ROCK SCULLY - Living with The Dead

I never met Rock Scully. One Saturday afternoon early in September 1974 I turned up at a large house on the King's Road to interview the Grateful Dead's Phil Lesh - one of the more memorable chats I had in my short career as editor of Zigzag. The house apparently belonged to a character named Tom Salter - "a middle-aged Cockney suffering from cocaine dementia' - according to Scully in his supremely entertaining but, I would hope and guess, unreliable memoir Living With The Dead. Various people drifted in and out of the room as Lesh and I discussed the details of dissonant counterpoint but regrettably I don't remember Rock Scully being one of them. And now, at the age of 73, Scully has passed away, nearly twenty years after Jerry Garcia whose own demise in a drug-addled mess some hold Scully partly responsible for. And reading Living With The Dead it would be easy to draw that conclusion. A trustworthy history of the Grateful Dead it is not, but as an account of the gigantic and startling amount of drug use that went on, primarily involving Garcia, and the logistical mayhem it caused, it is in turns eye-watering, miserable, and very amusing. It contains the most evocative description of the Acid Tests that I've read anywhere and is particularly revealing about the band's relationship with LSD supremo Owsley Stanley. In the obituary in the New York Times Douglas Martin states that in recent years Scully, drug and alcohol-free, had settled in Carmel to look after his mother, paint houses and involve himself in civic issues. That he lived as long as he did is probably some sort of miracle given the horrendous volume of mind-boggling chemicals that passed through his body but I for one will sing along to Uncle John's Band today in his memory.

My Books Of The Year

In no particular order the ten best books I've read this year are :

Pereira Maintains by Antonio Tabucchi
Burial Rites by Hannah Kent
The five Patrick Melrose novels by Edward St.Aubyn (I count these as one book as I read them all back to back in one week)
Harvest by Jim Crace
H Is For Hawk by Helen MacDonald (for once all the acclaim is completely justified)
Quiet by Susan Cain
The Book of Strange New Things by Michel Faber
Godfrey's Ghost by Nicolas Ridley (thank you Andrew Weatherell for the recommendation)
Travels With Epicurus by Daniel Klein
Water & Sky by Neil Sentance

As usual, I wish I'd had time to read more and write this blog more regularly. The pile of unread books continues to grow but I've decided there's nothing I can do about that except sleep less.

A WEEK IN BOOKS

A lot of my time last week was, happily, dominated by things bookish and literary. The now annual Taunton Literary Festival, miraculously organised almost single-handedly by Lionel Ward, proprietor of our local independent book shop Brendon Books, began last week and I went along to one of the first events – an appearance by David Mitchell (not the comedian) at the Castle Hotel on Tuesday morning. Succumbing to the relentless twitter campaign prior to its publication I read The Bone Clocks and thoroughly enjoyed most of it. It has several intriguing storylines and characters, is well-paced and easy to read and promised, if not a profound conclusion, then at least a memorable twist or unexpected outcome. But around three-quarters of the way through the book the supernatural, time-travelling, fantasy element of the story that was always lurking in the background suddenly kicked in with a vengeance and I was immediately and completely lost. Lost and uninterested I'm afraid. So much so that I really didn't much care how it all ended. Reviews of The Bone Clocks have been predictably favourable but the only notice that rang true for me was Kate Saunders' in The Literary Review and I quote : 

 “The publisher's blurb describes 'The Bone Clocks' as a 'metaphysical thriller' and I don't know what this means, unless it's 'Harry Potter for grown-ups'. Sorry if this sounds unkind, but grown-up novels that deal in supernatural jiggery-pokery are hard to take seriously as works of art, so it's best to just lighten up. 'Cloud Atlas' missed the Booker in 2004 but it did win the Richard and Judy Best Read of the Year and it was made into a film – which only goes to show how brilliantly entertaining David Mitchell's writing can be. 'The Bone Clocks' is the kind of delicious, intricate nonsense that cries out to be read at leisure beside a fire”.  

So I was interested to find out whether Mr.Mitchell would be able to elucidate on the more fanciful aspects of his book and explain what it's all about. Unfortunately though he just read a passage from the book (which wouldn't have had any meaning if you didn't vaguely know the plot) and then answered questions from the ever-so-slightly fawning audience. Mr.Mitchell was terribly polite, humble and well, very nice. But it also all seemed a little lightweight and insubstantial. I was hoping I might come away with the intention of re-reading The Bone Clocks to discover what I might have missed first time around but with all the other books I just have to read I don't think there's time.

And on the subject of book acquisitions, the last couple of weeks have been particularly fruitful especially as some of them were birthday presents. Here's my haul :

Legend Of A Suicide by David Vann (£2.49 Phoenix Books, Crewkerne)

The Disappearance by Derek Marlow (£1.25 Phoenix Books, Crewkerne)

Hard Travellin' by Kenneth Allsop (£1.25 Phoenix Books, Crewkerne)

Empires of The Dead by David Crane

Walking The Woods and the Water by Nick Hunt

A Spy Among Friends by Ben MacIntyre

Modernity Britain : A Shake of The Dice 1959-62 by David Kynaston

Ulverton by Adam Thorpe

Travels With Epicurus by Daniel Klein

The Galapagos by Henry Nicholls

Christmas 1914 by John Hudson

Whoops! By John Lanchester

The week ended with a real highlight – a talk by Nicolas Ridley, son of Arnold Ridley (Godfrey from Dad's Army) about Arnold's life with special emphasis on his experiences as a soldier in the First World War. It took place at the Museum of Somerset in Taunton as part of their season of events to commemorate the beginning of the Great War. Nicolas Ridley has written a wonderful book – Godfrey's Ghost : From Father To Son, which is really an extended letter to Nicolas' son Christopher that is intended to ensure that he appreciates the full life and character of the grandfather he didn't know. Doddery old Godfrey was but a small, if not insignificant, episode in Arnold Ridley's life and Nicolas has done a marvellous job in expanding our knowledge and appreciation of this colourful man's rich, and turbulent, life. Bizarrely enough I first heard of the book when DJ Andrew Weatherall recommended it in an interview he gave. I sought it out, read it and was entranced, both by the book's content and its style. Nicolas Ridley was a thoroughly charming, amusing speaker who talked affectionately about his father and, refreshingly, quite critically about the ways in which the horrors of the Great War were being 'celebrated' in some quarters. Definitely one of the best volumes of biography/memoir that I've read for a while. Perhaps a future Slightly Foxed edition?

NICK DRAKE - Remembered For A While

I am fortunate enough to be in possession of a copy of this superb-looking book on Nick Drake, published today by John Murray. I'm reviewing it for Caught By The River and have yet to finish reading it, but such is its sumptuous design and lay-out that I can't help periodically flicking through the pages, looking at the photos, scrapbook press cuttings and copious illustrations. One segment in particular though caught my attention. Extracts from Rodney Drake's diaries dated March 1972 to November 1974 are reprinted, and as a loving and concerned father seeing his son in such torment, they are unbearably poignant to read. What stopped me in my tracks though was the entry for Wed 26 June 1974 where Rodney relates how Nick gave him a copy of Zigzag magazine "which had a long and interesting article about himself". Rodney read the article to his wife Molly and later they both had what Rodney describes as "quite an animated talk" with Nick. "It seemed clear that the article had given him a boost and we talked about how he could get over his difficulty in talking to people". Also printed on the same page is the cover image of that copy of Zigzag - the first, and probably best, edition of that magazine that I edited. The article in question - In Search Of Nick Drake - was written by Connor McKinight, my predecessor at Zigzag and a fellow who didn't write as much as he should have. What he did write though was always worth reading. But the thought that, at the time, our humble mag helped brighten Nick Drake's day up is strangely heart-warming.

ROBERT WYATT : Different Every Time

This week a long overdue authorised biography of one of music's most revered musicians is published by Serpents Tail. Different Every Time tells the story of Robert Wyatt, from his liberatingly bohemian childhood and youth through his groups - the Wilde Flowers, Soft Machine, Matching Mole, to his unique and substantial body of solo work and the many fruitful associations that pepper his career. There is of course tragedy and drama along the way with enough high and low points to ensure that Robert's story reads every bit as enthrallingly as that of the most feted rock star, but in essence it's a sympathetically-told tale of a very gifted man, his special music, his political beliefs and his relationship with his wife Alfie, herself a distinguished artist of some reknown.

It has been my privilege to have known and worked with both Robert and Alfie over the years, first at Rough Trade and then again a few years later when I signed Robert to Rykodisc where, dare I say it, we helped rejuvenate his career by releasing Shleep, Cuckooland and re-releasing most of his back catalogue. I can vividly remember the excitement in the office as I played the initial tracks from Shleep that Alfie brought in one day. Our press officer, Pat Naylor, who did such a marvellous job promoting the albums, and my co-conspirator Alison Wilshaw were particularly enthralled and after we'd managed to persuade our U.S. parent company (who were really only interested in an artist if their past sales figures looked good) that we just HAD to sign Robert (thanks to Joe Boyd who insisted that Robert's records be released on his Hannibal imprint) we embarked on an extended relationship that I still regard as the most satisfying and enjoyable that I had in my long music biz career. Our beloved Rykodisc eventually fell into the hands of a hedge-fund shark who made a lot of money on it when he sold it to the hapless Warner Music who, despite promises to the contrary, decimated it. I could go on. But I won't. Happily, when the axe fell I was able to ensure that Robert and his music found a good home at Domino Records where Laurence Bell and Jonny Bradshaw in particular have continued to give Robert and Alfie the support and freedom to continue making music on their own terms.

Musician (one half of Grasscut) and writer Marcus Odair has performed an exemplary job in writing this book so sensitively and passionately. His research was obviously diligent and far-reaching and his assessment and knowledge of Robert's music have given the book a dimension that so many lesser music biographies lack. I can't recommend it highly enough. Also, around the same time, Domino are releasing a double CD compilation with the same title which I helped compile. One disc will feature a selection of tracks covering Robert's early years and solo work and the other disc contains a diverse and revealing set of collaborations between Robert and artists ranging from John Cage to Bjork. It's the perfect accompaniment to this very fine book.

An Evening With Michel Faber

 Tuesday Oct 21 2014

To Bath to hear Michel Faber talk about his new, and supposedly last, novel The Book Of Strange New Things. Bath is blessed with two superb independent bookstores – Topping & Co., who also host the Bath Autumn Book Festival, and the splendidly named Mr.B's Emporium Of Reading Delights who staged this event (check out their excellent web-site) that was held at the Bath Royal Literary & Scientific Institute. In the wake of the recent film adaptation of Under The Skin (a film I'm afraid I found impenetrable) and two radio adaptations ahead of publication date, Faber's book has been hotly anticipated and very well promoted (at least via Twitter anyway) by Canongate. Having managed to miss out somehow on The Crimson Petal And The White and his earlier work, my initial introduction to Faber's writing was with the wonderful short story collection The Fahrenheit Twins. The title story was made available as a magazine give-away CD which had Faber reading it over a suitably icy ambient soundtrack written and performed by Brian Eno, and as I had managed to persuade Eno to release his then current album Another Day On Earth on the record label I ran at the time I was keen to make this unique collaboration commercially available as well. Lunch with Canongate boss Jamie Byng and Eno's manager Jane Geerts generated much enthusiasm but alas, for reasons I can't fully remember but probably have more to do with my failure to convince my sceptical bosses of its commercial value than anything else, the idea never materialised and the CD remains, I suspect, something of a collectors item.

However my interest in Faber and his work was kindled and although it's been a long time since then, the arrival of a new book is genuinely exciting. The circumstances under which The Book Of Strange New Things was written has already been quite well documented. Tragically, Faber's second wife Eva, who worked closely with him on his writing and seems to have been an invaluable source of inspiration, was diagnosed with terminal cancer and died last July after the book was completed. In this, one of several select appearances he's making to promote the book, Faber, a man known to be private and almost reclusive, talked openly about his wife's illness, the effect it had on the way the book was written (at her insistence he wrote six lines a day while he was caring for her) and indeed the content of the book. Unlike The Crimson Petal, which he said was meticulously planned from beginning to end before he even started writing it, Strange New Things was an adventure for him in that he had no clear idea of where and how it would end when he started out. Clearly I haven't read it yet (my signed first edition rests invitingly on my desk as I write this) but, like all of Faber's books it apparently avoids any attempt to be labelled genre fiction. From what I can gather it's essentially about faith and relationships but, like Under The Skin, it has a science fiction element (there are aliens) that hopefully won't deter people who are averse to that possibly intimidating genre. Like all of Faber's books that I have so far read it promises to deliver, amidst a fantastical and other-worldly setting, more perceptive wisdom on the human condition. Prompted by a chap from Mr.B's who looked disarmingly like the actor Hugh Laurie and was a really excellent interviewer, Faber's confident and well-measured conversation ranged beyond the subject of the new book and at one point he declared, surprisingly, that he hardly reads at all these days. His life, it seems, is consumed by music. He spends a lot of time with his record collection and plays music all the time. “There is no way I'm going to read the Booker Proze shortlist for instance. Why would I read when I could be listening to Hungarian prog-rock?” This is obviously not a new obsession either as he said that when he was a struggling novice writer in Australia, before the days of computers and without a typewriter, he rejected the idea of hiring a typist at $1.50 a page because he could buy a second-hand LP for that! In the audience Q&A that followed I asked him if music inspired him in his writing and whether he listened to music when he wrote. He said that music didn't inspire his work and that he listened to (non-vocal) music all the time when he worked but music that definitely did not complement the mood or setting of what he was writing. Miles Davis and Krautrock seemed to be current favourites. He also said that even though his fiction-writing days were over (“I've written all I have to say; I don't want to repeat myself”) he was contemplating a book on music (“which only 180 people will probably want to read”). But underlying everything he talked about was the sense of loss that he obviously feels so acutely with the death of his wife, and it was to this theme that he turned again to complete the evening when he read five or six startling poems (which may or may not be published eventually) – some angy, some almost unbearably poignant, all of them raw and scalpel sharp. It was an extraordinary performance from such a reticent character. We were witnessing a sort of catharsis that was both unnerving and profoundly moving. If The Book Of Strange New Things carries anywhere near such an emotional punch then it will be a truly memorable read.

Quiet Please!

Like a lot of people preoccupied with books I suppose, I would be described as an introvert - someone who instinctively shuns large crowds, noisy gatherings, ostentatious behaviour of any kind, and would rather be out of the limelight (whatever that is) than in it. As a result it's easy sometimes to feel marginalised from daily public discourse, to feel ignored and overwhelmed by the barrage of noisy people with often little of interest to say. And you're more likely to be treated with suspicion if you're naturally quiet - perhaps you're harbouring a secret or witholding information that everybody else feels they have the right to be party to? The infamous spy Kim Philby was the opposite - an extrovert - and hardly anyone suspected him of anything for decades. One of the world's great bluffers. As social networking becomes more popular and you're made to feel hopelessly adrift if you don't at least have a twitter account and a facebook page, and as vacuous celebrity culture continues to obsess the popular media to distraction, it's not surprising that introverts feel increasingly disengaged from society today. Susan Cain makes this point much more eloquently and at greater length in her wonderful book Quiet : The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking (Penguin paperback). I've just finished reading it and already I feel more re-assured about the value of my natural temperament, more confident about my (quiet) ability to make my point (I have this blog! Blogs are a Godsend to introverts!), and more optimistic that eventually enlightened thinking in business, politics, the media etc will start to listen to quiet people more often and more intently. I would hope that Susan Cain's book becomes required reading on any respectable 'management course' and in all responsible boardrooms in the country. She has drawn on a lot of evidence from trials, tests, surveys as well as anecdotal evidence to construct her basic argument that the world would be a better place if introverts were given more opportunity for their voices to be heard and to have their ideas more readily assimilated in public life. The book is not a tirade against extroverts though. Cain is very clear on the idea that extroverts also often have important things to say and that both ends of the temperament spectrum have a lot to offer each other. One of the most interesting things about this book is in fact the way that Cain decribes the differing relationships between introverted and extrovert behaviour - in marriage, business, etc. Perhaps unusually for an introvert (or maybe not - Cain also revealingly and subtly challenges the rigidity of such definitions) I am a football fan. An Arsenal fan to be precise. And one of the enjoyable benefits of reading Quiet is to be able to look at certain people in the public gaze and re-evaluate their behaviour and personality. Last summer Arsenal signed Mesut Özil, a world-class footballer so unlike any other player, temperamentally, at that level of the game that some vociferous voices in football who should know better have actually vilified him for some perceived character flaw that doesn't compel him to behave like a demented, hysterical, headless chicken when he's playing football. They don't trust him! Absurd and dispiriting. Ian Williams highlights the problem very well here : http://www.pastemagazine.com/articles/2014/08/arsenal-mesut-ozil-silent-gunner.html? Özil was in the German team that won the World Cup. Anyone who still can't appreciate his qualities after that definitely needs to read this book.