Strange Bedfellows

If I don't get my necessary seven and three quarter hours a night, I'm no good to anybody. (Some might query whether I'm any good even if I have had it. They may well be right.) I generally wake up once or twice a night, but unless I've got something to worry about (which will always seem ten times scarier at 3am), I usually go back to sleep pretty quick.

Last night, I had a particularly disturbed night's sleep. It began when I woke from a dream to feel something tickling my hand. I twitched my fingers, thinking it was just an itch... and that's when I felt THE SHAPE. The... sort of... spider shape. Under the covers, in bed with me.

I'm not the world's biggest arachnophobe (that'd be my sister), but that doesn't mean I want to share my bed with one. (It's bad enough when they're in my bath.) And when you're half-asleep and you suddenly realise you've got one of the little blighters trying to spoon you...

Eeaaaarrrrghh!

I leapt out of bed, threw off the covers, and switched on the light. The spider was gone. But I'd definitely felt it. I'd flicked it away with my hand. I hadn't just imagined it. And so began a hard target search of the bedroom, bedclothes, and every gas station, residence, warehouse, farmhouse, henhouse, outhouse and doghouse in the area. I'd just about decided that maybe I had imagined it after all (maybe it was just a stray bit of navel lint or something) and was about ready to settle back down into bed... when I shook my dressing gown and out popped the critter in question.

Eeaaaarrrrghh!

Now it was hardly a tarantula, and under normal circumstances I'd probably have let it go on about its business unharmed, were it not for the fact that I'D BEEN SHARING A BED WITH THE LITTLE BASTARD. So I wasn't thinking rationally. But I didn't mean to kill it, officer, I swear there was no malice aforethought. I was just trying to scoop it up using my patented Hulk mug and Bat Out Of Hell beermat* technique, so that I could open the window and release it to freedom. What happened was just a terrible, terrible accident, and I feel bad for it, I really do. I have genuine remorse. It took me ages to get back to sleep.

(But at least I didn't chase it with a lighter.)

And then, about an hour later, I awoke with another start - cramp in my calf that had me leaping out of bed and hopping round the bedroom all over again.

So excuse me if I'm not making much sense today...



*Sadly, I made this bit up. I don't own a Bat Out Of Hell beermat. I wish I did. I do own a Hulk mug though (two!). Obviously.

Tearing Down The Wall Of Sound

When I first heard that Phil Spector had been accused of murder, I didn't believe it. Even when he was eventually convicted, I still couldn't accept the idea that the man responsible for records such as Be My Baby, You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling, and River Deep, Mountain High might be responsible for a crime like that. But I didn't really know anything about Spector beyond his music, and you can't judge a person solely by their artistic accomplishments. I should have learnt that by now.

Having read Tearing Down The Wall Of Sound: The Rise & Fall Of Phil Spector, I realised just how naive I'd been. Mick Brown's book is all about proving that our heroes and idols aren't necessarily nice people, they have feet of clay and hearts of darkness. Why should we expect them to be better than us, when chances are they're even more fucked up?

Most rock biogs are written with a tone of respectful awe, and that's fair enough since chances are if you've gone to the trouble of buying an artist's biog, you don't really want to hear what a sleaze they are (unless they're sleazy in an entertaining way like Keef Richards or Alex James). Morrissey famously wished his biographer Johnny Rogan would die in a motorway pile-up, but that was a typically Herculean overreaction from the Moz; anyone who's read Morrissey & Marr: The Severed Alliance will tell you that there's no bigger Smiths fan than Rogan, and the book contains very little in the way of actual criticism directed towards either of the author's subjects. Occasionally you do come across an author with a truly iconoclast (or just plain spiteful) agenda - Albert Goldman's infamous savaging Elvis comes to mind - but artists of less legendary stature generally have to make do with fawning adoration and the occasional critical jeer.

But Phil Spector is an interesting case. There's no denying his unique vision and achievements (especially when at the peak of his powers), and Mick Brown is obviously a huge fan of the man's work. Yet there's also little defence for his eccentric / insane behaviour both in and out of the studio. Though Brown does his best to provide us a fully-rounded character study, Spector still emerges as a bitter and desperately lonely man with a chip on his shoulder, a chip that leads him to acts of cruelty, vindictiveness, and control freakery writ large. His is the dark side of the rags to riches tale - a loser who makes it big and then devotes all his time and money to proving himself a big man. Desperate to be a bigger star than any of his performers and terrified of failure, this is the dream turned nightmare - yet thankfully, Brown maintains a neutral tone throughout and refuses to sensationalize, even when dealing with the tragic events that led to Spector's arrest and incarceration. He also strikes a fine balance between vindication and condemnation in his choice of interview subjects, from those who paint Spector as the devil incarnate (his ex-wife Ronnie) to those who stand by him, no matter what.

Amazingly, it's former Warner Brothers chairman Joe Smith who sums the whole sorry tale up best. Loathe as I am to quote 'the man' rather than the rebel, Smith hits the nail on the head... in Spector's case at least.

"With rock-and-roll artists you have to assume the human brain is like a computer with chips that govern its behaviour. Well, these people can take blank sheets of paper, put markings on it and take that into the studio, make music out of it that please millions of people. They can do things we can't do. They've got chips we don't have. But to make room for those chips, out falls sanity, reason, logic, gratitude..."

But whatever the truth about Phil Spector and the crimes he may or may not have committed, there's no denying his place in the pantheon of rock legends. Some records are truly timeless, and Phil Spector has produced more than his fair share...

Idiot of the day

Sometimes you don't need to read any more than the headline.

Every Day Is Like The Sundays

And so my Week In Music feature reaches its inevitable, predictable conclusion - with a bunch of Sundays.

And of course, I have to start with the band themselves: Harriet Wheeler, where are you now?

Special mention should also go to another Sunday band, sort of.

Sunday songs start with the track one from the first ever Velvet Underground album, Sunday Morning. James do a nice cover of that too.

The first time I heard Kris Kristofferson's Sunday Morning Coming Down it was by the Handsome Family (which you can actually hear here, if you wait through three minutes of some bloke's rats - gotta love youtube). Then came the Johnny Cash version which made me love it even more. Kris does a pretty mean version himself too. I reckon we've all had Sunday mornings that began like this...

Well I woke up Sunday morning,
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes,
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
An' I shaved my face and combed my hair,
An' stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.

(All my female readers are shouting that they've never woken up needing a Sunday shave... but are you sure?)

If you are hungover this Sunday morning, don't worry - Bloc Party still love you.

It seems everyone has a Sunday song in them. Maybe because Sunday is the Day of Rest and songwriters are a notoriously lazy bunch. Just look at Freddie Mercury - he couldn't even be arsed to write a full song, just 1 minute 7 seconds of one. Also taking it easy like Sunday morning are Nick Drake and, of course, The Commodores.

And then there are those who don't like Sunday at all. Black Box Recorder Hated Sunday, but then I suspect Luke Haines wasn't too bothered about the other six days either. It's an unlucky day for Slow Club and it all just makes Tom Petty blue.

Which brings me to the Hungarian "suicide song" Gloomy Sunday, rumoured to be so depressing, listeners have topped themselves to avoid hearing it... including Billy Mackenzie of The Associates. That must be true, I read it on wikipedia. Fortunately, Elvis Costello is still with us.

Hard as it may be to believe, Green Day go to Church On Sunday. While Blur spend the day reading the colour supplement and TV guide and Nick Heyward (yes, Nick Heyward - I met him once; a thoroughly decent bloke) goes gathering sticks. Jarvis Cocker pops round Tony Christie's house with the All Seeing I and watches Stars On Sunday, but they don't let anyone film them. Deborah Harry takes French lessons (apparently the French for 'Sunday Girl' is... er, 'Sunday Girl') while Silver Sun take spelling lessons from their own Sunday Gurl. Ladyhawke spends the colourless Sabbath in an empty room, while Aimee Mann gets High On Sunday 51.

"The local rock group down the street is trying hard to learn their song". If they're The Monkees, they'll probably just get a load of session musicians in to do it for them (the Wedding Present would help) while sitting back to count the profits from the invention of Tippex.

As the day draws to a close, we reach Late Sunday Evening with Eddie Argos and Art Brut.

When I feel my friends have been conspiring against me
I break into their bedrooms and write in their diaries

Everything's gonna be alright
I'm gonna find it hard to sleep tonight

But really, you all knew it... there could be only one winner today.

It's time to go trudging slowly over wet sand, back to the bench where your clothes were stolen...

The record company don't want you to see the original video though, so here's a live version - complete with Subway Train intro - from a gig I actually attended... listen carefully and you can hear me singing along in the crowd.

The Gum Thief

Back when I wrote about JPod in November, Anglopunk commented that despite being a huge Douglas Coupland fan, "I've attempted The Gum Thief twice and it's the only Coupland book I haven't read through. It's the one still sitting on my shelf a year later."

Well, I finally got round to reading it and I suppose I can see why. Though on the one hand this is, as the Independent enthuses on the cover, "Classic Coupland", it did take me longer to get into that most of the author's books (they're usually pretty immediate) and there were sections - a specific section that recurred throughout the book - which left me cold.

The Gum Thief is the story of two poor shlubs stuck in a typically Coupland scenario, a dead-end job stacking shelves at Staples. Roger is a 40-something divorcee, a frustrated writer whose life has fallen apart and whose only inspiration for writing comes from the staff and customers he meets at work. Bethany is the daughter one of Roger's former schoolmates, a lonely goth girl in her early 20s who becomes fascinated with Roger's writing, particularly his novel Glove Pond, an attempt at recapturing the style of John Cheever, the so-called "Chekhov of the suburbs". Bethany's attention encourages Roger to plough on with his book, proving that all a writer needs to be happy is a reader. She is his muse, yet in a pleasingly platonic sense (the obvious alternative is never pursued, despite the fears of Bethany's mother Dee Dee).

It's the Glove Pond sections - where Coupland incorporates Roger's stumbling novel into his own - that had me struggling. The adventures of Roger and Bethany are indeed classic Coupland, complete with those unique zeitgeisty observations that made the author famous. Glove Pond is more a commentary on the writing process, how life influences art (even inappropriately), and how the fear of failure drives anyone who's ever thought of putting finger to keyboard. As such, it's worth reading - and I'm sure the mock-Cheever style is well done (though I don't think I've ever read anything by the author or his contemporaries) but... there's just too much of it. Coupland expects us to have the same kind of attachment to the characters in Roger's novel as we do to those in his, but the very fact that Roger isn't actually that good a writer (despite being Coupland 'writing bad') made me want to skip these sections entirely after a while.

I stuck with them though, for the sake of Roger and Bethany... and - from a struggling writer's perspective at least - it proved worthwhile in the end. For anyone who's ever written a novel and then cautiously thrown it out into the world, the final chapter of The Gum Thief is worth the whole book. I'm not sure that Coupland meant it entirely as encouragement (there's a chance the whole thing is meant as an affectionate satire on all those of us stuck in soul-sapping jobs who still believe "we have a novel inside of us"), but I'll take it that way anyway.

We're The Litter On The Breeze

Working in the evil industry as I do, and having a strange, nostalgic fascination with babyboom era America, I can't get enough of the show Mad Men. Now in its second series, it continues to highlight the enormous changes that have occurred in society over the past fifty years (everyone smoking and boozing in the office being the most obvious) while also turning a scary spotlight on attitudes and behaviour that haven't changed as much as they ought.

But the most shocking scene of the latest series...?


Not Don Draper grabbing vixen Bobbie Barrett by the crotch to show her who was boss. (That's just more evidence that Don is one of the most quietly mental anti-heroes ever to brood his way onto our screens.)

Not the way Pete sold out his own father's death to land a big airline client? (That's just sales people.)

Not the awful 'backs to the wall, lads!' reaction to one character coming out? (Sadly not as old-fashioned a response as it ought to be, though at least that's not something I ever see in my own workplace.)


No, the scene that most made me catch my breath was when Don and mad wife Betty took their kids for a picnic at a local beautyspot, then cheerfully shook out their tablecloth and tossed away their bottles, leaving litter everywhere as they drove away.

God, I thought - how things have changed. At least people don't behave like that anymore.

But I was kidding myself, wasn't I? The other day, a colleague of mine spat her chewing gum out in the street, while another bought a packet of cigarettes, ripped open the wrapper and dropped it where he stood. And you only need to look round your own local area - town or country - to see all the litter, the discarded tab ends, the un-scooped dogshit, and realise that we're all just trash. Maybe people aren't quite as brazen about it as Don and Betty were, but it's still going on. Of course, if you moan about it, you're just a whinging old do-gooder bastard. I feel like I'm almost self-labelling as I write this post... but I really shouldn't. Why don't people care more about their surroundings? Surely it doesn't take that much effort to stuff that litter in your pocket or carry it around till you find a bin? Are we really so lazy?

Last year my brother returned from a holiday in Australia marvelling at how clean he found it. Litter, he reported, was almost no-existent. So maybe it's just a British thing? Perhaps that's a question for my international readers. For the rest of us, what can be done? Just how do you make people care?


Choice of song was obvious, though the New York Dolls track by the same name might have been more appropriate.

Why Don't You Make Like A Tree And Get Out Of Here?

And speaking of Back To The Future, here's someone who's about as much use as a screen door on a battleship... but is still very funny.

Actor Tom Wilson, aka Biff Tannen... take it away!

Hip To Be Square

Certain people reading this blog have some crazy idea that I'm some kind of hip muso tastemaker, the more obscure the band the better. They couldn't be more wrong. I just like a good pop song, with lyrics that say something to me or a tune to make me tap my hands on the steering wheel.

So I have absolutely no fear of Pissing Off The Taste Police (copyright Any Major Dude With Half A Heart) when I tell you that lately I've been revisiting a whole lot of Huey Lewis & The News.

My appreciation of Huey and the News undoubtedly has much to do with being part of the Back To The Future generation. The Power Of Love was one of the biggest hits of my teenage years, and its inextricably linked in my head with the image of Marty McFly on his skateboard (or performing guitar for his nerdy band teacher - a slick-haired cameo from Lewis himself). It quickly became one of my favourite records, and after eating up the album it came from (Fore!) I soon found myself hip deep Huey's back catalogue. Fore! and its three predecessors (Sports, Picture This, and the eponymous debut) were all great pop-rock albums, packed with hooks and Huey's unique sense of fun. They weren't at all deep and edgy, but neither were they entirely disposable. After all, the News (aka Clover, but minus Huey) started life as the pre-Attractions backing band for Elvis Costello, playing on the excellent My Aim Is True - how's that for muso cred?

Mixing blues and doo-wop with their classic 80s pop-rock sound, the first four HL&N albums were packed with great feelgood songs, the very antithesis of what the cool kids were listening to back then - but Huey was well aware of his place in the world and really didn't care. After all, there's no denying that it's hip to be square!



Fore! went on to become one of the biggest selling albums of 1986, but it was also the band's last truly great moment. Its follow-up, Small World, marked a change of direction (including 3 tracks which were little more than jazzy instrumentals) that led Rolling Stone to vote it the worst album of 1988. OK, it wasn't a patch on what they'd done before, but it wasn't that bad. (And come on - worst album of the '88? This was the year of New Kids On The Block, Rick Astley and Milli Vanilli, for Christ's sake!) The band did return to safer ground on subsequent records, but the moment was gone.

I haven't listened to a lot of Huey Lewis & The News in the last twenty years. Every now and then I'd give them a quick blast to remind me of my youth, but other, far more 'worthy' artists soon took their place. Yet recently, and I don't know why, I've found myself digging out those old CDs and adding more and more Huey Lewis to my music player. Maybe I need a strong shot of feelgood right now. It's great driving music too, and can't help but put a smile on my face as I sing along. (It helps that I can still remember all the lyrics.)

Something else that put a smile on my face... Watching Lost with Louise the other week; when the adverts come on we switch over to VH1 - and there's Huey and the gang cavorting on a beach in the video for Stuck With You.

"You know who Huey Lewis always reminded me of?" says Louise.

"Who?"

"That moment where Bill Bixby was halfway through his transformation into Lou Ferrigno on The Incredible Hulk ..."

And bloody hell, she's right. It's the eyebrows! Mr. Lewis, don't make me angry... you wouldn't like me when I'm angry...



(Huey can be found somewhere in the middle of this pic.)

Vampires Ate My Rubik's Cube

I've been on a bit of a vampire kick with my reading recently, having ravaged the necks of both Salem's Lot and Let The Right One In back to back. It's certainly easy to see how one begat the other; Swedish writer John Ajvide Lindqvist makes no secret of his love for Stephen King, even giving his hero Oskar King's Firestarter as reading material. Just as King did in Salem's Lot, Lindqvist takes the familiar vampire tropes and transfers them to a world right outside his window (give or take 20 years), setting his novel in a grey concrete new town in the early 80s - no doubt the world Lindqvist himself grew up in.



Salem's Lot was one of the first Stephen Kings I read, but even as a teenager I was already familiar with the story from the David Soul-starring TV mini series. (By the way, has anyone seen the Rob Lowe remake from a few years back? Worth my time?) Reading it again after all these years, I was captivated by the strength of the storytelling. King is at his best when given a large cast - or a small town - to play with, and there are many times in the first half of this book that I found myself wishing the horror wouldn't even come, such was I enjoying the everyday goings on in the Lot. King creates well-rounded characters you care about, so much that you hate the idea that anything horrible might happen to them... even though you know it's going to. Salem's Lot is a huge sprawling epic of a story (yet much tighter than much of the author's recent output), and were it not for all the vampires, it'd now be regarded as one of the great American novels of the 70s - by everybody, not just those of us unblinkered by genre snobbery.



Let The Right One In has a similar scope in terms of character and literary aspirations, though thematically it has more in common with King's debut novel, Carrie, a coming of age tale about what cruel and vicious places high schools can be. 12 year old Oskar is a lonely child from divorced parents, without a friend to protect him from the bullies that make his life a misery... until he meets the mysterious Eli, apparently a girl, apparently the same age as him. (Yes, those two apparentlys are both appropriate.) Oskar is a study in helpless, bottled rage, but with Eli's help the cork gets popped. Eli herself is a puzzle more complex even than the Rubik's Cube she teaches Oskar to master, a vampire trapped forever on the edge of adolescence, wise beyond her years yet emotionally unable to grow up. She's also one of the more sympathetic vampires you'll meet, something that is summed up in the quote that opens the novel...

I never wanted to kill
I am not naturally evil
These thing I do
Just to make myself more attractive to you
Have I failed?

The Morrissey fans among you will recognise that from Last Of The Famous International Playboys, but what you may not have realised (I hadn't for shame) is that the novel's title also owes a debt to the Moz, and his early b-side Let The Right One Slip In.

Let the right one in
Let the old things fade
Put the tricks and schemes (for good) away

And when at last it does
I'd say you were within your rights to bite
The right one and say, "what kept you so long ?"
"What kept you so long ?"

John Ajvide Lindqvist: influenced by Stephen King and Morrissey. How can he fail?



I hurried to read Let The Right One In before the film finally crept into the UK. (It was released in the US, Australia, and much of the rest of the world last year - what a backward country are we!) I enjoyed the novel so much I worried the adaptation might disappoint (and given the age of the two main protagonists, I couldn't see how certain scenes in the novel could be translated to cinema at all). Fortunately, Lindqvist handled the screenplay himself, making this both a faithful translation - and one which isn't afraid to jettison large sections of the novel (including the most terrifying subplot) that wouldn't work as well on film. The film benefits from this streamlining, though it does leave certain plot points intentionally vague - particularly the book's big twist, which is only hinted at on screen.

Let The Right One In the film is an atmospheric and evocative study of adolescent loneliness and first love, with vampires. Kinda like Twilight, I suppose - but for grown ups. The book is much better of course - but aren't they always?

Discharge

...as in "I have been... (d)" - not "I have a..."

Back to the hospital this morning for a final set of X-rays to confirm that my broken arm is healing well. I was surprised to see that the break is still visible, and that even after 3 months my arm is still considered a "break risk" should I fall on it again. It's good that I don't have to go back though...

Except I do. Because one of the machines was broken I ended up waiting for over an hour for my X-rays, missing the physio appointment I had scheduled after. Oh well, it's almost over...

In other news, the Bradford busker has learnt a new song! After about six years singing Bob Marley's Three Little Birds eight hours a day (that must be the 1012" mix), he's finally learnt Wait In Vain. There's a gag there if I could only think of it...

Duckling Well

My sister just got six ducklings to add to her menagerie...

The geese are jealous.

Saturday Looks Good To Me

My Week In Music feature reaches the weekend - after plodding its way through Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday over the last five weeks - and everybody loves Saturday.

The title of this week's post comes not from a song, but a band - Fred Thomas and co: Saturday Looks Good To Me. Miller introduced me to them a few years back and I think they have an interesting sound. I was pleasantly surprised to find a video to their song Money In The Afterlife on youtube - check it out.

But enough of bands - what about the Saturday songs? Because it's such a busy day, I'll pass by obvious contenders and previous winners like The Undertones, David Bowie (it's Morrissey's favourite), The Drifters, and the Bay City Rollers (haven't a clue where that came from - but it strikes me that when you spell out S A T U R D A Y like that, the four letters in the middle do stand out).

I did try finding a video for Saturday Night's Alright For Fighting, but though I quite like the song, Elton's Grand Excess of Smug annoyed me in every single clip I watched.

Saturday Night is certainly the time most celebrated in song, with fine offerings from The Thrills, Sam Cooke, The Proclaimers, Neil Diamond, The Kaiser Chiefs (not one of their best), Dave Edmunds and The Cure.

Oh, and one of my favourite lonely, bittersweet Suede songs...



The goldfish breaks my heart.

In typically contrary fashion, E from the Eels prefers Saturday Morning... but who's going to play with him?

The parents are sleeping soundly
The neighbours are dead as wood
I’m getting up and coming over
We gotta rock the neighborhood

James Dean Bradfield sides with E - he reckons On Saturday Morning We Will Rule The World.

Meanwhile, Saturday's Gone for Isobel Campbell, Nick Drake enjoys the Saturday Sun, while grumpy old Weller gets in a Jam whinging about Saturday Kids...

Saturday's boys live life with insults,
Drink lots of beer and wait for half time results,
Afternoon tea in the light-a-bite - chat up the girls - they dig it!

Saturday's girls work in Tesco and Woolworths,
Wear cheap perfume cause it's all they can afford,
Go to discos, they drink Babycham - talk to Jan in bingo accents.

Saturday's kids play one arm bandits,
They never win but that's not the point is it?

Dip in silver paper when their pints go flat,
How about that - far out!

(As an aside, I reckon Moz's mates nicked the middle eight from that song for You're The One For Me, Fatty. Moz fans - listen and tell me I'm mistaken.)

But in the end, and perhaps only because I've given Billy Bragg plenty of exposure throughout this feature (though The Saturday Boy is an absolute classic - "in the end it took me a dictionary to find out the meaning of unrequited... while she was giving herself for free at a party to which I was never invited"), I had to settle for Tom Waits, with the longest live intro you'll ever hear...



It's worth mentioning that Dion does a wonderful cover of that song too, as does Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio in the film Limbo. But there's only one Tom Waits.

One more day to go... but what's your favourite Saturday song?

I Have My Books, And My Poetry To Protect Me...

A busy week in the real world, so not much time for blogging. Then Chev chucked this irresistible book-related meme at me...


1) Which author do you own the most books by?

Stephen King.

2) Which book do you own the most copies of?

I'm not sure I own multiple copies of any book. I have upgraded certain books when special or extended editions have been released (The Stand and Salem's Lot spring immediately to mind), but I tend to get rid of my original copy when I do that (though Chev tells me the revised version of The Stand is inferior, so perhaps I should have kept the original).

3) Did it bother you that both those questions ended with prepositions?

No. We were never taught prescriptive grammar at school, and though I've picked up most of the rules as I grew older, I've always believed that rules were meant to be broken. As long as you don't end up looking like a tit in the process.

4) Which fictional character are you secretly in love with?

You mean other than my healthy man-love for Peter Parker, The Dude, and Andy Sipowicz?

Ahem. You mean... a woman? Chloe from 24. I love the way she's entirely lacking in social skills.

Oh, you mean... from a book? I always find Scarlett Thomas's heroines strangely alluring.

5) What book have you read the most times in your life? (Excluding picture books read to children.)

Something Wicked This Way Comes, High Fidelity, Wuthering Heights, After The Hole, Fight Club. To name five.

6) What was your favorite book when you were ten years old?

Possibly The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe.

Or Spider-Man Weekly.

7) What is the worst book you've read in the past year?

I tend to give up on books if I'm not enjoying them. A good example would be The Devil's Carousel by Jeff Torrington.

The worst book I've read all the way through recently was Dean Koontz's The Darkest Evening Of The Year. I like Koontz, but this was a stinker.

8) What is the best book you've read in the past year?

Salem's Lot. (Of which, more soon in my Big Vampire Post.)

9) If you could force everyone you tagged to read one book, what would it be?

I haven't played tag since school. Kiss chase is another matter.

Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury is not only a wonderful story, it's one of the most beautifully written, warm and evocative stories I've ever read.

10) Who deserves to win the next Nobel Prize for Literature?

Here I'm going to cheat and just copy Chev's answer word for word. Because I couldn't agree with him more if I tried. (And I do try.)

Probably someone usually seen as beneath the purview, like Stephen King. I've yet to read any author with his felicity for the creation and development of honest, human characters. In all frankness, I can't quite see why Ray Bradbury hasn't already won it.

11) What book would you most like to see made into a movie?

Replay by Ken Grimwood. Groundhog Day doesn't count.

12) What book would you least like to see made into a movie?

I'm tempted to steal Chev's answer again...

Most of the rest of them. Books are books, and films are films. I like it when the crossover works, but mostly it doesn't.

...but instead I'll opt for The Catcher In The Rye. Because you just know they'd get someone like Josh Hartnett or Zak Efron to play Holden.

13) Describe your weirdest dream involving a writer, book, or literary character.

You mean other than the dream of one day being a (cough) published writer myself? They don't get weirder than that.

14) What is the most lowbrow book you've read as an adult?

Well, I did just finish Law of the Playground: A Puerile and Disturbing Dictionary of Playground Insults and Games by Jonathan Blyth. It made me laugh.

15) What is the most difficult book you've ever read?

Probably Dubliners or some other Joyce (I never made it through Ulysses). Although I struggled more with Tess and Jude - I hate that miserable bastard Hardy. And don't get me started on Mr. Pigglewiggly (i.e. Chuck Dickens).

16) What is the most obscure Shakespeare play you've seen?

Probably something not very obscure at all like As You Like It. I did see a really bizarre version of Romeo & Juliet once that was told through interpretative dance or some bullshit, but thankfully I've blanked most of that from my memory.

17) Do you prefer the French or the Russians?

It comes down to Madame Bovary versus Anna Karenina - now there's a mud wrestle I'd pay to watch. Perhaps surprisingly, I loved both these books, but Chekov aside, I can't think of any other Russian writers who have gripped me, while the French do at least have Jules Verne and Victor Hugo on their side (not to mention Camus, who's always good for a laugh).

18) Roth or Updike?

Never read either. Why couldn't you have asked Auster or Irving? (Auster) Steinbeck or Hemingway? (Steinbeck) Carver or Chandler? (Chandler... just.)

19) David Sedaris or Dave Eggers?

Eggars, though he hasn't really done much since A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius... which in retrospect, was perhaps overrated.

20) Shakespeare, Milton, or Chaucer?

Shakespeare.

21) Austen or Eliot?

I presume you mean George Eliot, in which case my answer is Austen. I hated Middlemarch.

However, I love a bit of TS Eliot.

22) What is the biggest or most embarrassing gap in your reading?

I have nothing to be embarrassed about. Disappointed, perhaps, that I don't have as much time for reading as I'd like. But who does?

23) What is your favorite novel?

Haven't you asked that question already?

24) Play?

Hamlet.

25) Poem?

The Peace Of Wild Things by Wendell Berry.

26) Essay?

Something from Nick Hornby's 31 Songs. Or Simon Armitage's All Points North.

27) Short Story?

I may have to come back to this one, there are too many to choose from and I don't have an answer off the top of my head.

28) Work of nonfiction?

A Walk In The Woods by Bill Bryson. That's my answer for today. See also the answer to #26.

29) Who is your favorite writer?

I'd have to say King. For all his flaws.

30) Who is the most overrated writer alive today?

Katie Price?

31) What is your desert island book?

Robinson Crusoe?

Can you tell that I've been thinking about this meme so hard that it's now burnt out all my remaining braincells?

Probably Something Wicked...

32) And... what are you reading right now?

Tearing Down The Wall Of Sound: The Rise And Fall Of Phil Spector by Mick Brown. I've had it on the shelf for months, and this seems like a good time to finally read it.


Many of the answers above are subject to change if I think about them for longer.

Have a go if you fancy it!

Under The Waterfall...

...it's cool and cold and clear.



The secret delights of Lumb Falls, near Hebden Bridge...

What Bloody Man Is That?

It begins with the rape and murder of innocent children by heavily armed soldiers wearing balaclavas. It proceeds with slashed throats, violent attacks from pig-masked assassins, shootings, knife fights, and a young boy drowned in his mother's kitchen sink. It ends with the hero's severed head held proudly aloft while a new king is crowned in the garb of Barack Obama.

No, it's not the new Tarantino movie or a remake of Clockwork Orange by some hot new MTV gen director. It's Macbeth, at the Royal Exchange Theatre in Manchester, in the final performances of its run last night... and it's bloody brilliant.

Though not my favourite Shakespeare (that crown always goes to a rogue and peasant slave), Macbeth is undoubtedly the bard's most violent work, and Matthew Dunster's contemporary take pulls no punches in shocking its audience with the brutality of war, and with its portrayal of a man driven to pure evil through greed, ambition, and foolish pride. From the murdered children at the opening who take on the roles of the three witches (giving those characters a frightening motivation for taunting Macbeth into action throughout) to the cocaine snorting, stocking wearing Lady Macbeth, to the final bloody showdown with Macduff and a particularly realistic severed head - this is Shakespeare as adrenaline-pumping action movie, even more dramatic than Ian McKellan's Die Hard-esque take on Richard III in the 90s, and all the more visceral for being live and in the round. Soundtracked by the Ting Tings, Katy Perry and the Talking Heads; featuring video trickery, an almost constant haze of warzone smoke, and full frontal male nudity (as Macbeth showers away the blood from his hands), this is as in-your-face as Shakespeare gets... yet I can't help but feel the bard would approve. People often forget that for all his celebrated skill with language, Shakespeare always sought to appeal to the masses. His best plays are packed with sex and violence and bawdy innuendo, because even back in Elizabethan times these were guaranteed ratings winners. For anyone who says Shakespeare is stuffy or irrelevant to modern audiences - well, that depends entirely on the production.

Macbeth at the Royal Exchange Manchester, one word review: Wow!

Friday On My Mind

As my Week In Music feature has progressed from Monday through Tuesday, Wednesday and on to Thursday, the amount of appropriate songs in my music player has decreased with every day. Not so as I reach (Good) Friday though. The weekend starts here...

I had to call this post Friday On My Mind, though I reckon I prefer the David Bowie cover of that song to the original by the Easybeats. Bowie had his turn last week though. Richard Thompson does a fantastic version too - nobody else plays guitar like that.

Probably the most famous Friday song in my collection comes from The Cure, at their poppy best. Even Robert Smith seems to be smiling in this video, through the smudged lipstick.

I always loved Terry Hall, though I'm not sure what I make of this Specials-minus-Jerry reunion. Like Weller and Cocker and Turner, he writes a very British Friday Night / Saturday Morning lyric:

When my feet go through the door
I know what my right arm is for
Buy a drink and pull a chair
Up to the edge of the dancefloor
Bouncers bouncing through the night
Trying to stop or start a fight
I sit and watch the flashing lights
Moving legs and footless tights...

But two o'clock has come again
It's time to leave this paradise
Hope the chip shop isn't closed
Cos their pies are really nice
I'll eat in the taxi queue
Standing in someone else's spew
Wish I had lipstick on my shirt
Instead of piss stains on my shoe

An equally British and disappointing Friday night comes from the unique Half Man Half Biscuit. I'm not a football fan, and on listening to a song like this - I'm glad.

Stick a burger in my mouth
Shove a seat beneath my arse
Buy the shirt and shorts and socks
Win the keeper’s sweaty jocks
Point a gun down at your foot
Am I supposed to be at home?

Friday night and the gates are low
And it’s raining
Bastard slip of a sub’s ruined my weekend

A dull Friday night in the States on the other hand, can be found on the Silver Jews album Bright Flight. This Friday Night Fever involves a choice between staying home and watching Dallas on TV, or leaving 'the wife' at home and getting out of the house.

Other great Friday songs in my collection come from Morrissey (who'll get his time in the spotlight in a couple of days), Paul Weller on his moped, and this eerily topical offering from Steely Dan. But I'm torn as to the Friday winner. I just can't decide between cheesy Britpop from York or crazy indie from Sweden. Fuck it, let's have them both...





Lot's to choose from then... but what's your favourite Friday song?

Sold Out!

It's official - the first print of PJANG #1 has sold out! (And issue #2 is well on its way to doing the same.)

So, like all good comic publishers worth their salt, we've splashed out on a limited edition second printing. Not only that, but the second printing also features an all-new (well, sort of) variant back cover by Davey Metcalfe...

PJANG #1 (second print) and #2 are available to buy from my website. So if you've not yet bought your copy of the comic reviewers are calling "not bad", "cheaper than New Avengers", and "better than Amazing Spider-Man Volume 2 issue 13"*... then what are you waiting for?

And if that's not enough... how about a preview of PJANG #3? (Which is now two thirds complete - the race is on between a couple of top name artists to grab that coveted final space - but don't worry guys, if you don't get into #3, you'll get pride of place in #4.) Here's the opening page of the most personal strip I've ever written, with art by Davey...





*The worst Spider-Man comic ever published.

I'm A Loser, Baby...

According to last weekend's Gruaniad Review, a recent survey conducted by the National Year of Reading campaign and Harper Collins revealed that a large proportion of the population (particularly those in the C2DE demographic) believe people who read books to be losers, "at best loners", people "who don't know how to live... an alien and unexciting tribe they seldom meet". (I'm not sure how they managed to string together such fancy words if they shun the old book-learning.)

It should go without saying that if that's the case, I'm happy to be a loser - and wouldn't ever want to be a winner.

What the Grauniad article didn't cover were some of the survey's other conclusions, notably that "reading can have real benefits for your health, as well as for your social circumstances" (presumably as long as you don't mind hanging out with other, likeminded losers) and that 86% of those respondents who do read were confident that it improved their mood, helping them relax, de-stress and forget their worries - if only for a short time.

Seems to be that those who sneer at booklovers are missing out... they probably have to rely heavily on other, more expensive and potentially damaging forms of stress relief. What a shame.

I read as much as I can - a couple of hours most nights - and I can't imagine a better way to unwind. Certainly I don't get the same kind of benefit from watching TV, and though I love listening to music, it doesn't stop my mind wandering (or returning to worries) in the way that a good book does. I think I'd be a hell of a lot more wound up by everyday aggro if I didn't have that book-shaped release valve in my life, and if that makes me a Friend of Beck... then so be it.

The Boat That Rocked... Didn't

The Boat That Rocked is a truly remarkable film.

It's remarkable that a film with such an outstanding cast, with so much money thrown at it, and with a soundtrack to die for... could end up as such a dull, uninspired, trite, flaccid and humourless wreck.

How wonderful, to be Richard Curtis. To be given the green light for a big budget comedy that contains virtually no jokes at all. To be allowed to blow millions on a script you've tossed off in five minutes flat - a script that would've been rejected by every commissioning editor on earth... had it not featured your name scrawled in crayon on the very first page.

Really, Richard, the best joke you can come up with these days is to call one of your characters 'Twatt'? Just so you can make Kenneth Branagh's uptight politician come out with hilarious lines like, "Get the job done, Twatt" throughout the entire film? Not only is this about as funny as genocide, it's also a second rate rip off of your own Captain Darling routine... minus the chuckles. Then again, at least you were trying to use it for some kind of comedic effect, which is more than can be said for the rest of the script. Never mind, all you need is to rope in all your old luvvy mates to make the most of this feckless travesty and cover up for your own supreme lack of effort...

Shame then that the combined might of Phillip Seymour Hoffman, Bill Nighy, Rhys's Ifan & Darby, Chris O'Dowd, Nick Frost, and even Emma Thompson (all very funny people in their own right) couldn't manage to wring so much as a titter from this woeful shambles. Well done, Dick - you've managed to create a comedy black hole that sucked the talent right out of your cast, leaving them choking on their own squalid ham.

The saddest thing here is the waste. I can't help but think there's a genuinely entertaining film waiting to be told about the pirate radio revolution of the 60s. Sadly, The Boat That Rocked is about as far from that film as anyone could ever imagine. If you paid me to write a bigger pile of wank, I'd have to throw in the towel. Really - when the most imaginative name you can cough up for your half-arsed tribute to Radio Caroline is 'Radio Rock' (can you say 'first cab off the rank'?) and the highlight of your flick is a dismal sight gag recreating the cover of Electric Ladyland for the sole purpose of getting some tits out for the lads... surely you have to wonder whether it's time to call it a day. Don't you?

Please. For Baldrick's sake, Richard Curtis, let this script mark your retirement. Go back to the Vicar of fucking Dibley and repent your sins. Even Bean was better than this!

It's Paul Haig Day

Paul Haig is a Scottish singer-songwriter who was originally a member of 80s post-punk band Josef K, but has continued making music up to the present day. You might have heard of him, you might not. I'll admit that for all the eclecticism of my record collection (much of which Vicus claims I make up), I wouldn't have been aware of Paul's work at all if it wasn't for JC, The Vinyl Villain.

In the time that I've been reading his blog, JC has introduced me to a number of artists I've subsequently spent money on, either through buying records, gig tickets, or downloads. To me, that's what a good music blog is all about - introducing you to artists you wouldn't otherwise have discovered - and JC's is one of the best. Recently though, The Vinyl Villain has fallen victim to a malicious campaign of takedown notices filed through blogger accusing him of breaking copyright law by posting tracks on his blog. His most recent post on Paul Haig became one of these deleted posts... despite the fact that JC had been given permission to post the track in question by the artist and his management (who own all the copyright). You can read the full story here.

It's a tangled web, this whole copyright mess. I do have serious problems with websites that make full albums available for download for free, but the music sites I visit concentrate far more on sampler tracks by obscure or non-mainstream acts who appreciate all the support and publicity they can get (or acts whose work is out of print and no longer available to buy even on sites like iTunes). I've lost track of the number of times I've spent money on artists I've discovered via blogs like The Vinyl Villain, Condemned To Rock 'n' Roll or Any Major Dude With Half A Heart, among others.

So in support of Paul Haig, and in recognition of Paul's own support of JC, The Vinyl Villain, bloggers around the world have declared today to be Paul Haig day. And even though I'm not a fully-fledged music blogger, I had to join in. Especially when I noticed the name of Paul's record company... Rhythm Of Life.

AKA... ROLinc.

Good man!

My Life, As Told By Bruce

I couldn't limit Chev's meme to just one artist, so here's the flipside, as told by my other favourite artist...


Pick an artist, and using ONLY SONG TITLES from only that artist, cleverly (preferably) answer these questions. This is harder than it seems! (Well, that kinda depends who you pick.)


1. Are you a male or female:

Cautious Man

2. Describe yourself:

Working On A Dream

3. How do you feel about yourself:

Part Man, Part Monkey

4. Describe your ex boyfriend/girlfriend:

Don't Look Back

5. Describe your current boy/girl situation:

She's The One

6. Describe your current location:

My Hometown

7. Describe where you want to be:

Where The Bands Are


8. Your best friend(s) is:

Mary Lou

(Though strictly speaking, that's two people.)

9. Your favourite colour is:

Pink Cadillac

10. You know that:

A Good Man Is Hard To Find

12. If your life was a television show what would it be called:


Radio Nowhere

or

57 Channels (And Nothin' On)

13. What is life to you:

Reason To Believe

14. What is the best advice you have to give:

It's Hard To Be A Saint In The City



Tempted as I am to continue, letting Jarvis, Billy, Elvis and others answer these questions for me... I think that's enough for now. Your turn!

My Life, As Told By Morrissey

Here's a meme thrown my way by Chev, who should know better. I liked this one so much, I had to do it twice... version two will follow shortly.

Pick an artist, and using ONLY SONG TITLES from only that artist, cleverly (preferably) answer these questions. This is harder than it seems! (Well, that kinda depends who you pick.)


1. Are you a male or female:

Used To Be A Sweet Boy

2. Describe yourself:

Why Don't You Find Out For Yourself?

3. How do you feel about yourself:

The World Is Full Of Crashing Bores

4. Describe your ex boyfriend/girlfriend:

Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others

5. Describe your current boy/girl situation:

To Me You Are A Work Of Art

6. Describe your current location:

Seasick, Yet Still Docked

7. Describe where you want to be:

Back To The Old House

8. Your best friend(s) is:

...On The Payroll

9. Your favourite colour is:

Black Cloud (Or, to put it another way: "I wear black on the outside; Black is how I feel on the inside") Sadly, there is only one colour in Mozzer's palette.

10. You know that:

You Just Haven't Earned It Yet, Baby

12. If your life was a television show what would it be called:

There Is A Light That Never Goes Out

or

I Just Want To See The Boy Happy

13. What is life to you:

My Life Is An Endless Succession Of People Saying Goodbye

(See how I resisted answering: Life Is A Pigsty!)

14. What is the best advice you have to give:

Do Your Best And Don't Worry

The Damned United

I have no interest in football.

So why on earth did I enjoy The Damned United so very much? Why did I even go see it in the first place?

Well, Michael Sheen is a good place to start. He's fast becoming one of the best actors in the country, and his ability for capturing the personality and physical tics of famous Brits - without resorting to impersonation or caricature - is second to none. And while I knew very little about Brian Clough's history, I was familiar with his larger than life persona: never off the TV while I was growing up.

Michael Sheen and David Peace's Clough is classic anti-hero material. If you'd met him in real life, chances are that arrogant cocksuredness would have soon worn thin. It's a credit to both actor and writer that we really empathise with the movie Clough, cast here in the defiant underdog role as he replaces former Leeds manager Don Revie to the anger of fans and players alike. His relationship with Timothy Spall's Peter Taylor is wonderfully realised too - the film is structured like a heterosexual male love story - while Jim Broadbent gives hilarious support as Derby County chairman Sam Longson.

And despite the fact that I never followed football - even as a child - the movie is incredibly nostalgic. It helps that I grew up in West Yorkshire in the 70s so recognise the faithful recreation of place, fashion, and even local TV. But The Damned United also hearkens back to a time when the passion for football seems much easier to grasp. A time when a bottom of the league team really could rise to the top through nothing more than hard work and dedication: when it wasn't all about how much money could be thrown at the game.

It starts and ends with Sheen though. Just an amazing performance. And it made me realise, if anyone could ever give us an accurate, heartfelt screen portrayal of another great Northern hero, Sheen is the only man for the job. Start twisting his arm now, before he gets too old: Michael Sheen as Morrissey in This Charming Man. I'm pre-ordering my ticket now.

Sweet Thursday

Monday was packed. Tuesday was fine. Wednesday, things slowed a little... and by the time we reach Thursday on my Week In Music feature, I have only three songs to play you, and the first is from a band I've already talked about.

Thursday Figure, by Spearmint, continues to tell the lost twenty-something stories I discussed in my Tuesday countdown...

Thursday figure out the night before
Wakes up late and rushes out
Feeling sick
He thinks he might be ill on the tube
Into the office with a coffee and a pastry
He can't face talking so he's busy with his emails
Goes out at lunch
An excuse to be alone

Half past three
He turns to slump
Buys some chocolate and he drinks more coffee
He stays late to make up for the rest of the day
Wakes with a start and he's at his stop
A Thursday figure on the escalator
Unlocks the door
The two of hearts on the wall

Other weekday songs from this album (and surrounding singles) include Wednesday Night and Saturday Rain. Yes, it's a concept album, but a damned good one.

My second offering goes back to the 80s and Ian McNabb's mighty Icicle Works. Sweet Thursday is typically yearning widescreen romanticism from the Mc lads. Very 80s production, and like a lot of songs from this era you almost wish McNabb would record it again without all the silly reverb, but the lyrics stand up to the test of time.

At twenty-four you thought you'd have it all
Now your will won't work at all
Ten years pass you by so quickly
When all your friends have left you standing still
And you can't recall the thrill
Of being wanted by another

When sweet Thursday comes
You receive what you're owed
We're tired of chasing rainbows
That fall short of reach
We can touch them when sweet Thursday comes

Finally, and winning by virtue of being the only Thursday song I could find on youtube, Thursday's Child by David Bowie. Thursday's Child famously had far to go, which couldn't ever be said for Bowie. At his best in the 70s, but he still manages to throw up the odd gem, and this is one of his recent best. Plus, he's mad as a lorry, and that always helps. Don't ask me what the video's all about though. I think he's feeling his age.



Friday will be a much busier day, I promise... but in the meantime, who knows any other good Thursday songs?