people involved.
From early on, he had an interesting life. The son of a gangster involved with some heavy people, he picked up on music quickly and even managed to talk to the composer Stravinsky on a couple of occasions in his youth. By the time we're in the late 60s, he's making a name as a songwriter and building up a solid alcohol habit that would build into horrific addiction by the 70s.
It's this side of his personality that is the most interesting throughout the first half of the book. Tales of his drinking binges are legion and shocking - it's amazing that he managed some kind of functionality as a working musician throughout this time. Apparently, shortly before his death he insisted his ex-wife write this book and leave nothing out, and she certainly doesn't. We see his at times petty personality, constantly getting into conflict with those who want to help his career, such as Jackson Browne. Most harrowing of all are the times he beats up his wife during his worst periods as a drunk.
It's this aspect that can make it hard to sympathise with Zevon as a human being. By his then wife's accounts, he was capable of hitting her, then passing out in a heap and remembering nothing when he woke up. In an equally dark moment, she confesses that in her own battle with a drink problem years later, she had hit their daughter with no memory of it when the drunken fog lifted.
Doubtless Zevon's alcoholism affected his career to the degree that after his second album Excitable Boy, his fortunes went into freefall that only a few albums later, he was dropped by his label, leaving him to sink further into his bad habits. Only an intervention by close friends and family sees him sober up, and even then after a few false starts.
Though the rest of the 80s and 90s, Zevon continues to play to a committed audience, still helped out by friends who remain loyal despite his at times testing personality. The drink problem being gone seems to help the emergence of a case of OCD, which he improbably shares with his neighbour - one Billy Bob Thornton. Girlfriends come and go, in no part due to his apparent addiction to shagging any woman who offers themselves.
Given the book starts with an account of his last moments alive from a close friend, by the time we reach the year 2000, the spectre of the terminal cancer that would kill him looms over. Faced with death, he returns to heavy drinking but still manages to record a final album featuring the likes of Bruce Springsteen (a long time admirer of his work). More importantly, he lives long enough to see the birth of his twin grandchildren.
I'll Sleep When I'm Dead: The Dirty Life and Times of Warren Zevon is not an easy read. It possibly shows how much someone can get away with when other people regard them as a genius. Has it made me want to hear more of his music? Perhaps, in the hope it can help me understand a very troubled man who still managed to touch a lot of people.
Sunday, 3 April 2011
Dancing About Architecture
My introduction to the works of Nick Kent came from reading a biography of Factory Records many years ago, where Tony Wilson claimed Kent fitted him up by inventing a quote that had him saying "Ian Curtis dying on me was the best thing that happened in my life".
Even from someone in love with the sound of his own voice as Wilson, I took his side of the story in that he never said it. I always assumed he'd loved Curtis too much to say something like that, no matter how many drugs he was on at the time. Therefore, Nick Kent was an arse. I'd heard all about The Dark Stuff, his collection of music writing but decided to ignore it. After all, this is the man Bowie dismissed as Nick "I'm as cool as Keef" Kent.
But with a voucher for a High Street record store burning a hole in my pocket, and the book going for all of £3, I decided I'd drop my prejudices and take a look. What I did read mainly confirmed what I suspected, yet with some kind of redemption for the author in there too. The Dark Stuff, it would seem, is all about musicians with a large appetite for drugs, drink and sex, from which they draw creativity to get on with their art.
The articles on the Rolling Stones seem to be the origin of this line of thought, which doesn't really cut any ice with this hack, as the Stones ceased to have any relevance to creativity from the early 70s and descended into the Freak Show of Nostalgia from which they've stayed ever since. The tales of getting wasted with Keith Richards are the worst kind of gonzo journalism: the back cover pic of Kent looked rake thin, long haired, leather trousered and with cigarette in hand would suggest that he never got over not being a rock star himself.
More pathetic is his article on Sid Vicious, entitled 'The Exploding Dim Wit'. Evidently, the writer never forgave that slap Sid gave him and concludes that Sid and Nancy had "at the age of 20 already wasted themselves beyond belief. Let them rot". Such bitterness is neither pretty or clever but not entirely surprising: he always seemed to prefer the Clash, possibly because they threw the Stones-esque shapes he loved, hence his putting the boot big time into Sandinista! for being some kind of betrayal.
The pieces on Morrissey/The Smiths, Sly Stone and Phil Spector are basic biographies of the subjects and offer little. But, but, but... Kent pulls the whole thing out of the mire was some outstanding work. 'The Last Beach Movie Revisited: The Life of Brian Wilson' is a tragic piece, showing one of the greatest songwriters of the 60s doped up to the point of having the mental capacity of a small child. He also captures Elvis Costello in his classic Angry Young Man phase, getting the "guilt and revenge are the only emotions I know about" line that would follow young Declan around for years.
Most poignant of all is an interview with Roy Orbison. Kent is, understandably, in awe of the man, stating "he looked perfect" at a time when the Big O's career was back on track after the best part of 20 years in the wilderness. Having being resurrected by the likes of David Lynch and Bruce Springsteen, hit the top with the Travelling Wilburys and recorded a new album, life looked good for the man. He states that "God has his plans, and I've got mine". Nine days after the interview, the man was dead.
"A modern classic, one of the few essential collections of writing on rock music"? Not a chance. Nick Kent is a decent writer who interviewed some of the most interesting and talented icons in 20th century pop music. Whatever the Dark Stuff is, it may well be more fun to actually engage in than read about.
Even from someone in love with the sound of his own voice as Wilson, I took his side of the story in that he never said it. I always assumed he'd loved Curtis too much to say something like that, no matter how many drugs he was on at the time. Therefore, Nick Kent was an arse. I'd heard all about The Dark Stuff, his collection of music writing but decided to ignore it. After all, this is the man Bowie dismissed as Nick "I'm as cool as Keef" Kent.
But with a voucher for a High Street record store burning a hole in my pocket, and the book going for all of £3, I decided I'd drop my prejudices and take a look. What I did read mainly confirmed what I suspected, yet with some kind of redemption for the author in there too. The Dark Stuff, it would seem, is all about musicians with a large appetite for drugs, drink and sex, from which they draw creativity to get on with their art.
The articles on the Rolling Stones seem to be the origin of this line of thought, which doesn't really cut any ice with this hack, as the Stones ceased to have any relevance to creativity from the early 70s and descended into the Freak Show of Nostalgia from which they've stayed ever since. The tales of getting wasted with Keith Richards are the worst kind of gonzo journalism: the back cover pic of Kent looked rake thin, long haired, leather trousered and with cigarette in hand would suggest that he never got over not being a rock star himself.
More pathetic is his article on Sid Vicious, entitled 'The Exploding Dim Wit'. Evidently, the writer never forgave that slap Sid gave him and concludes that Sid and Nancy had "at the age of 20 already wasted themselves beyond belief. Let them rot". Such bitterness is neither pretty or clever but not entirely surprising: he always seemed to prefer the Clash, possibly because they threw the Stones-esque shapes he loved, hence his putting the boot big time into Sandinista! for being some kind of betrayal.
The pieces on Morrissey/The Smiths, Sly Stone and Phil Spector are basic biographies of the subjects and offer little. But, but, but... Kent pulls the whole thing out of the mire was some outstanding work. 'The Last Beach Movie Revisited: The Life of Brian Wilson' is a tragic piece, showing one of the greatest songwriters of the 60s doped up to the point of having the mental capacity of a small child. He also captures Elvis Costello in his classic Angry Young Man phase, getting the "guilt and revenge are the only emotions I know about" line that would follow young Declan around for years.
Most poignant of all is an interview with Roy Orbison. Kent is, understandably, in awe of the man, stating "he looked perfect" at a time when the Big O's career was back on track after the best part of 20 years in the wilderness. Having being resurrected by the likes of David Lynch and Bruce Springsteen, hit the top with the Travelling Wilburys and recorded a new album, life looked good for the man. He states that "God has his plans, and I've got mine". Nine days after the interview, the man was dead.
"A modern classic, one of the few essential collections of writing on rock music"? Not a chance. Nick Kent is a decent writer who interviewed some of the most interesting and talented icons in 20th century pop music. Whatever the Dark Stuff is, it may well be more fun to actually engage in than read about.
Thursday, 10 March 2011
Taking Giant Steps Then Going Blank Again
Completing a trilogy of sorts (after getting through similar books on Rough Trade and Factory), I recently finished reading David Cavanagh's excellent biography of Creation Records, My Magpie Eyes Are Hungry For The Prize. Thankfully, the tale doesn't centre too much around a certain pub-rock band until strictly necessary and instead focuses around the man who founded and provided the public face, Alan McGee.
While Factory had the aesthetics and my all-time favourite band and Rough Trade had the (apparently) right-on politics, Creation had the roster. A large number of my favourite bands recorded for them: Jesus and Mary Chain, Felt, My Bloody Valentine, the House of Love, Ride, Slowdive and Teenage Fanclub.
McGee was unlike his fellow indie honchos Tony Wilson and Geoff Travis in several crucial respects. For one, he was solidly working class and hadn't gone to university. Secondly, he played in several bands prior to founding a label and even used that to release music by Biff Bang Pow!, playing alongside his business partner Dick Green. Thirdly, and perhaps most telling, unlike the other two he made a very large amount of money from the music industry.
Through the initial chapters, Cavanagh provides context for McGee's ambitions by offering backstory on the indie scene of the early 80s in both Glasgow (Postcard Records) and London (Rough Trade, Cherry Red). Coming from an angle of fanzines and organising club nights, the big break is when McGee sees the potential in a bunch of young lads from East Kilbride who make a racket based on lack of guitar skill and excessive feedback helped (apparently) by a crap PA. Releasing the Jesus and Mary Chain's debut single Upside Down puts Creation, and McGee, on the map as it sells tens of thousands.
Cavanagh gives plenty of time to the the period between the label's first success and last. Also-rans such as the Loft are given their time to tell their stories of how McGee stumbled along till 1990, when he snapped up Ride (giving him his first top 75 single and top 20 album) and Primal Scream stopped being a crap rock band and embraced the present. Of interest to me was the explanation of the House of Love's guitarist Terry Bickers' psychological problems that saw him kicked out of the band, at the same time scuppering the band's vast potential.
Matters begin to get a bit ugly in when McGee embraces the lifestyle associated around house music, gobbling ecstasy like sweets, later moving onto a copious cocaine habit that results in a complete breakdown by the mid 90s, of which the man himself talks of with brutal honesty. When Oasis do enter the picture, thanks to an (in)famous gig in Glasgow, McGee is already beginning the retreat from the day-to-day running of the label, which became much more business-like after Sony bought up 49% of the shares to save it from going bust.
It's here that the story, to me, wanes. Oasis sell shitloads of albums despite or because of a chronic lack of intelligence, McGee earns millions and gets involved in the New Labour bandwagon, despite having always been something of a budding capitalist whose main interest seemed to be becoming a millionaire. Strange at the time, less so in retrospect. Indeed, it may be said that the "prize" of the title was the vast wealth he came into. Meanwhile, his label struggles to sell albums by anyone not monobrowed and from Burnage. Only the Boo Radleys, with their #1 album Wake Up Boo! seem to be able to come close to competing, and even then only briefly.
By 1999, he clicks along with everyone else he's been duped by Blair, though not before apparently influencing policy on struggling musicians and unemployment benefits, and backs away from politics. He also folds Creation and starts again with Poptones, whose main plus point was bringing the Hives to wider attention.
My Magpie Eyes... is about as comprehensive a history of a label as you're going to get. Petty arguments are examined while all the major players from all parts of the business (bar members of Oasis and Primal Scream's successful line ups) are interviewed through the 700+ pages, making this worthy reading for anybody interested in the British indie scene of the 80s and 90s.
While Factory had the aesthetics and my all-time favourite band and Rough Trade had the (apparently) right-on politics, Creation had the roster. A large number of my favourite bands recorded for them: Jesus and Mary Chain, Felt, My Bloody Valentine, the House of Love, Ride, Slowdive and Teenage Fanclub.
McGee was unlike his fellow indie honchos Tony Wilson and Geoff Travis in several crucial respects. For one, he was solidly working class and hadn't gone to university. Secondly, he played in several bands prior to founding a label and even used that to release music by Biff Bang Pow!, playing alongside his business partner Dick Green. Thirdly, and perhaps most telling, unlike the other two he made a very large amount of money from the music industry.
Through the initial chapters, Cavanagh provides context for McGee's ambitions by offering backstory on the indie scene of the early 80s in both Glasgow (Postcard Records) and London (Rough Trade, Cherry Red). Coming from an angle of fanzines and organising club nights, the big break is when McGee sees the potential in a bunch of young lads from East Kilbride who make a racket based on lack of guitar skill and excessive feedback helped (apparently) by a crap PA. Releasing the Jesus and Mary Chain's debut single Upside Down puts Creation, and McGee, on the map as it sells tens of thousands.
Cavanagh gives plenty of time to the the period between the label's first success and last. Also-rans such as the Loft are given their time to tell their stories of how McGee stumbled along till 1990, when he snapped up Ride (giving him his first top 75 single and top 20 album) and Primal Scream stopped being a crap rock band and embraced the present. Of interest to me was the explanation of the House of Love's guitarist Terry Bickers' psychological problems that saw him kicked out of the band, at the same time scuppering the band's vast potential.
Matters begin to get a bit ugly in when McGee embraces the lifestyle associated around house music, gobbling ecstasy like sweets, later moving onto a copious cocaine habit that results in a complete breakdown by the mid 90s, of which the man himself talks of with brutal honesty. When Oasis do enter the picture, thanks to an (in)famous gig in Glasgow, McGee is already beginning the retreat from the day-to-day running of the label, which became much more business-like after Sony bought up 49% of the shares to save it from going bust.
It's here that the story, to me, wanes. Oasis sell shitloads of albums despite or because of a chronic lack of intelligence, McGee earns millions and gets involved in the New Labour bandwagon, despite having always been something of a budding capitalist whose main interest seemed to be becoming a millionaire. Strange at the time, less so in retrospect. Indeed, it may be said that the "prize" of the title was the vast wealth he came into. Meanwhile, his label struggles to sell albums by anyone not monobrowed and from Burnage. Only the Boo Radleys, with their #1 album Wake Up Boo! seem to be able to come close to competing, and even then only briefly.
By 1999, he clicks along with everyone else he's been duped by Blair, though not before apparently influencing policy on struggling musicians and unemployment benefits, and backs away from politics. He also folds Creation and starts again with Poptones, whose main plus point was bringing the Hives to wider attention.
My Magpie Eyes... is about as comprehensive a history of a label as you're going to get. Petty arguments are examined while all the major players from all parts of the business (bar members of Oasis and Primal Scream's successful line ups) are interviewed through the 700+ pages, making this worthy reading for anybody interested in the British indie scene of the 80s and 90s.
Thursday, 13 January 2011
Labelled With Love
I've recently finished reading Document and Eyewitness: An Intimate History of Rough Trade, a comprehensive account of the record store that grew into a label that's still kicking around today, albeit under somewhat different circumstances.
It's easy to draw comparisons between Rough Trade (the label) and Factory Records. Both were driven by middle class, Cambridge graduates with a deep love of music and both managed to house esoteric artists (Robert Wyatt, Durutti Column) and those that managed major commercial success (Joy Division/New Order, the Smiths). Both also suffered in the early 90s from financial problems and went under with major debts. Unlike Anthony H. Wilson, however, Rough Trade mainman Geoff Travis has managed to keep the name as a viable concern into the present age thanks to a number of artists that, frankly, I can't stand, such as the Strokes, Duffy and the Libertines. Yet anyone who allows British Sea Power to do their thing still gets major kudos points from this hack.
Document and Eyewitness is certainly an entertaining read due to the chaotic nature of what running an indie label must be like. Somewhat obviously, the early days are the most interesting, with stories of armed robberies on the shop that founded the brand and aiding with the release of pioneering singles by the likes of the Normal and Scritti Polliti.
Yet where it pales in comparison to the Factory Records story (of which I've yet to read the definitive account, though the Shadowplayers documentary DVD from a few years ago did a superb job) is that there's so few really interesting, eccentric characters to compare with the likes of Wilson, Rob Gretton, Martin Hannett and Vini Reilly. Rough Trade's stance on letting band's always choose their own artwork also didn't help create the kind of unifying identity Factory had, which is of course probably more to the benefit of many artists. Also, perhaps the cynic in me found the constant debate over the Rough Trade 'ethos' a bit tiring - much as Wilson's situationist gig may have grated the vast majority, he never really did care about making money, which explained Factory's collapse. From reading this, it seems Rough Trade increased the amount of business bods around and still managed to lose millions.
At the end, Factory obviously makes for a better story, hence the existence of 24 Hour Party People. Wilson was an expert at creating and building myths around his bands, his label and himself, not surprising for a guy with a background in television. Travis, on the other hand, comes across as a guy for whom it's just about the music. If I were in a band in the 80s, your head would tell you to sign for Rough Trade, but your heart would be drawn to the insanity of Factory and the snob in me would always want to have a Peter Saville design on the cover of an album.
It's easy to draw comparisons between Rough Trade (the label) and Factory Records. Both were driven by middle class, Cambridge graduates with a deep love of music and both managed to house esoteric artists (Robert Wyatt, Durutti Column) and those that managed major commercial success (Joy Division/New Order, the Smiths). Both also suffered in the early 90s from financial problems and went under with major debts. Unlike Anthony H. Wilson, however, Rough Trade mainman Geoff Travis has managed to keep the name as a viable concern into the present age thanks to a number of artists that, frankly, I can't stand, such as the Strokes, Duffy and the Libertines. Yet anyone who allows British Sea Power to do their thing still gets major kudos points from this hack.
Document and Eyewitness is certainly an entertaining read due to the chaotic nature of what running an indie label must be like. Somewhat obviously, the early days are the most interesting, with stories of armed robberies on the shop that founded the brand and aiding with the release of pioneering singles by the likes of the Normal and Scritti Polliti.
Yet where it pales in comparison to the Factory Records story (of which I've yet to read the definitive account, though the Shadowplayers documentary DVD from a few years ago did a superb job) is that there's so few really interesting, eccentric characters to compare with the likes of Wilson, Rob Gretton, Martin Hannett and Vini Reilly. Rough Trade's stance on letting band's always choose their own artwork also didn't help create the kind of unifying identity Factory had, which is of course probably more to the benefit of many artists. Also, perhaps the cynic in me found the constant debate over the Rough Trade 'ethos' a bit tiring - much as Wilson's situationist gig may have grated the vast majority, he never really did care about making money, which explained Factory's collapse. From reading this, it seems Rough Trade increased the amount of business bods around and still managed to lose millions.
At the end, Factory obviously makes for a better story, hence the existence of 24 Hour Party People. Wilson was an expert at creating and building myths around his bands, his label and himself, not surprising for a guy with a background in television. Travis, on the other hand, comes across as a guy for whom it's just about the music. If I were in a band in the 80s, your head would tell you to sign for Rough Trade, but your heart would be drawn to the insanity of Factory and the snob in me would always want to have a Peter Saville design on the cover of an album.
Monday, 27 September 2010
Three Chords and a Lyric About Something
Following my post about Felt, I did a little internet digging to find out more about Lawrence, and his current activities. I'd heard rumours, and hoped that's all they were, regarding his lifestyle of late. One forum mentioned a book that featured some extended interviews with the man.
The book was Song Man by Will Hodgkinson, whose brother was one of the people behind The Idler, a magazine I've long dismissed as tedious, middle class and having nothing to say to the true idle git. This genetic connection put me off, but luckily, a second hand copy was tracked down for a couple of quid. Result.
In a nutshell, it's the sequel to Guitar Man, in which a mid 30s-Hodgkinson sets out to learn guitar with help from various masters he's able to call on through his dayjob as a journalist. Subsequently, and somewhat obviously, he decides to write a song. And this is the story behind this book, with the added clause that he intends to record a single by a set deadline.
Lawrence appears in the first chapter, and my fears were confirmed when he's shown to be living the life of a junkie in a tiny flat, constantly in fear of being thrown out and onto the street. Hodgkinson loses points right away for describing Felt as "fey", but Lawrence seems to take to him (though the author is honest enough to admit he may just like the company) and acts as a kind of songwriting guide throughout the book.
Elsewhere, he gets 'lessons' from the likes of XTC's Andy Partridge, Bert Jansch and Richard Hawley, as well as picking the brains of songwriting genius' like Lamont Dozier, Hal David and Ray Davies, the latter somewhat predictably turning out to be a bit of a distant type. In between, he squabbles with the friend he wants to co-write with and his wife, who he wants to sing on the single.
Despite the author coming across as a bit of a dick at many points, Song Man is a decent read because of the songwriters interviewed. A highlight for me was when we come across Jake Holmes, who recorded a couple of albums in the late 60s that sold to nobody, but also wrote a song called Dazed and Confused, later to be ripped off by Jimmy Page. Hodgkinson is surprised to find he works in a very plush office/studio complex: it turns out he turned his hand to advertising jingles, notably the "Gillette - the best a man can get" riff, which has doubtless kept him in guitar strings for the past 30 years.
At the conclusion, the narrator gets his song penned and recorded, with help with a sympathetic friend who owns a studio. Lawrence is evicted from his flat and is living in a hostel in London's east end, constantly in fear of being mugged. Given this book was written in 2007, I hope the last three years have seen Lawrence - one of my favourite songwriters - get back on his feet, off the junk and living with a bit of security.
The book was Song Man by Will Hodgkinson, whose brother was one of the people behind The Idler, a magazine I've long dismissed as tedious, middle class and having nothing to say to the true idle git. This genetic connection put me off, but luckily, a second hand copy was tracked down for a couple of quid. Result.
In a nutshell, it's the sequel to Guitar Man, in which a mid 30s-Hodgkinson sets out to learn guitar with help from various masters he's able to call on through his dayjob as a journalist. Subsequently, and somewhat obviously, he decides to write a song. And this is the story behind this book, with the added clause that he intends to record a single by a set deadline.
Lawrence appears in the first chapter, and my fears were confirmed when he's shown to be living the life of a junkie in a tiny flat, constantly in fear of being thrown out and onto the street. Hodgkinson loses points right away for describing Felt as "fey", but Lawrence seems to take to him (though the author is honest enough to admit he may just like the company) and acts as a kind of songwriting guide throughout the book.
Elsewhere, he gets 'lessons' from the likes of XTC's Andy Partridge, Bert Jansch and Richard Hawley, as well as picking the brains of songwriting genius' like Lamont Dozier, Hal David and Ray Davies, the latter somewhat predictably turning out to be a bit of a distant type. In between, he squabbles with the friend he wants to co-write with and his wife, who he wants to sing on the single.
Despite the author coming across as a bit of a dick at many points, Song Man is a decent read because of the songwriters interviewed. A highlight for me was when we come across Jake Holmes, who recorded a couple of albums in the late 60s that sold to nobody, but also wrote a song called Dazed and Confused, later to be ripped off by Jimmy Page. Hodgkinson is surprised to find he works in a very plush office/studio complex: it turns out he turned his hand to advertising jingles, notably the "Gillette - the best a man can get" riff, which has doubtless kept him in guitar strings for the past 30 years.
At the conclusion, the narrator gets his song penned and recorded, with help with a sympathetic friend who owns a studio. Lawrence is evicted from his flat and is living in a hostel in London's east end, constantly in fear of being mugged. Given this book was written in 2007, I hope the last three years have seen Lawrence - one of my favourite songwriters - get back on his feet, off the junk and living with a bit of security.
Wednesday, 15 September 2010
Life, Death and the Game
Despite thinking of myself as a big Manchester United fan, I'd never got round to reading A Strange Kind of Glory, journalist Eamon Dunphy's biography of Matt Busby, first released in 1991, despite the praise from many other supporters of it being "essential reading".
To be honest, I'd long regarded Dunphy as a bit of a gobshite from his appearances on Irish TV, where he always seemed to be slagging something or someone off, albeit often with justification. I had particularly enjoyed his slating of the United team before a European game against Roma in 2007. Stating Roma were a better class and dismissing United's chances, he was left looking a bit daft by the 7-1 result.
I'd also not been too impressed with his ghostwriting of Roy Keane's somewhat tedious autobiography, but when I caught sight of his Busby book at a friend's house last Sunday, it seemed harmless enough to take a look. A good move.
Dunphy was perhaps better placed than most journalists to write such a work. A professional footballer himself, good enough to play over 20 times for the Republic of Ireland, he'd started out as a youngster at Manchester United, though never making the first team. His own first hand experience of the goings on at the club give backing to the claims that some of his colleagues conspired to fix matches in the early 60s, an allegation new to me.
In terms of Busby, Dunphy does a sound job of explaining the man in the context of his background and upbringing. A Scottish Catholic, of Irish heritage, at a time of great sectarian prejudice, Busby seems to rise above it through the influence of his mother (his father being a victim of the First World War) and the freedom of the football pitch, on which he excelled and enabled him to escape a life down the coal mine when he signed for Manchester City as a 17 year old.
A point is made of young Matt's close relationship with his maternal grandfather, an Irishman and something of a lovable rogue. Dunphy suggests that the generally strait-laced Busby (whose only true vice would be gambling) enjoyed the company of such characters and would often less judgemental - hence his tolerance of the antics of George Best decades later.
The life of a footballer in the first half of the century is also laid out. Bound by a maximum wage and tied to clubs until they were no longer wanted or needed, players often ended up on the scrapheap. Billy Meredith, the legendary figure of both Manchester City and United, arguably the first superstar of English football, played till he was nearly 50 but still died with little to his name in 1958.
Busby also noted the limitations of the managers of the time. After serving as a PT instructor during the Second World War, he agreed to take the job as manager of Manchester United on the condition he had complete control of team affairs. Interfering directors were not to be tolerated. With a sympathetic chairman, he got his way. Recruiting Jimmy Murphy as his assistant, he set to work at rebuilding a club with little money, a bombed out ground and who hadn't won a trophy in over 30 years.
When the book reaches the 50s, and the origins of what become the "Busby Babes", it's great to read stories of young players like Bobby Charlton, Duncan Edwards and Wilf McGuinness spending evenings at the cinema or the skate rink. This is the romanticised side of the game back then - players doing it for love, crowds full of passionate local support etc etc. However, Dunphy also explains the world of illegal payments to parents by clubs to persuade them to let their son sign to them over rivals.
Even Busby himself is shown to be ruthless, intolerant of any dissent. Charlie Mitten and Johnny Morris, two vital cogs in the team of the late 1940s, are cast out when they step out of line with no mercy. Throughout his management, United - despite being the best supported and amongst the most successful team of the time - are paying star names well below what they would receive elsewhere.
The tales of the 50s team, enjoyable as they are, are tainted by the knowledge of what will happen next. The Munich Air Disaster is the obvious sharp turn from which the story changes. Busby changes, physically and mentally. No longer the tracksuit manager of before, he takes a more backstage role. Dunphy writes of personal experience of other players showing little or no respect for their manager, with the tide finally turning to the Hollywood ending of the 1968 European Cup triumph. Busby retired a year later.
But as every good United fan know, the story doesn't end there. The club went into steep decline afterwards, recruiting three managers in quick succession and suffering relegation in 1974. Jimmy Murphy, after years of 70 hour weeks, is cast aside with no reward. Busby, having spent years plotting for local businessman Louis Edwards to snare the chairman position - with the apparent agreement their sons would eventually take positions on the board - sees his choice renege on the promise. Edwards junior would later take control of the club and oversee the floatation on the stock market that some would argue has led to current problems.
A compelling book, the best praise I can give is that I read it at every possible moment, it surely is as essential reading as people will tell you for an insight into the man who made Manchester United what they are today. Betrayal, power, greed - sometimes real lives are more exciting than fiction.
To be honest, I'd long regarded Dunphy as a bit of a gobshite from his appearances on Irish TV, where he always seemed to be slagging something or someone off, albeit often with justification. I had particularly enjoyed his slating of the United team before a European game against Roma in 2007. Stating Roma were a better class and dismissing United's chances, he was left looking a bit daft by the 7-1 result.
I'd also not been too impressed with his ghostwriting of Roy Keane's somewhat tedious autobiography, but when I caught sight of his Busby book at a friend's house last Sunday, it seemed harmless enough to take a look. A good move.
Dunphy was perhaps better placed than most journalists to write such a work. A professional footballer himself, good enough to play over 20 times for the Republic of Ireland, he'd started out as a youngster at Manchester United, though never making the first team. His own first hand experience of the goings on at the club give backing to the claims that some of his colleagues conspired to fix matches in the early 60s, an allegation new to me.
In terms of Busby, Dunphy does a sound job of explaining the man in the context of his background and upbringing. A Scottish Catholic, of Irish heritage, at a time of great sectarian prejudice, Busby seems to rise above it through the influence of his mother (his father being a victim of the First World War) and the freedom of the football pitch, on which he excelled and enabled him to escape a life down the coal mine when he signed for Manchester City as a 17 year old.
A point is made of young Matt's close relationship with his maternal grandfather, an Irishman and something of a lovable rogue. Dunphy suggests that the generally strait-laced Busby (whose only true vice would be gambling) enjoyed the company of such characters and would often less judgemental - hence his tolerance of the antics of George Best decades later.
The life of a footballer in the first half of the century is also laid out. Bound by a maximum wage and tied to clubs until they were no longer wanted or needed, players often ended up on the scrapheap. Billy Meredith, the legendary figure of both Manchester City and United, arguably the first superstar of English football, played till he was nearly 50 but still died with little to his name in 1958.
Busby also noted the limitations of the managers of the time. After serving as a PT instructor during the Second World War, he agreed to take the job as manager of Manchester United on the condition he had complete control of team affairs. Interfering directors were not to be tolerated. With a sympathetic chairman, he got his way. Recruiting Jimmy Murphy as his assistant, he set to work at rebuilding a club with little money, a bombed out ground and who hadn't won a trophy in over 30 years.
When the book reaches the 50s, and the origins of what become the "Busby Babes", it's great to read stories of young players like Bobby Charlton, Duncan Edwards and Wilf McGuinness spending evenings at the cinema or the skate rink. This is the romanticised side of the game back then - players doing it for love, crowds full of passionate local support etc etc. However, Dunphy also explains the world of illegal payments to parents by clubs to persuade them to let their son sign to them over rivals.
Even Busby himself is shown to be ruthless, intolerant of any dissent. Charlie Mitten and Johnny Morris, two vital cogs in the team of the late 1940s, are cast out when they step out of line with no mercy. Throughout his management, United - despite being the best supported and amongst the most successful team of the time - are paying star names well below what they would receive elsewhere.
The tales of the 50s team, enjoyable as they are, are tainted by the knowledge of what will happen next. The Munich Air Disaster is the obvious sharp turn from which the story changes. Busby changes, physically and mentally. No longer the tracksuit manager of before, he takes a more backstage role. Dunphy writes of personal experience of other players showing little or no respect for their manager, with the tide finally turning to the Hollywood ending of the 1968 European Cup triumph. Busby retired a year later.
But as every good United fan know, the story doesn't end there. The club went into steep decline afterwards, recruiting three managers in quick succession and suffering relegation in 1974. Jimmy Murphy, after years of 70 hour weeks, is cast aside with no reward. Busby, having spent years plotting for local businessman Louis Edwards to snare the chairman position - with the apparent agreement their sons would eventually take positions on the board - sees his choice renege on the promise. Edwards junior would later take control of the club and oversee the floatation on the stock market that some would argue has led to current problems.
A compelling book, the best praise I can give is that I read it at every possible moment, it surely is as essential reading as people will tell you for an insight into the man who made Manchester United what they are today. Betrayal, power, greed - sometimes real lives are more exciting than fiction.
Wednesday, 30 June 2010
Rude Boys Outta Jail
A nice bit of synchronicity happened upon me last week: after writing my piece on the Venture Bros, mentioning a character named after the bassist from the Specials, an extended bumming around town on my lunch break saw me happen upon the memoirs of the man also known as Horace Panter, and at a price that demanded purchase too.
Panter is a man who knows what the audience want: titled 'Ska'd For Life' and featuring our hero in his two-tone gear on the front, he skips over most of his childhood to the point we want to know the details - the formation and exploits of Coventry's finest musical exports. Having moved to Cov from Kettering to study art, meeting Jerry Dammers along the way, he plays in various small-time pub bands before gravitating towards the ska sound.
What comes across very well throughout is the speed at which things seemed to happen once the seven Specials were all in place. From debut single Gangsters hitting the top 10, to the debut album, first tour of America, first chart topping single followed by second album, the legendary Ghost Town hitting the top and the band splitting whizzes by in no time.
Panter comes across as an affable narrator, and points out early on that this is just his version of events, rather than a true history of the band. The core of the book is a reproduction of the diary he kept during a gruelling six week tour of the States in 1980: tempers fray, exhaustion sets in and all question just why they are doing what they are. It's not a great advertisement for being in a band, but makes for interesting reading.
Where 'Ska'd For Life' does fall down a tad is a lack of, for me, insight into the various personalities of many of his bandmates. Though conversations with Dammers are mentioned, no details are gone into. Yet Panter still manages to convey his own sadness at how the band gradually splintered and failed to explore their potential further (this was also written before their well-received comeback tour last year) and expresses his own wish for his old bandleader to write his own book.
If you pop along to your local Fopp, as I did, you may find 'Ska'd For Life' costing less than a pint of beer. Well worth checking for anyone with even only a casual interest in the Specials.
(In an additional bit of happy coincidence, on getting home later in the day I bought this book, whilst looking for something else, I found my Rude Boy/Beat Girl ska badge that I thought I'd lost ages ago. Great stuff)
Panter is a man who knows what the audience want: titled 'Ska'd For Life' and featuring our hero in his two-tone gear on the front, he skips over most of his childhood to the point we want to know the details - the formation and exploits of Coventry's finest musical exports. Having moved to Cov from Kettering to study art, meeting Jerry Dammers along the way, he plays in various small-time pub bands before gravitating towards the ska sound.
What comes across very well throughout is the speed at which things seemed to happen once the seven Specials were all in place. From debut single Gangsters hitting the top 10, to the debut album, first tour of America, first chart topping single followed by second album, the legendary Ghost Town hitting the top and the band splitting whizzes by in no time.
Panter comes across as an affable narrator, and points out early on that this is just his version of events, rather than a true history of the band. The core of the book is a reproduction of the diary he kept during a gruelling six week tour of the States in 1980: tempers fray, exhaustion sets in and all question just why they are doing what they are. It's not a great advertisement for being in a band, but makes for interesting reading.
Where 'Ska'd For Life' does fall down a tad is a lack of, for me, insight into the various personalities of many of his bandmates. Though conversations with Dammers are mentioned, no details are gone into. Yet Panter still manages to convey his own sadness at how the band gradually splintered and failed to explore their potential further (this was also written before their well-received comeback tour last year) and expresses his own wish for his old bandleader to write his own book.
If you pop along to your local Fopp, as I did, you may find 'Ska'd For Life' costing less than a pint of beer. Well worth checking for anyone with even only a casual interest in the Specials.
(In an additional bit of happy coincidence, on getting home later in the day I bought this book, whilst looking for something else, I found my Rude Boy/Beat Girl ska badge that I thought I'd lost ages ago. Great stuff)
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