The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo

So I finally read it.

There's always a certain amount of trepidation when it comes to reading a book that's become as phenomenal a bestseller as The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. Will I agree with the masses... or will some grudging literary snobbishness have me turning my nose up as quickly as I turn the pages? (Yeah, like anyone who reads as many comics and as much genre fiction as I do can be a literary snob... and yet...)

To be honest, I struggled with the first few chapters of Stieg Larsson's debut. I've seen the phrase 'forensic (attention to) detail' bandied about enough in regard to this author that I might as well steal it. The first hundred or so pages of ...Dragon Tattoo delves into a complex back story that introduces the two central characters and provides far more information about financial journalism and Swedish libel laws than I ever thought I'd need. All this before the central plot is even hinted at.

But then, that plot does arrive. And it's a stormer. Aging industrialist Henrik Vanger hires journalist Mikael Blomkvist to investigate the unsolved disappearance of his niece Harriet in 1966. As Blomkvist soon discovers, this is something of a locked room mystery - but one in which the room is actually an island, sealed off from the mainland on the day Harriet disappeared by a road accident on the only bridge.

I read a good bit of detective fiction, and The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo has to be one of the most gripping investigative yarns I've read in a long time. So much so that when the inevitable scenes of dramatic peril occur - a scary showdown with a serial killer - they're nowhere near as intense as the scenes of Blomkvist digging around in old journals and piecing together clues from grainy photographs. Maybe that stuff just appeals to my inner nerd.

The thriller elements, though necessary, are the weakest thing here. Larsson seems to recognise this though, climaxing the Thomas Harris stuff about two thirds of the way into the story, with far more interesting revelations to follow. Then... just when you think the author's wrapped everything up neatly, we return to the libel plot from the opening section, now much more effective and immediate after all we've been through with Blomkvist, leading to a tasty conclusion... with a nasty sting in its tail for the eponymous heroine.

Which brings us to The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo herself. Lisbeth Salander. A fascinating, multi-layered anti-heroine with a nice line in vigilante vengeance. There's some argument over whether she's a feminist icon or some bizarre, wish-fulfilment fantasy trapped within a sneakily misogynist narrative. The fact that the novel's original Swedish title was Men Who Hate Women fuels both sides of that debate. But I can't see Larsson as a sinister sexist myself. He writes strong female characters throughout, and the fact that he chooses a villain who murders women in horrible ways hardly sets him apart. Couple that with the fact that he counts among his influences Val McDermid, Dorothy Sayers and Sara Paretsky... well, what do I know?

In the end, it all comes down to the story, and The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo delivers. It's exciting, it's fascinating, with powerful characters and a vivid setting - and all that forensic detail... it pays off. I'm pacing myself before I read the sequel, but ideally - I want it now!

I Am Man - Hear Me Faint!

I'm such a cliche. First workday of British Summertime after the clocks sprang forward and my alarm clock doesn't go off. So just before 7, I prise open an eyelid, stare at the clock, then leap out of bed in a flap. I wash and dress in under two minutes and leave the house like Lewis Hamilton leaving a car park, wheels spinning, gravel spraying. As a result of my late start, I get stuck in the rush hour roadworks on the M62 and don't get into work till well after 8. I'm still early, but it eats into my writing time and makes for a journey that's far more stressful than usual.

Still... at least I didn't faint.

I can't deny it any longer. I'm a serial fainter. I just can't help myself. It happened most recently on my birthday. The day before had been long and busy. I was up at 6 for work and not back in the house till after midnight due to my trip over the Pennines to see the Indelicates. Even though I slept pretty well that night, right through till 8am, the excitement of turning 38 obviously proved too much. I leapt out of bed to greet the day, staggered into the bathroom mumbling something even more unintelligible than usual to Louise, then proceeded to pass out on the bathroom floor. I woke a few moments later with Louise in a panic, moving me into the recovery position and threatening to call an ambulance - "your eyes were wild!" - but there wasn't anything wrong with me. I just got up too fast.

Postural hypotension. That's one of the major causes. That feeling you get when you crouch down to get a can of beans off the bottom shelf in the supermarket, then stand up too quickly and whoa-- headrush. I get that all the time. Most of the time it's not enough to make me keel over... but every now and then... oomph!

Bathrooms are popular places to pass out. I've done it at my sister's house, and at my mum and dad's. Sometimes it's just the headrush, other times it's the forerunner to something else such as flu or a stomach bug. Most of the time I've been by myself when I've done it, so I come to on the floor, with the faint smell of toilet in my nose, then gradually pick myself up and crawl back to bed or the couch till the dizziness has passed. It's worse when I do it in company though. That's when people try and wake me up. Apparently, I don't wake up easily.

Last year when I broke my arm, I passed out a couple of times while they were x-raying. The radiologist couldn't wake me, so called for the A&E doc. By the time he arrived, I'd come round. I guess it just takes me a little longer than other people.

A few years back it happened while I was having blood tests. The room was very hot, I wasn't the first fainter of the day, but it did take the nurse a while to bring me round. From my experience, I don't just fall unconscious, I fall immediately into some kind of weird dream state. So I'll be happily moseying along in some imaginary subconscious scenario when from a great distance away I'll hear someone calling my name. Gradually the voice gets closer and louder, like the chorus chant in one of those late 90s Fatboy Slim records, then suddenly I'm back in the world. It's always a disappointment. (It doesn't help that doctors and nurses always use my first name, which nobody else ever calls me. So when they're shouting me to wake up, I'm generally thinking "Who's this William you're after?")

Thankfully, it's only ever happened once while I was at work. This was a few years ago, as the onset of a bad bout of food poisoning. (Never trust trout.) I was actually on a call, meeting a marketing maven connected with the local police authority. I'd been feeling a little queasy all morning, but the salesperson I was with thought I was just making excuses because I didn't want to be stuck in a long, drawn-out session with this famously loopy client. About halfway through the meeting, my stomach started churning and I had to excuse myself to rush to the loo. I started to feel woozy as I followed the complicated directions so stopped to steady myself against a table. I woke on the floor with a burly policeman standing over me, slapping my face, "Come on, son, wake up, wake up!" He probably thought I was a druggy. Still, it got me out of the rest of the meeting.

West - Distance

West is Andrew Cheverton and Tim Keable's spooky Western revenge saga, the second volume of which has just begun - what I believe they call 'an excellent jumping on point'.

The first volume introduced us to the character of Jerusalem West in his later years and shared various adventures of desperate times and desperate men, while also revealing darker, more supernatural aspects to his world - including werewolves and the undead. Throughout, writer Andrew Cheverton kept such elements low key and maintained the credibility of the genre - this is a world closer to Deadwood or Unforgiven than Jonah Hex or the work of Joe R. Lansdale.

Distance takes us back to an earlier point in Jerusalem West's life, though I hesitate to call it an origin story. West is a soldier in the Civil War, a man torn between duty and revenge, and it's clear that events here will shape the man we already know from Volume 1. It's masterfully realised, the sort of comic that repays a second or third read, revealing further details and depth each time. Andrew's a smart enough writer to know when to let the art carry the story - and he's blessed with an artist as strong as Tim Keable, here experimenting with a new and highly successful shading style that maximises the impact of the black and white printing.

Whether you're a fan of westerns, of comics, or just of great storytelling, take my advice and head West. Buy a copy here and enjoy.

Songs For Swinging Lovers

Last Thursday, in front of a small but select crowd of gruff Mancunians, the Indelicates gave it all they've got.

It's just over a year since I last saw this band live, and the audience was probably smaller this time than last... and that broke my heart. This is my favourite new band of the last two years, a band that's got me excited about contemporary indie again, a band who delivered the best single of 2007 (We Hate The Kids), the best album of 2008 (American Demo), and are now all set to unveil their follow-up, Songs For Swinging Lovers - and if the songs I heard in Manchester are anything to go by, it's going to be another classic.

And yet... it seems hardly anybody's listening. And if that's frustrating for me, I can only imagine how galling it must be for the band. Still the Indelicates aren't giving up without a fight. In fact, they're going for a revolution...

(The Indelicates) are treating this release as an opportunity to experiment with the long-accepted norms of the recorded music market. Working with investors, web developers and artists they have built 'corporaterecords.co.uk' an innovative new digital audio platform that is free and easy to use and that allows anyone to release their recordings quickly and simply in a way that encourages the free sharing and promotion of music while giving fans an incentive to reward artists as they see fit.

You can read more about the new album by clicking here... or just keeping an eye on this blog, because you can be sure I'll be backing their quest for success every step of the way. Intelligent, literate, trenchant, passionate and provocative artists like the Indelicates don't come around very often. They deserve all our attention.

Shutter Island

Shutter Island is enjoyable hokum. It's Scorcese-does-Hitchcock again, probably his most blatant crowd-pleaser since Cape Fear. Leonardo DiCaprio is good as ever. (It gets easier to type that as the years go by, but I'll never be entirely comfortable with it. He still looks like a pudgy-faced 10 year old to me.) Mark Ruffalo is excellent as ever. There's solid support from Emily Mortimer, Patricia Clarkson, Captain Stottlemeyer, The Exorcist and Rorschach. Ben Kingsley twists his moustache and hams it up for England. De Niro pops up for an utterly pointless 20 second cameo*. It's all very stylish and Hollywood and a wee bit too long and in love with itself. But forgivably so. I especially liked the subtle-as-a-brick pseudo-Bernard Herrmann soundtrack.

But... it zigs where I really wanted it to zag. For me, the plot would have been a hell of a lot more satisfying if it'd kept to its original course. But no, they had to go for the twist. They just can't resist the twist. And sometimes... sometimes I'm a sucker for the twist too. But in this case - no twist would have been a better twist. I'm certain of it.

*UPDATED - Having watched The Fourth Kind on DVD last night (dull), I've just realised that it wasn't De Niro at all, but De Niro lookalike Elias Koteas. It was still pretty pointless.

Holiday Snaps

In days gone by, you'd get invited round to a mate's house after their holidays only for them to bore you senseless with their holiday snaps. As technology took a leap and people became ever more insistent on draining the joy from their friends' lives, the slide projector came to power. Nowadays, I don't even have to invite you round the house. I can irk you with photos that are of no interest to you in the comfort of your own pc.

We had a few days away for my birthday. Our annual pilgrimage to Whitby. Here's the view from our balcony...







Unfortunately, due to my worsening back, we didn't get to walk on that beach as much as we might have liked... but Louise did see a seal while she was down there, which was the highlight of her holiday. (More exciting than listening to me groan anyway.)

Here's a photo of me standing on the cliff tops. I don't normally put photos of me up here, because I figure there are already plenty of things on this blog to scare away the casual reader, but this one is notable because we're convinced that the building in the background is The Christmas Hotel from Paul Magrs' Brenda books, Never The Bride, Something Borrowed, et al. We spent most of the holiday looking out for elves in Christmas outfits, but alas they're an elusive bunch.



Finally, because there really aren't enough photos on the internet of cats doing ker-azy things, here's a photo of Molly, while we were packing. Do you think she wanted to come with us?



Now I'm back, I've a backlog of things to write about... including Shutter Island, The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, Daredevil: Lone Stranger, fainting on my birthday and more. So I suppose I better get on with it.

Rainbow Songs - Brown

Fellas, I'm ready to get up and do my thing
I wanta get into it, man, you know
Like a, like a sex machine, man,
Movin' and doin' it, you know
Can I count it off?

One, two, three, four!

I'm probably coming to the end of this colour countdown. There aren't a whole lot of colours left - apart from black, white, gold and silver, on which I'm spoiled for choice, so I might give those a miss. We'll see.

Meanwhile, onto brown. No real runners up this time (though as you'll see below, I squeezed a few extra entries into the Ten), and no place for Brown Girl In The Ring, you children of the 70s, (though I did like the way they used it in Touching The Void.)

Here are ten brown songs...

10. Jim Croce - Bad, Bad Leroy Brown

Bad, Bad Leroy Brown is not only meaner than a junk yard dog, he's only the baddest man in the whole damn town. So bad, they named him twice - which is probably why Frank Sinatra went on to cover this.

Croce's hit also inspired Queen's Bring Back Leroy Brown and Loretta Lynn's Mrs. Leroy Brown.

9. John Mellencamp - Jackie Brown

No relation to Quentin Tarantino's adaptation of Rum Punch, though this holds a similar noir feel in its tale of spiralling poverty and desperation. Mellencamp at his most gritty.

8. Chuck Berry - Brown-Eyed Handsome Man

That great fount of all dubious knowledge, wikipedia, claims that Berry's Brown Eyes were actually a racial metaphor - something do to with Berry claiming a lot of white women enjoyed 'the dark meat'. Which must have been pretty shocking back in 1956, perhaps explaining why this was only ever released as a b-side... until covered by far whiter artists like Buddy Holly.

7. Guns n Roses - Mr. Brownstone

The show usually starts around seven
We go on stage around nine

When I saw Axl & chums a few years back, the show was due to start around 9, and he finally bothered to turn up around 10-15. There was nearly a riot, and we left before the end, but it was still worth seeing him live... even way past his prime.

6. Crystal Gayle - Don't It Make My Brown Eyes Blue

Sometimes - though only sometimes - the simplest lyrics are the most effective.

A similar sentiment can be found in the George Jones song Brown To Blue, also covered by Elvis Costello.

5. The Pogues - A Pair Of Brown Eyes

Could brown be the most popular eye colour for songwriters? (There's obviously more to come.) As a brown-eyed boy myself, I'm happy to see this.

This song starts out with Shane MacGowan "drunk to hell"... damn those autobiographical lyrics.

And the video is mental. Every single person involved was off their heads.

4. The Stranglers - Golden Brown

A song damaged by too much airplay and too many Prime Ministerial puns, if you can put all that aside it has a wonderfully hypnotic melody... and lyrics that may be about heroin, an elusive girl, or Marmite... depending on which of the Stranglers you choose to believe.

3. Van Morrison - Brown-Eyed Girl

It seems the infamously grumpy Van The Man won't let his songs appear on youtube, except as covers, so I suggest you check out the versions by Del Amitri (no, can't find that anywhere either) or Everclear instead.

2. Flight Of The Conchords - Carol Brown



Very excited to snag tickets to see FOCs live later this year. This is my favourite song from their last album / series. I've posted it before, but that's not going to stop me posting it again. It's genius. Video directed by Michel Gondry to boot.

1. The Rolling Stones - Brown Sugar

Brown sugar is a sucrose sugar product with a distinctive brown color due to the presence of molasses...

Oh, hang on, wrong wikipedia page. Click disambiguation quick!

"God knows what I’m on about on that song," says Mick Jagger. "It’s such a mishmash. All the nasty subjects in one go… I never would write that song now.”

Hmm. Maybe you ought to, Mick.

Worth checking out the version by Ryan Adams and Beth Orton too. And this song, which could well have been an inspiration, from Sam & Dave.



Yes yes, James Brown, Sam Brown, Joe Brown... but what's your favourite brown song?

38 Special

In Ancient Egypt, the number 38 was associated with Anubis, the jackal-headed god of death and mummification.

Most of the sagas in Norse mythology are divided into 38 chapters because the vikings felt the number represented unnatural bravery in the face of insurmountable odds.

William Shakespeare wrote far more plays... yet sadly, only 38 survive to this day.

Amazing Spider-Man #38 was the last time Spidey's co-creator Steve Ditko would ever draw the wondrous webslinger.

Including re-entries and re-issues, the Beatles have had exactly 38 singles in the UK chart. Morrissey only has five more to go before he equals that record, solo.

38 is the 11th distinct semiprime and the 7th in the {2.q} family. It is the initial member of the third distinct semiprime pair (38,39).

(No, I don't understand mathematics either.)

"He's 38 years old," sang The Tragically Hip, "never kissed a girl." There was a time, it doesn't seem so very long ago, I wondered whether I'd beat that record.

Still, only two more years to go before my life finally begins. I can't wait.

March Music

A few things I've been listening to lately...

...but first, a little tribute to a hugely influential singer and songwriter who sadly left us yesterday, Mr. Alex Chilton. He should have been a Bigger Star.



Now onto the stuff that's filling up my music player this month...

Every pill I took in vain
Every meal for you I made
Every penny I put away...

Asking for flowers
Is like asking you to be nice
Don't tell me you're too tired
Ten years I've been working nights

The third album from Kathleen Edwards, Asking For Flowers, has been with me since the end of last year and shows no signs of tiring. It's an amazing collection of stories that reveal more with every listen. There's a great variety in tone on this album - from the cheeky, bouncy fun of I Make The Dough, You Get The Glory (the sort of song that cries out for an interview - just how autobiographical is it?) and The Cheapest Key (below), the closest Kathleen's yet come to writing an unashamed pop song... with the kind of ridiculously smile-worthy video such a thing deserves.



Then there's the tragic side of Kathleen, as demonstrated on the heartbreaking title track and Alicia Ross, a song from the perspective of a real Canadian girl who was murdered in her own back yard by her next door neighbour.

But Mama, can you hear me?
As I dragged on my day's last cigarette
He pulled me so hard off my
Very own back door steps
And he laid me in his garden
All the years I've watched him tend
And then he took me, Mama
So I could never tell you about it

I missed this album when it first came out. Now I just can't stop listening to it.

It was Larissa at Condemned To Rock n Roll (now on sabattical - come back soon, Larissa) who turned me on to Jonny Cola & The A Grades, via Alex Potterill's previous band, Luxembourg, where he shared songwriting duties with David Shah, now of the excellent Melting Ice Caps. I've mentioned both those bands before, but only recently picked up a copy of the Jonny Cola debut The Yellow Mini. It's described as being a mix of glam and indie, which might explain why it reminds me of both Bowie and Blur. In a good way. A very good way.



I was a big fan of Brendan Benson around the time of Lapalco, but could really never get into his Jack White collaboration The Raconteurs (beyond a few songs). Fortunately he's solo again with My Old, Familiar Friend, an album so haunted by the ghosts of 70's/80's Elvis Costello & Nick Lowe that I feel like calling in Scooby Doo to investigate. Songs like Garbage Day and Misery would fit so effortlessly onto a reissue of Punch The Clock, I doubt even Costello would notice.



Eels have another new album out, about five minutes after the last one (not that I'm complaining) and this time, it's a break-up album. What's that old cliche about great art springing from great suffering? It'd be a challenge to think of a musical artist who's suffered more - and ploughed that suffering so successfully into beautiful music - over the last fifteen years. (Actually, don't take that challenge, I'm sure there are loads.) When E sings to this Little Bird, "Right now, you're the only friend I have in the world"... I get an actual pain in my chest.



Ash have always been one of those bands who write storming singles, but couldn't quite carry an album. Credit to them for realising this and deciding to release only singles this year - 26 of the buggers, one every two weeks. There hasn't been a duff one yet.

Here's one of my favourites, with typically 1977 sci-fi video (dancing "stormtroopers too!)...



Eddie Argos. You either love him or you're not quite right in the head. (Calm down, that's just one idiot's opinion. Don't let it spoil your day.) I've mentioned his new side project with girlfriend Dyan Valdes (from The Blood Arm) before. It goes by the rather cumbersome and grammatically curious name of Everybody Was In The French Resistance... Now and consists of a group of answer songs, responding to records by artists as diverse as Michael Jackson, Martha Reeves & The Vandellas, Kanye West, The Crystals and Simon & Garfunkel. Oh, and this one, in response to Avril Lavigne...



Finally, my warm-up for the forthcoming second Justin Currie solo album continues with a clutch of excellent Del Amitri b-sides* that really should have been a-sides, or at the very least album tracks. Favourites include Fred Partington's Daughter, April The First, and the almighty I'm An Unbeliever. One of the great underrated grumpy songwriters of his generation.




*Thanks, Tone.

The Darkening

Stephen M. Irwin obviously read a lot of Stephen King when he was growing up. Nothing wrong with that, especially if it spurs you on to producing a debut novel as strong as The Darkening. While not quite up there with King at his finest, this is easily better than many of the master's recent efforts.

When Nick Close's wife dies in a tragic accident for which he blames himself, he leaves London and returns home to smalltown Australia to be with his family. On his arrival, a young boy goes missing and is found murdered - in circumstances that echo the murder of one of Nick's childhood pals thirty years earlier. There's something dark and nasty going on in the local woods involving witchcraft, giant spiders, and an ancient pagan god. Nick is determined to put an end to it. The plot follows a similar pattern to many of King's most famous works - Salem's Lot, It and Pet Sematary leap immediately to mind, but this is strong enough work to survive the comparisons. As with many first novels, the prose is a tad florid in places, and the ending looks like it might swerve dangerously towards deus ex machina until a nasty little sting-in-the-tail saves the day in the epilogue. Actually, the only real criticism I'd have is with the title - The Darkening is a pretty generic choice for a horror novel and it doesn't really apply to anything that happens here. Still, a welcome new face in the world of horror... and a writer I'll keep watching in the future.

The Light At The End Of The Tunnel Is A Meme Coming The Other Way

Stolen from Samurai Frog, as all the best memes are...

01) Are you currently in a serious relationship?

Serious? It's a laugh a minute.

02) What was your dream growing up?

To write.

03) What talent do you wish you had?

Selling my writing.

04) If I bought you a drink, what would it be?

Non-alcoholic. Sadly.

05) Favorite vegetable?

Garden peas, broccoli, carrots, sweetcorn, sweet potatoes, aubergines, cauliflower cheese. Especially the cheese.

Come on, what sort of person has a favourite vegetable? Coma guy's wife?

06) What was the last book you read?

The Darkening by Stephen M. Irwin. Reviewed tomorrow.

07) What zodiac sign are you?

The fish. Caring and creative. And a bit wet.

08) Any tattoos and/or piercings? Explain where.

Apart from the Spider-Man tattoo on my heart, no.

09) Worst habit?

Selfishness and wasting time on the internet.

10) If you saw me walking down the street, would you offer me a ride?

No chance.

11) What is your favorite sport?

World Championship Reading.

12) Do you have a pessimistic or optimistic attitude?

I dread to think.

13) What would you do if you were stuck in an elevator with me?

That's precisely why I try never to go in elevators.

14) Worst thing to ever happen to you?

I believe that one's still to come.

15) Tell me one weird fact about you.

I take milk thistle capsules every day.

16) Do you have any pets?

I am step-dad / "uncle" to three cats: Molly, Murphy and Wispa.

17) What if I showed up at your house unexpectedly?

Are you coming to bring me money or offer me a lucrative writing gig?

No?

Then sod off.

18) What was your first impression of me?

You strike me as the sort of person who doesn't give me money or offer me a lucrative writing gig, hence: not very much.

19) Do you think clowns are cute or scary?

Sick.

20) If you could change one thing about how you look, what would it be?

I would change the way I grab my rear and groan when moving from sitting to standing position. This bad back is really doing my head in now.

21) Would you be my crime partner or my conscience?

Probably your Jiminy Cricket.

22) What color eyes do you have?

Brown. Ish.

23) Ever been arrested?

No. They can never find the bodies.

24) Bottle or can soda?

I presume you mean pop? I don't drink a whole lot of pop... but water, by the bottle. (Can you buy canned water?) Anything else, by the glass.

25) If you won $10,000 today, what would you do with it?

Exchange it into pounds. Then go on holiday.

26) What's your favorite place to hang out at?

The attic.

27) Do you believe in ghosts?

Yes.

28) Favorite thing to do in your spare time?

Read. Write. Dream.

29) Do you swear a lot?

Fuck, yeah.

30) Biggest pet peeve?

This question. Always this question.

31) In one word, how would you describe yourself?

Nonachiever.

32) Do you believe in / appreciate romance?



33) Do you believe in God?

I Want To Believe.

Hayseeds in Holmfirth

I'm behind on my blogging, so only now am I getting round to reviewing my first gig of the year - Hayseed Dixie, live in Holmfirth, Sunday March 7th.

If you're not familiar with the oeuvre of the Dixie, they began life as "a Hillbilly tribute to ACDC" who soon broadened their act to include cotton pickin' covers by everyone from the Stones to Green Day, Queen to the Scissor Sisters... they even do a cracking acoustic version of Eternal Flame by the Bangles - all with banjos, ukes, and plenty o' Deep South, grass chewin' attitood.

They're not just a covers band either. They alternate the familiar material with homegrown songs like She Was Skinny When I Met Her and Alien Abduction Probe. And despite the comedy roots, they're all hot-fingered musicians dedicated to finding the lost place on the highway where Hank Williams meets ACDC. While they're not the sort of act I'd spend a lot of time listening to at home, they're absolutely unmissable live. And if you're gonna see 'em, be sure to pick a venue that's as near to your own local version of Deliverance country as you can get... we certainly did.

The Cattle Raid Of Cooley

I've been a fan of Patrick Brown's work since back in the 90s glory days of the small press scene when he produced some excellent comics like the quirky romance Under The Bed and hardboiled femme detective Tamara Knight. When I first heard that his latest venture was a serialised webcomic based on medieval Irish legends, I wasn't sure what I'd make of it. I should have had more faith in his storytelling powers...

Paddy obviously knows his source material, giving extensive notes on the original stories he's retelling here, but not letting such details bog down the story. Thankfully he's chosen to use contemporary language in his dialogue, and concentrate on character as much as plot and history. At the end of the day, the Cattle Raid of Cooley is just that - a bunch of rival tribes plotting to steal each other's cows - but there's so much more than rustling going on in this tale... including witchcraft, murder, sex and betrayal. And the art is stunning - particularly when you consider Paddy's main tool in illustrating this strip... is a humble biro.

You can start reading The Cattle Raid Of Cooley online now by popping over to Patrick's website, where you can also order good old fashioned print versions - if, like me, you still prefer your comics that way. While you're there, why not check out some of his other work too? It's well worth your time.

Rainbow Songs - Pink

It finally hit me, while compiling this week's colour countdown, just how populist my tastes really are. Much as I might have loved to include Pink Sabbath by Danananakroyd or Pink Squares by I Was A Cub Scout, I just couldn't bring myself to exclude Fuzzbox or Aerosmith to do so.

Sadly too, due to my 'no colourful artists' rule, there was no room for this lady...



...though I am still a fan.

My media player did suggest songs by Cake, Weezer, Laura Viers, Radish (yes, a band who actually named themselves after a radish) and The Young Knives... but none of them were quite as special as the tracks listed below...

10. Bruce Springsteen - Pink Cadillac

Non-Bruce-ophiles will be more familiar with the Natalie Cole version, which is a fine pop song... but well, it isn't Bruce. You've got to love Wikipedia, who point out that "I love you for your pink Cadillac" was originally a veiled pudendal reference, which makes Natalie's version somewhat homoerotic... though I guess the innuendo is vague enough that she could easily have swapped pudenda for phallus.

You'll never listen to that song in quite the same way now, will you?

9. Scaffold - Lily The Pink

Back in junior school, our teacher had us singing this in the school choir. Which, when you consider some of the lyrics, is really quite mad. They wouldn't let a teacher do that nowadays. Worth watching the video for the white suits and out-of-step dance routine. Yes, that really is Paul McCartney's brother.

And... "Lily The Pink"? Could that be another veiled pudendal reference?

8. Fuzzbox - Pink Sunshine

Or We've Got a Fuzzbox and We're Gonna Use It, to give them their full name. Hang on - is that another one?

Apparently there's a Fuzzbox reunion single - and tour - just around the corner. Everything old is new again.

7. Vashti Bunyan - Pink Sugar Elephants

Vashti Bunyan is most famous for recording her debut album in 1970, deciding the music industry wasn't really for her, then buggering off for 30 years, only to return in the new millennium when she discovered that her old forgotten record was being sold to collectors for thousands on eBay. She was smart enough to reissue it and crack on with recording some new songs too. This one's from way back in 1967... but it still sounds fresh as today.

6. Aerosmith - Pink

Louise and I were discussing Liv Tyler the other night, and we both agreed she's one of the most beautiful women in the world. The odd thing is though... she looks just like her dad. Who is one of the freakiest looking mofos you're ever likely to see. How does that work?

Apparently, no one will give Steven Tyler insurance to keep touring 'cos he's so monumentally fucked up he keeps falling off the stage... or something. As a result, the rest of the band want to replace him. How on earth can Aerosmith consider carrying on without Steven Tyler? Isn't that like the Doors without Jim Morrison... or Queen without Freddie?

Oh. Right.

Forget I said anything.

5. Pulp - Pink Glove

You'd better watch what you're wearing,
If you want him to come round and see you tonight.
He doesn't care what it looks like,
Just as long as it's pink and it's tight.

Erm... Jarvis... there's no chance that's another veiled pudendal reference, is there, mate?

4. Nick Drake - Pink Moon

What is there to say about Nick Drake that hasn't already been said a thousand times?

No, I don't think this contains any kind of veiled innuendo.

3. John Mellencamp - Pink Houses

And neither does this. It is however one of Johnny Cougar's best, from the excellent album Uh-Huh.

There's a black man with a black cat livin' in a black neighborhood
He's got an interstate runnin' through his front yard
You know he thinks that he's got it so good
And there's a woman in the kitchen cleanin' up the evenin' slop
And he looks at her and says,
"Hey darlin', I can remember when you could stop a clock.

2. Flaming Lips - Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots

According to Wikipedia, Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots is currently been made into a Broadway musical by Wayne Coyne and West Wing creator Aaron Sorkin. Which is definitely the most bizarre thing I've heard this week... but not quite as bizarre as this record.

1. The Psychedelic Furs - Pretty In Pink

Come on, I'm a child of the 80s who grew up on John Hughes films... there could only ever be one number one this week!



Those were mine... but what's your favourite veiled pudendal reference pink song?

That's It - The BBC Must Be Stopped!

I don't listen to 6 Music much, but I'm pissed as hell that the BBC is planning on axing it. I do listen to Radcliffe & Maconie on Radio 2, and I'm more than pissed that Auntie is cutting their show from 4 nights a week down to 3. But that's not what's got me angry enough to blog...

This is what's got me angry enough to blog.

"The average age of (6 Music's) listeners – 37 – is at the heart of the demographic targeted by commercial radio".

So says Caroline Thomson, the BBC's Chief Operating Officer, and someone who clearly doesn't know what the fuck she's talking about.

I'm sorry. I know that by swearing in that previous sentence, my argument will have lost much of its credibility. But I'm spitting feathers here. I need to vent.

The idea that the average commercial radio station is targeting the same listener as 6 Music (or Radcliffe & Maconie) is grossly ignorant. It's dangerously stupid. It's just plain... daft.

I work in commercial radio. I am often dismissive of it. But I recognise that it fills a need, and targets an audience who want nothing more from their music than light, familiar chart pop. Robbie Williams. Beyonce. Coldplay. Pixie Lott. Simply Red. Scouting For Girls. Cheryl Cole. i.e. The exact same music as is played on Radio... 2. The biggest competitor to commercial radio. This is the station that is targeting the demographic served by commercial radio.

Of course, there are also commercial stations like Galaxy and Kiss that target a younger demographic. These stations playlist music by the likes of Black Eyed Peas, Lady Gaga, Rhianna, Gorillaz and Jay-Z. i.e. The exact same music that is predominantly playlisted by Radio... 1. The second biggest competitor to commercial radio.

Then there's X-FM, the third, and least common type of commercial station in this country. X-FM plays mainstream indie mixed with a little dance. Arctic Monkeys. Mumford & Sons. Yeasayer. Keane. It's the other half of Radio 1's playlist, and the only commercial station that remotely crosses over with 6 Music. However, you're unlikely to see the majority of artists playlisted by 6 Music given much airtime on XFM. Those artists that are a little too strange, a little too out there, a little too... Peel... they'll never be commercial enough for commercial radio.

Yes, Caroline Thomson - I'm 37. If I had a digital radio, I'd listen to 6 Music a hell of a lot more. Radcliffe & Maconie is my favourite show on Radio 2. I would never, ever listen to commercial radio. Not even if they paid me... and strangely enough, they do.

Ah, it's just like Elvis Costello always said...

And the radio is in the hands of such a lot of fools
Tryin' to anaesthetise the way that you feel

If On A Winter's Night A Traveller

You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino's new novel, If On A Winter's Night A Traveller. Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought. Let the world around you fade. Best to close the door; the TV is always on in the next room. Tell the others right away, "No, I don't want to watch TV!" Raise your voice--they won't hear you otherwise--"I'm reading! I don't want to be disturbed!" Maybe they haven't heard you, with all that racket; speak louder, yell: "I'm beginning to read Italo Calvino's new novel!" Or if you prefer, don't say anything; just hope they'll leave you alone.

So begins the book in question, a novel I first read in my late teens. It was around this time I fell headfirst into an adolescent obsession with postmodernism that stretched from David Addison winking at the camera in Moonlighting to Buddy Baker staring out at the reader, horrified, in Animal Man, to Iain Banks's The Bridge and beyond. Calvino's novel blew me away. A second person narrative? A book made up of the opening chapters of other books, threaded together by a complex narrative involving our second person hero ("you" - or me?) seeking to discover what happens next in the fictive lives he keeps discovering... almost missing out on the chance to progress his own story in the process? I'd never read anything like it.

That was twenty years ago.

I've thought often of If On A Winter's Night A Traveller since then, wondering how it would read second time round, to older, wiser, more jaded and less postmodernism-obsessed eyes. Finally, last week, I pulled it off the shelf to give it another go. Maybe I should have left it in my memories.

The opening chapter remains an impressive trick. Beyond that, the fractured stories began to frustrate, and the contrived way the author links one text to another becomes more and more tortuous as the book proceeds. The found texts failed to grab me, and the second person linking sections seemed clever for clever's sake. It was like watching a conjurer perform tricks when you know exactly how they're done, or rewatching a film that relies heavily on an unforgettable twist. When the surprise is gone, so is the wow.

Crazy Heart

Crazy Heart offers little in the way of surprise. Once you've heard it's about a washed up, alcoholic country singer who rediscovers his muse through a relationship with a young single mother, you could probably guess the rest of the plot yourself. It's warm, it's funny, it's bittersweet, it's predictable - but it's not the story that makes this film so compelling. It's the performances.

Jeff Bridges has long been my favourite actor, so it's great to see him finally recognised by the Academy. Is this his greatest performance? Of course not, but it's the sort of film Oscar loves, and it's close enough to The Dude to satisfy. The film even opens with an intentional wink to The Big Lebowski as Bridges' character Bad Blake bemoans the fact that he's reduced to playing bowling alleys, before spending a good portion of time lounging around in his underwear, watching TV with a beverage in his hand - though sadly not a White Russian. This isn't just The Dude Lite though, Bridges gives a fully rounded performance (as we'd expect) that moves from comedy to tragedy while avoiding the cliches traditionally associated with alcoholic losers in the cinema. Bad Blake is such a likable character I found myself genuinely worried when he fucked up, and seriously heartwarmed by how things finally played out.

And no, that wasn't a rogue 's' on the end of 'performance'. Fine support also comes from the ever-excellent Maggie Gyllenhaal, Robert Duvall, and - perhaps surprisingly - Colin Farrell, who plays Blake's million dollar C&W protege Tommy Sweet with a mixture of vulnerability and deference. The ponytail makes it two great Colin Farrell performances in as many years - career rehab seems well on its way. He sings almost as well as Bridges too. Almost...

As to the rest of last night's awards... even less in the way of surprise. The Hurt Locker is worthy, making it Oscar worthy, though I'd rather Bigelow walk away with an award than her ex. The only real 'yay!' of the ceremony (beyond Bridges, who was a shoo-in) goes to Christoph Waltz... that's a bingo!

Bad Gig Behaviour

The gigging year starts for me on Sunday with Hayseed Dixie, live in Holmfirth (!) To prepare myself, I've compiled a list of my Top Ten Things People Do To Piss Me Off At Gigs...



10. Talking during quiet songs (or shouting in louder songs). Seriously, if you just want to talk to your mates and you're not interested in seeing the band, why not go down the pub or hang around on a street corner somewhere? Why waste your money on expensive gig tickets? Likewise standing in a big group with your backs to the stage. (Unless you're at a Muse gig. The one time I saw Muse live, they played the entire gig with their backs to the audience, so sod 'em.)

9. Making "witty" comments about everything the singer says. Some singers are born communicators, as confident in the between-song talky bits as when they're throwing their hearts into the lyrics (Billy Bragg tops this list). Others are far less chatty. But I'd rather hear any true performer's taciturn mumble than the wittiest retort from some wag in the crowd. You could be Bill Hicks crossed with Eric Morecambe: I don't care. If I wanted to hear your stupid heckles, I'd have bought tickets to see you instead.

8. Pushing past me on your way to the toilets or the bar. Now OK, I don't drink anymore (I usually sneak a bottle of water into the gig to get me through the night) but I used to, and I can appreciate the need to have a drink or two before the band comes on. But if I'm really into a band, the last thing I'd want would be to miss a load of their set because I'm queueing up for a watered down Heineken. What's more important, the music or the booze? If it's the latter, did you know there are actually places you can go drink without being bothered by all those annoying musicians? Just to reiterate: THEY'RE CALLED PUBS!

7. And while we're on the subject of moving about, if you absolutely have to pass me, please don't try to touch me. I have personal space issues, you know! I don't mean brushing past - I mean when you grab my shoulders or slap my back or touch my arm with your grubby, sweaty, wart-encrusted fingers. Really. Stop that. I feel violated. And please don't try to engage me in conversation or tell me how to behave at a gig. (This last bit might seem a tad hypocritical, but hear me out.) At the Blur gig last summer, while waiting for the band to return for their encore, a complete stranger turned to me and said, "Do you want them to come back on or not? Well, clap then!" Now a) I had been clapping, but I'm not about to keep clapping indefinitely, not even for Morrissey... if the band takes too long coming back on, I'll have a rest, because what am I - a seal?; and b) the one thing guaranteed to make me not clap is some complete fuckwit telling me to clap. Do I work for you? No. Go bother someone else then.

6. And while we're on the subject of drinking... if you want to get so pissed you can't even stand up straight, let alone appreciate the band... once again, why bother? Why not just get a brown paper bag full of meths and do it on a street corner while warming your hands on the flames from an old oil drum. Likewise doing coke or any other form of recreational drug that makes you nothing more than an annoyance to the rest of the audience. Do what you like as long as it's not bothering me, OK? And if you must get so off your tits that you can't control your own dancing and end up crashing into everyone around you... be aware I'll be praying for your untimely demise. With extreme prejudice.

5. Pretending you're pushing past me on your way to the toilets or the bar only to stop RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME and decide that's where you're going to stand FOR THE REST OF THE NIGHT. Blocking my view. Especially if you're seven feet tall and built like a Wookie, Yeti or other hairy mythical beast. If I had my way, everyone would pick a place at the start of the night, before the band even comes on, and be forced to stand there for the rest of the gig. Anyone who moved more than for a bit of a jiggle would be shot. Through the head. With a bazooka.

4. Filming everything. On your phone. Because a) you're missing the live experience of the show; and b) chances are everything you film will be shit quality and you'll never watch it again, except when you upload it to youtube for everyone to comment on how shit the quality is.

3. High pitched whistling. God, I hate those people who do the shrill, two-fingers-in-the-side-of-their-gobs whistles that burst my eardrums, particularly when they're stood right behind me. It makes me want to use one of those sonic laser weapons that makes a person's whole head explode, like in Scanners or something.

2. Getting up on your boyfriend's shoulders so you block the view of everybody behind you, then jigging about up there with a drink in your hand that spills on all those around you. Oh, and put your top back on love, if I wanted to see a pair of saggy tits, I'd have bought tickets for Meat Loaf.

1. Chucking bottles / empty glasses / full glasses / bottles or glasses full of your own piss. Unless you're chucking them at some girl who's up on her boyfriend's shoulders... grow up and have some consideration.

Top ten? Why stop there? What gets your goat at gigs?

Rainbow Songs - Purple

The rainbow turns purple. Indigo, violet, lilac... puce. I couldn't find any puce songs though. Remember, no purple bands are allowed - hence the absence of Deep Purple (although I suppose I could have considered the song they were named after) and Stephen Duffy's The Lilac Time.



Runners up would come from Thea Gilmore and Ooberman (who get enough plugs round here), The Mystery Jets, They Might Be Giants and... oh, very well then, Coldplay.

No prizes for guessing the Number One.


10. Eels - Lilac Breeze

You can tell that E now writes most of his songs sitting on his front porch. I'm still waiting for my copy of the new Eels album End Times. It's in the post. Oh, no, wait, it's just arrived. At last!

9. Sheb Wooley - Purple People Eater

A vaguely remembered tune from my childhood, I guess I owe this one to Ed Stewpot Stewart. Wikipedia helpfully points out...

The monster isn't necessarily purple but rather it is purple people that the monster eats, as shown in the following excerpt:

"I said Mr Purple People Eater, what's your line?
He said eating purple people, and it sure is fine
But that's not the reason that I came to land
I wanna get a job in a rock 'n roll band"

8. Cud - Purple Love Balloon

Quick, add these guys to my Bands From Leeds list. How could I forget the regurgitated-grass-chewing indie racket-makers... they were rich and strange. Well, strange anyway.

7. Marillion - Lavender

Fans of Julia Davis's Nighty Night will know why I can't take this song seriously anymore. I'd have loved to play you the appropriate clip, but I can't find it on youtube.

Fish's real name is Derek Dick... but I'm sure you already knew that.

6. The Clint Boon Experience - Not Enough Purple, Too Much Grey

Inspiral Carpets keyboard maestro and leader of the 'Boon Army!', I can't deny the cool of Clint Boon. Save 6 Music, just for him.

5. Jeff Buckley - Lilac Wine

Originally by Elkie Brooks, there's something particularly haunting about Buckley's version that became even more eerie following his death. Shivers down spine.

I haven't had a drink in ten years, but the way this week's going... I could seriously lose myself in some lilac wine right now. Please, have one on my behalf.

4. Gogol Bordello - Start Wearing Purple

And once you're drunk, here's the perfect song to dance on your table to. If you've never heard of Gogol Bordello, imagine a Russian Pogues...

I ja kljanus obossav dva paltza - chto ty!
shto muzyka poshla ot "zvukov moo"

3. Jimi Hendrix - Purple Haze

For anyone who thinks this should be number one... you're probably right. But I've always been a wrong 'un.

2. Frank Sinatra - Mood Indigo

You ain't been blue
Till you've had that mood indigo.

Too true, Frank.

1. Prince - Purple Rain

All 8 minutes 45 seconds of it. The kind of song that leaves you a quivering, emotionally drained wreck on the floor... or with air-guitar elbow, at least.

I never meant to cause you any sorrow
I never meant to cause you any pain
I only wanted one time to see you laughing
I only wanted to see you laughing in the purple rain

So what's your favourite purple poetry?

Two Pains In The Arse

Hard as it may be to believe, there are people reading this blog who couldn't give a monkeys what books or comics I've been reading, what music is on my media player, what plays or films I've been to see, or what I think about the latest series of 24 (Katee Sackhoff is very annoying, but Jack pulling that knife out of his gut and throwing it into the terrorist's throat was classic 24 twaddle). They are however - for some perverse reason or other - interested in my life. When I have one. So here's an update...

I have a pain in my arse. Well, it's a bad back really, but it's so low in the back as to actually be in my posterior. It's down where my spine connects to my pelvis and I've had it about 6 months now. Finally, I couldn't put up with it any longer, so I went to the docs. "You need physiotherapy." But there's a 6 months waiting list on the NHS, so I've gone private. I had physio last year after I broke my arm and it really helped me get moving again. Tackling the ache in my butt is proving a trickier job. You've got to have sympathy for the poor physio who spends half an hour poking around my gluteus maximus. Still, they get paid well enough for it. I now have exercises to complete. I should go do them...

But then there's the second pain in my arse. My car. On Saturday, while visiting my parents, the gearbox siezed up completely and I was unable to change gear at all. Got the RAC out, they couldn't do anything, away it went on the back of a van. I've been relying on lifts and buses since, waiting for the garage to get back to me. Finally I called them.

"How you doing with my car?"

"Oh, I think we're still waiting on a part, mate. Baz - we got that part for that Toyota* yet?"

"Yeah, it came in yesterday."

"Oh, it seems the part has arrived, sir. So we should be able to fit it soon."

"Today?"

SFX: Whistling through teeth. "Oh, not today, no. Very busy today. Tomorrow. Probably. Or the day after... (Put the kettle on, will you, Baz?)"

And how much is this "part" (which turns out to be a whole new clutch) going to cost me? £465. Ouch.

Life. It's just one pain in the arse after another.






*And sadly, no, this isn't one of the faults that's led to the massive Toyota recall.

In Search Of Galactus

Possibly the first US Fantastic Four comic I ever bought was FF #212. Originally published in 1979, I probably didn't lay my sweaty little hands on it till a year or so later when I found it in a spinner rack in a newsagents in Filey. One of the highlights of my childhood seaside holidays was searching for old comics in paper shops, book shops and junk shops up and down the east coast of Yorkshire; I can still remember how exciting it was to find gems like the one pictured above. I was already familiar with the FF from their cartoon show and British Marvel weeklies, but the US comics looked so much cooler - full colour for a start, and packed with exciting ads for Hostess Twinkies, X-Ray specs and other exotic novelties I could only dream of.

This issue lies towards the end of a massive eleven-issue epic written by Marv Wolfman, and drawn by Keith Pollard, Sal Buscema, and by the time I joined in, John Byrne. A year or so later I'd start collecting the US FF comics every month, early into Byrne's acclaimed run as both writer and artist (#241 was my first "hot off the stands" issue - though back then, "hot off the stands" meant three months later than the comic had been sold in the States). When talking about Byrne's FF, many forget that he was a regular artist on the book for almost a year before he also started writing it. It's obvious now that he learned the ropes from working with Wolfman.

Despite everything I'd missed, #212 helpfully recapped why Reed, Sue and Ben were on death's door after being hit by a Skrull aging ray, and why they'd had to recruit Galactus to help defeat the seemingly unstoppable menace of the Sphinx. The issue ended with Reed, Johnny and Ben desperately trying to create a weapon that would stop Galactus, once he'd taken care of the Sphinx, only to be interrupted by the planet devourer's newest herald, Terrax The Tamer. It was an exciting cliffhanger... that I wouldn't ever see resolved. Well, not until now at least.

Over the next fifteen years, my Fantastic Four collection grew as I sought to fill gaps as far back as the Lee / Kirby era. Although I did eventually manage to track down a few more issues from this particular story, and might have read parts in b&w UK reprints, certain issues proved illusive. #213 and 214 were never distributed to the UK in the first place, so finding affordable copies was virtually impossible. A cheap copy of FF #100 - no problem. Two non-anniversary issues published a decade later? No chance. Such are the vagaries of back issue collecting. Only now, almost thirty years on, do I finally get to read the complete story.



Though I can't often afford Marvel's Premiere Hardcover collections, I saved up specially for this one. It didn't disappoint. It's easy to forget what a great writer Marv Wolfman was, or to remember only the highlights of his DC career like New Teen Titans and Crisis On Infinite Earths. Here he crafts a cosmic epic that's equal to anything Byrne accomplished, reminding me in its crazy, multi-layered plotting of Grant Morrison's much later run on JLA . Scriptwise, the book is of its time, with a little too much exposition and description for modern tastes, yet it's still highly readable, and the characterisation - and development - is spot on. We also get the comic book debut of annoying cartoon Human Torch replacement HERBIE the robot (plus Wolfman's amusing explanation that Johnny was out of town when it came time to sign the cartoon contracts) and guest appearances from Spidey, Nova, Dum Dum Dugan and others... though the back cover's mention of Medusa is stretching things a little far, even by Reed Richards' standards, as the Inhuman queen actually appears in only one panel, in a plot thread that is never resolved. (Was it ever?)

Fantastic Four: In Search Of Galactus is way ahead of its time - in a way that, ironically, hearkens back to the fabled Lee/Kirby heyday, as well as laying the foundations for Byrne's own legendary run. Reading it now reminds me why I fell in love with the Marvel Universe as a child, and why that love hasn't ever gone away.

The Woman In Black

The Woman In Black is Stephen Mallarat's adaptation for stage of Susan Hill's ghostly novel, and it's been lauded as one of the scariest plays you'll ever see. It certainly had the right effect on Louise, who screamed louder than the WiB herself during the production we saw on Saturday night. And the WiB screams very loud.

What impressed me most about the play was the minimal staging and imaginative stagecraft. The majority of the story is told with just two actors, with a third - the eponymous haunted lady - making only brief yet effective appearances. That's not to say the story only involves three characters, there are a wealth of supporting characters played by one or other of the actors, even a friendly little dog that you never see, but believe in completely. The set is a masterful example of how to get the most out of the full stage with limited props and effects, and the scares... as in all the best horror stories... are inventive, unpredictable, and created largely in the imagination of the audience. I learnt a lot - useful, as I've currently taken a break from the nvl to write another play myself.

The Woman In Black is highly recommended if you get to see it on stage... those with partners who are easily scared might want to wear some extra padding for when they start squeezing your arm in fright.