SAINT MAZIE

A few weeks ago I wrote a review for Caught By The River of Thomas Kunkel's excellent biography of the great New Yorker writer Joseph Mitchell - Man In Profile : Joseph Mitchell of The New Yorker - http://www.caughtbytheriver.net/2015/05/man-in-profile-joseph-mitchell-new-yorker-andy-childs/. Pleasingly, the book seems to have garnered a great deal of praise and attention and will hopefully have introduced Mitchell's timeless prose to a whole new audience. The wonderful compendium of his best work - Up In The Old Hotel (Vintage Classics) - is still available and hopefully always will be. The second piece in this book is of particular interest at the moment. It's called Mazie and is a short profile of "a bossy, yellow-haired blonde named Mazie P.Gordon....a celebrity on the Bowery....has a wry but genuine fondness for bums....and each day gives them between five and fifteen dollars in small change, which is a lot of money on the Bowery" (a very large amount actually, this being the late 30s). By day Mazie worked, practically lived even, in the ticket cage of the Venice movie theatre which her family owned and from where she presided, like some street-wise, life-hardened matron and angel, over the destitute and the down-on-their-luck inhabitants of the Bowery. 

Joseph Mitchell should always be remembered first and foremost as a great writer and chronicler of New York life, but there are two perhaps more newsworthy elements to his story that will seemingly always resurface in any discussion of his life. The first is the last thirty years of his life working for The New Yorker and never publishing a word, and the second is the revelation, relatively soon after they were published it must be stated, that some of his celebrated profile pieces on various individuals were in fact composite creations. Hugh G.Flood (in Old Mr.Flood), King Cockeye Johnny (in King of The Gypsies) and Mr.Hunter (in Mr.Hunter's Grave) didn't actually exist. In the hands of a lesser writer this underhand blurring of fact and fiction would have devalued the journalistic merit of his work. With his impeccable eye for detail and detached perspective though Mitchell succeeds in creating characters that perfectly represent the essence of the places and the time that he's writing about and they are as real to him as any living person could be. 

In his earlier, shorter pieces like Mazie however there was no room or necessity for any fictional embellishment. Or so Joe Mitchell thought. And so I also thought until I discovered that all of last week and this week BBC Radio 4's Book at Bedtime is a book called Saint Mazie by Jami Attenberg (Serpent's Tail) which is apparently a novel that imagines the life and times of Mazie and "honours an extraordinary life and heralds a completely original approach to writing historical fiction. Weaving together fictionalised diaries, writings and interviews, Attenberg has constructed an utterly convincing portrait of Mazie Philips, which is also a deeply moving portrait of New York as it passed through the First World War, Prohibition, the boom of the '20s, and then the terrible depression of the '30s."
So it seems that in an audacious manner that Joseph Mitchell would have surely approved of in his courteous Southern-gentlemanly way, Attenberg has taken the essence of Mazie's story (with perhaps only Mitchell's original seventeen-page piece as source material) and brought her to life in a way that feels as credible as it does remarkable. I'm only going on what I've heard on the radio - I have yet to get my hands on a copy of the book - but the voices and narrative sound thoroughly authentic to me. Despite the increasing and bewildering insistence on radio and TV to use English actors for American parts, Samantha Spiro does a very creditable job as Mazie's voice and the supporting voices are equally good. It's riveting radio and I can only assume that the book is even more rewarding.

BRIAN CASE - On The Snap

In the early 70s, when I was editor of Zigzag magazine and based in Soho there was a group of us, some contributors to the magazine and some loosely connected to it, who used to convene on a regular basis to discuss the important records of the day, ridicule anyone in the music business we collectively disliked, extol the virtues of our heroes, and drink. The core of this increasingly-addled coterie consisted of Pete Frame, John Tobler, Tom Sheehan, Paul McNally, Jerry Gilbert, Keith Smith, Rocky Prior, Monty Smith, Will Birch and myself. There were several casual attendees such as Jonathan Morrish and Chalkie Davies and, most often at the behest of Tobler and Sheehan we used to invite the occasional 'guest'. Tobler, who was working as press officer at CBS Records at the time, once brought along a young Rolling Stone journalist who was in town named Cameron Crowe. Very amiable chap, talked to me about Neil Young (who he'd just interviewed) for ages, and was quietly appalled at the amount of alcohol we were able to consume in a lunchtime. And Tom Sheehan, one of the more gregarious members of our tribe, invited several 'personalities' who he thought might amuse us. Danny Baker was one of them I recall (talked so much that none of us could get a word in and consequently drunk even more than usual) and on a couple of occassions he brought along Brian Case, eminent jazz journalist, fine raconteur, proper drinker. All round ace chap. I should add at this point that our particular gathering, enthusiasts of the vituperative arts as we were, didn't suffer fools or other music journalists easily. Sheehan, one of our very greatest music photographers, friend of the stars, and much sought after by the music press, often found himself in the offices of either the NME or MM at lunchtime with a raging thirst and impatient to join us for a restorative 'lotion' (his terminology) he would airily announce that he was “going down the pub”. Being an immensely popular figure and amusing company for witless scribes he would be greeted with a chorus of “which pub are you going to Tom?” Heart sinking at the thought of inflicting these wretched hacks on our esteemed company, Tom would briskly announce :“to the Million Barking Dogs”. Clueless as to where this establishment was located but far too cool to admit it they would all cheerily reply “OK, see you there later”. The Million Barking Dogs of course didn't actually exist. Tom had invented the name to deter any unwelcome intruders with their fatuous opinions who might threaten to lower the tone of our rarified assembly. At various times the Million Barking Dogs was a number of pubs whose names I can't remember, the Princess Louise, the Pillars of Hercules (which became our regular) and a pub near, I think, Windmill Street which is where Brian Case graced our company. I may have got some, if not all, of that wrong but that's how I like to remember it. I'm do know though that Brian, ensconced in a corner with his roll-ups and a selection of beverages, impressed us all with his humour, frightening knowledge about 'difficult jazz' (more inventive terminology from Sheehan), his refreshing and lightly-veiled belligerence towards the many frauds, charlatans and idiots that plagued the music business, and of course his capacity for booze. He must have seen through our tarnished veneer of bohemian pretence immediately and marked us down as imposters because the number of times he illuminated the proceedings were too few. I for one, a mere amateur in comparison at the time, was no match for his level of critical precision, incisive wit and dry humour. I've always loved his writing if not always the subjects he chose to write about, but it is with absolutely no hesitation that I can wholeheartedly recommend On The Snap as a taster of Brian Case's style, humour and ability to paint a vivid portrait in a paragraph. It is, as the title suggests, a series of snapshots of musicians (mostly jazz), actors, film directors, and crime writers who Brian has interviewed over the course of three decades. Most of these subjective profiles are very funny, mercilessly opinionated and infused with respect and admiration for the subject (his encounter with the Sex Pistols is an exception). My favourites are the story about him turning up for an interview with Al Pacino with 100 rounds of ammunition in his trenchcoat pockets, his Chet Baker story, his memories of Ronnie Scott, and the Richard Harris chapter. I will probably read the whole book several more times though (it's 60-odd pages and easily devoured in one sitting) just because it's the sort of great, uninhibited writing about musicians and 'artists' generally that seems to be in short supply these days.

On The Snap : Three Decades of Snapshots from the World of Jazz, Film & Crime Fiction by Brian Case is published by Caught By The River and can be purchased here : https://caughtbytheriver.greedbag.com/buy/on-the-snap-by-brian-case/packshot.html

One For The Books

I've been a fan of Joe Queenan's writing for quite some time now. If You're Talking To Me, Your Career Must Be In Trouble is one of a handful of books guaranteed to make me laugh out loud and his writing on films, film stars and the film industry generally has been mercilessly scathing and mostly right on the button. By his own admission his work "largely consists of ridiculing nincompoops and scoundrels", and he is refreshingly unapologetic in his refusal to suck up to the movie business or any other business that has an inflated sense of its own importance. Up until recently I'd assumed that film was his overriding passion as well as the target for his vituperative wit, but it seems that Mr.Queenan is first and foremost a bookman, a voracious reader and an incorrigible collector of books. I chanced upon a copy of One For The Books in The Last Bookshop, a well-stocked and imaginatively presented remainder book shop in Bristol, read it in a day and, in as much as my own deranged book-acquiring habits pale in comparison with those of Queenan's felt much better afterwards. I even went out a bought some books I felt so good. Queenan may be sarcastic and dismissive about certain books and authors but there is no doubting his passion for books and reading and libraries and bookshops and all things literary. One For The Books would appear to be a partially re-written, re-editied and re-configured collection of columns that Queenan has had published in various magazines and papers and it is perhaps a little drawn-out and repetitive in places but there are enough laugh-out-loud moments and passages of shrewd observation to make it well-worth the investment. And Queenan makes the best argument for printed books over e-books that I have read anywhere.

One For The Books by Joe Queenan (Viking U.S.) (£3 in The Last Bookshop).

Sandy Denny Saves Zigzag!

I spent a couple of weeks last month reading Mick Houghton's excellent new biography of Sandy Denny - I've Always Kept A Unicorn (Faber) and reviewed it for Caught By The River - http://www.caughtbytheriver.net/2015/03/ive-always-kept-a-unicorn-the-biography-of-sandy-denny-mick-houghton/. Discerning music lovers of my generation whose tastes were broadened and developed in the mid-to-late sixties will hold a special place in their hearts for Denny and Fairport Convention from that era. Not to deride the current Fairport line-up but the Fairport Convention of the late sixties that made What We Did On Our Holidays and Unhalfbricking were a truly remarkable band and if tragedy hadn't struck and events conspired to change the course of their history then one can't help feeling that Sandy Denny might have achieved more acclaim and success than she ultimately did. Even today, almost thirty eight years later, her death and music's loss is still too harrowing for many to re-visit. Zigzag founder Pete Frame - one of the first writers to recognise Denny's talent, reminded me that we both owe a debt to Denny and Fairport that we'll never be able to repay. In its early days Zigzag, like almost every magazine that is independently funded, went through severe financial difficulties and it was a benefit concert, headlined by Fairport Convention and also featuring Mighty Baby, that raised the cash for the magazine to stay afloat and allowed Pete to continue to edit it. The photo at the top of this piece shows the cover of the very first issue of Zigzag with Sandy Denny on the cover alongside an ad for the benefit concert that appeared in issue number six. If Zigzag hadn't survived then my life might have been completely different as well. I wouldn't have succeeded Connor McKnight as editor and would have had to settle for a proper job. Perish the thought.

A WEEK IN BOOKS : Reading and Watching Joseph Mitchell

Ever since I bought a copy of the Vintage paperback of Up In The Old Hotel in the U.S. years ago I have been a devotee of the work of Joseph Mitchell. I have read all of his books and my current digital subscription to The New Yorker allows me to read everything he ever wrote for that magazine. I am also constantly trying to source as many articles I can on the great man to add to my slowly thickening file in between catching repeated snippets of Joe Gould's Secret on youtube (more in a moment). This week I have been reading an old Oxford American feature on him by Sam Stephenson - http://www.jazzloftproject.org/files/file/MITCHELL.pdf – which focuses on Mitchell's obsession with collecting seemingly mundane artifacts from the past – in New York but also in his home state of North Carolina – a pursuit that presumably filled up his time when he stopped publishing anything in The New Yorker after the mid-60s despite remaining on the magazine's staff for thirty years thereafter. There is also a visually stunning companion piece in Granta 88 by Paul Maliszewski which I recommend as well. But I suppose the exciting news for all Mitchell fans is the forthcoming biography Man In Profile : Joseph Mitchell of The New Yorker by Thomas Kunkel to be published at the end of April by Random House. Kunkel is the author of an excellent biography of Harold Ross – founder of The New Yorker and Mitchell's first editor there - and has also edited a volume of Ross' entertaining correspondence. So expectations for the Mitchell book are very high. Is he able to throw any more light on the mystery of why The New Yorker never published anything by Mitchell after Joe Gould's Secret in 1964? Mitchell certainly didn't stop writing, and The New Yorker has in recent years been publishing tantalising extracts from an unfinished biogrpahy, so what was he thinking? I suspect that as the 60s wrought its seismic cultural changes and his old, more genteel New York started to disappear, Mitchell became a man out of time, more and more disillusioned with what was going on around him and unwilling or unable to summon the enthusiasm to document his vanshing world anymore. The astounding thing is that his legacy and influence are still so strong today. Joe Gould's Secret is probably his most famous work. It's a wonderful book and a masterclass for all budding biographers, but it's also a great film as well. Stanley Tucci (currently the star of the TV series Fortitude and an actor growing in prominence) gives a subtle and engaging performance as Joseph Mitchell as well as directing the film, and the great Ian Holm plays the hobo/con-artist/intellectual/chronichler-of-our-times Joe Gould brilliantly. Susan Sarandon and Hope Davis also appear. It's never been released here on DVD, which is a crime, and with Thomas Kunkel's book about to project Mitchell and his work back into the spotlight, now, it would seem, is the time.

The Fly Trap by Fredrik Sjöberg (Particular Books)

The astounding success of Helen Macdonald's H Is For Hawk has undoubtedly moved the literary spotlight onto an elusive genre of books that has so far managed to remain pleasingly unclassifiable but richly rewarding. They are supremely erudite books, but also clear-headed, thoughtful and sometimes brutally honest. They cover, in various combinations, travel writing, nature, literature, science, history and personal memoir and they have been written by some of my favourite authors. W.G.Sebald and Jonathan Raban come to mind immediately and for me, anyway, have set the standard for this kind of multi-disciplined writing. In recent years Robert Macfarlane and now Helen Macdonald have been rightly lauded and it seems that Katharine Norbury with The Fish Ladder is about to join their exalted company. There are doubtless others I haven't heard of or read yet and for as long as the public's interest is piqued there will surely soon be, if there aren't already, a seemingly endless succession of inferior imitators who will be enthusiastically promoted, flatter to deceive and muddy the waters so to speak. Before that clamour though I'd like to wave my flag for this little gem of a book which has already been enthusiastically reviewed, notably in the Guardian - http://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/jun/14/fredrik-sjoberg-hoverflies-the-fly-trap and by Malachy Tallack, founder of the excellent Island Review at Caught By The River – http://www.caughtbytheriver.net/2014/09/the-fly-trap-fredrick-sjoberg/. Apparently a 'best-seller' in its native Sweden, The Fly Trap is a wry, amusing and wholly delightful meditation on islands, solitude, travelling in the wilds of Burma, hoverflies, and the life and exploits of an obscure and possibly mad Swedish naturalist named Reneé Malaise who designed the fly trap of the title and which Fredrik Sjöberg uses to catch his beloved hoverflies. Sjöberg is an expert on Swedish hoverflies and has identified over two hundred different species on his small island of Runmarö alone and in part this book is about obsession and the virtues and pitfalls of blocking out the rest of the world to pursue one's own, often lonely, specialist path. But of course it is a lot more than than just that. A philosophy for a saner way of life underpins Sjöberg's dry, humourous prose and his self-effacing honesty is endearing and captivating. I started reading it on a train journey from London which, for once, wasn't nearly long enough. Mr.Sjöberg has joined my, albeit limited, gallery of Swedish heroes along with Kurt Wallander and Freddie Ljungberg.

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.