There's More To Life Than Books, You Know (But Not Much More)

Hopefully I'll have less time to read soon... and those are eight words I never thought I'd find myself typing. I only mean that when the pot comes off my arm and I can get back to my normal routine, reading won't be my only option for entertainment (for example, I've missed four gigs while in plaster - including Morrissey at the Beeb). It will, however, still be top of the list.

Here's a few books that have stopped me going stir-crazy over the last couple of weeks...

...whether you're a record producer or an artist or a manager, record companies are the enemy. They're the voice of gloom. A barrier between enthusiastic creativity and the waiting public. Record companies always play safe, lose faith, change their minds, and hesitate. They're a rest home for the mentally sluggish. They're overstaffed. They're out to lunch. They're in a meeting. Beating about the bush. Avoiding decisions, and deadlines, and phone calls. Thirty-thousand-a-year executives asking the messenger boy his opinion because, after all, it's the kids on the streets who buy the records, isn't it?

Originally published in 1982, and dealing almost exclusively with the music industry of the 60s (when £30k a year was serious money - not that it isn't now; I wish I earned that), You Don't Have To Say You Love Me tells tall tales of a bygone era. For anyone feeling sorry for the state of the music business in the 21st Century, you can't help thinking "they got what they deserved" after reading Simon Napier-Bell's memoir. That said - and all hyperbole aside - this is the funniest book about music I've ever read.

Napier-Bell began his career in pop when he co-wrote the lyrics to the eponymous Dusty Springfield chart topper one night "between dinner and the club". Realising how much money there was to be made in this insane industry, the former adman decided to wade on in, becoming the manager of groups like The Yardbirds and the tragically awful John's Children. Reading the stories here, it's obvious that SNB is a bullshit-raconteur par excellence, which goes a long was to explaining his success.

Hilarious (and occasionally bittersweet) anecdotes include ripping off record companies, getting seduced by Brian Epstein, arranging an orgy for a TV documentary, finding himself contracted by the Chinese Secret Police to manufacture a group that would subliminally control the minds of teenagers (like The Jock, but for real), and being rescued from certain death (twice) by Keith Moon. SNB doesn't waste time with waffle, it's like he's telling these stories over drinks in a bar and wants to get to the point - or the punchline - as quickly as possible, making for an immensely readable collection that surprises and horrifies with every page.

On explaining to a young Marc Bolan the sordid truths of the music industry (and persuading him to be a part of John's People)...

I said, "Joining the group will start you off on the road to eventual stardom. And you gotta start getting rich soon if you're going to be like James Dean and buy a Porsche."

"Oh no," Marc told me. "A Porsche wouldn't be right for me. I'm too small. I think a Mini is the right car for me. If I was going to die in a car crash, it out to be a Mini. I think I'd like that. It'd be nice."

From Simon Napier-Bell to Malcolm Gladwell is an easier transition than you might expect. Both are born storytellers. Gladwell's latest, Outliers - The Story Of Success, deals with similar issues to You Don't Have To Say... - namely why certain people make it big in their chosen field while others fall by the wayside.

There's an accepted belief that the reason the likes of Bill Gates and the Beatles became world-famous pioneers is that they were 'outliers' - genius thinkers or talents so far removed from their contemporaries that no-one else could ever come close. Gladwell challenges this by suggesting many other factors play a part in success, from cultural and economic backgrounds to good, old-fashioned hard work and 'practise makes perfect'. (During their Hamburg days, the Beatles often played 8 hour sets 7 days a week - they perfected their art over thousands of hours of live performance that wasn't available to many other groups.) Along the way he looks at why more planes crashed in Korea in the 90s than anywhere else, why the children of Chinese rice paddy farmers are better at maths than Western students, and why more successful hockey players are born in January than any other month. Many of the conclusions Gladwell reaches are simple and obvious - but it's the way he reaches them that makes his third book so readable. A touching epilogue tracing his own family background and rise to success mean this is also his most personal writing to date.

I often remember in this false, distorted way, and the memories are often cloaked in the colour of the sun. Sometimes I feel nostalgia for things I know I hated when they were happening; for days spent at the beach or the swimming pool with my sisters.

When I pick my memories apart, I realise that my mind has merely played back the objective ingredients, the cliched apparatus of happiness; the sun, the sound of splashing water, ice-cream on parched lips and cold fizzy drink on a hot tongue, and laughter too. My memory often peddles in the falsehood of past happiness. I should know this.

Like many teenagers, I read The Catcher In The Rye repeatedly while growing up. Holden Caulfield's paranoia, cynicism and self-reproach speak clearly to you at that age. I've read many books since that attempt to capture the same suffocating sense of teenage alienation, some more successful than others, but MJ Hyland's How The Light Gets In comes closer than most. Loneliness, self-delusion (and destruction), and doomed inevitability play a large part in the story of Louise, a foreign exchange student from a poor Australian background who goes to stay with a wealthy American family for a year. Hyland achieves a fine balance in making us both sympathise with Louise and want to give her a good slap. Still, she has a way of looking at the world which proves entrancing at times, making you see things from a perspective you might never have considered - or offering observations (as in the extract above) that had me nodding in agreement.

After a while, even the dream family begins to reveal odd behaviour and disturbing secrets. A glimmer of hope is offered towards the novel's end (following a particularly cruel betrayal), but by this point we - like Louise herself - have stopped trusting anyone... which was much the case when reading JD Salinger's classic.



Finally, I've just devoured the third issue of Ralph Kidson's excellent self-produced mini comic GIANT CLAM. I've been laughing at Ralphie for years, and his comics are pretty funny too. No, seriously... Giant Clam #3 is an adult (i.e. there's a fair bit of swearing - only funny swearing, not just swearing for swearing's sake) comic that features the further adventures of Envelope & Stick (they're an envelope and a stick, I suspect because those two things are pretty easy to draw; this time, they go into space and have cross words over a crossword); a slanging match between elephants and giraffes; the shocking truth behind Ralph's trip to Amsterdam; Mr. Fucking Best At Everything; what the Daleks and Cybermen really think of the new Dr. Who; and a special guest appearance by 'Keanu-Reeves-my-friend-Keanu-Reeves-Neo-in-the-Matrix-Keanu-Reeves'.

To read more of Ralphie's stuff (including his previous comic, Captain Dolphin) click on this link. To contact Ralph and buy your own Giant Clam #3 click here. Do it now or he'll send an envelope and a stick after you.