I’m struggling with Kate Atkinson’s One Good Turn. The novel is perfect for holiday reading, and last Sunday I breezed through a couple of hundred pages as we sat by the swimming pool during our trial day at the local sports club. No sports for me, just lazing and reading. However, One Good Turn isn’t suitable for ordinary life, for which I mean overcast days and work. It isn’t gripping enough for quickly snatched lunch breaks and bedside reading. If I’m too tired and too distracted Kate Atkinson isn’t good enough for me. Sigh.
Perhaps my problem is that I need to keep away from the three for two tables. Writing about books means sharing the experience of them, and there might be no point in sharing the experience of popular books. I don’t mean being deliberately obscure, but finding a comfortable middle ground; sharing books that others may have heard of and who may be looking for some thoughts before they take the plunge. Bestseller lists or three for twos might not be supplying the best titles?
In Paris the cashiers sit rather than stand. They run your goods over a scanner, tally up the price, and then ask you for exact change. The story they give is that there aren’t enough euros to go round. “The entire EU is short on coins.”
And I say, “Really?” because there are plenty of them in Germany. I’m never asked for exact change in Spain or Holland or Italy, so I think the real problem lies with the Parisian casiers, who are, in a word, lazy.
When you are Engulfed in Flames is my introduction to the writing of David Sedaris. This is a collection of loosely connected autobiographical pieces, and the writing has a neat line in self deprecating humour and is full of excellent observations on the everday; it’s the kind of writing I suspect we all aspire to. It’s also the sort of thing you’d expect to find in the pages of the New Yorker, prose that’s as well crafted and nourishing as a good and wholesome meal.
His sixth publication, I’m late to the Sedaris world. His pieces come across as very compact, well-constructed short stories, although this book is officially categorised as autobiography. Sedaris is best when writing about himself and his view of the world; his Greek heritage, upbringing, life as a writer and its odd encounters, addictions, his homosexuality. He also touches on death and all it threatens, a subject he cannot help veering towards. There are also two hilarious accounts of airline travel, where in one he manages to deposit a sucked throat lozenge on a sleeping woman’s lap, and in another he sits beside a weeping, and ultimately irritating, man. The best however is the last section of the book, The Smoking Section, where Sedaris moves to Tokyo for three months in an attempt to give up smoking and to learn Japanese. He only succeeds with one of these goals. This was a highly enjoyable book that I polished off in two days. I look forward to more of his musings.
Unusual for a music autobiography, Alex James hasn’t used a ghost writer for his memoir Bit of a Blur. He has an easy, engaging writing style of his own that strolls through his time as bass player with Blur, living a booze-fuelled hedonistic lifestyle in the 1990s. He’s proud of the achievement of one of the most successful bands of that decade, but he’s also fond of recounting stories of drinking in the Groucho Club and his friendship with Damien Hirst and Keith Allen. James comes across as a pleasant enough chap, but he can’t help also revealing that he’s been incredibly lucky, sailing through his life and grasping all of the amazing opportunities offered to him.
Blur peaked in 1994 and 1995, following the incredibly successful (and also very good) album Parklife with their part in Britpop and the much talked about public battle with Oasis. James talks less about this that you might expect, and most interesting is the few years in the early 90s that Blur spent struggling; a run of very minor hit singles, a poor selling album and a lengthy US tour orchestrated to beat bankruptcy. Here is the seed for what could have been a very good book, although I suspect that James is very much aware that his fellow band members Damon Albarn and Graham Coxon were the talented ones. James was content to get drunk, look pretty and go along for the ride – he’s more at home writing about this than of any enduring artistic legacy.
Bit of a Blur gets the award for most reviewed paperback in British broadsheets this weekend. It’s also one of the best marketed books I’ve seen recently, although it could have been so much better, and I left it knowing little more than I already knew about a band I was so fond of in their heyday. The drinking and sexual exploits I could have done without. A bit of a bore really.
Gordon Burn wrote the much celebrated novel Alma Cogan. It’s a brilliant piece of writing, although deeply disturbing. He’s an extremely talented writer who’s always tempted to blend reality with his fiction. His latest, Born Yesterday, is an attempt to publish a novel featuring a backdrop of topical events. Covering England in 2007, the year of the summer floods, Gordon Brown succeeding Tony Blair and the disappearance of Madeleine Mcann, Burn has attempted to produce a work that lives and breathes a recognisable yet complex and uncertain climate. He succeeds.
Subtitled The News as a Novel, Born Yesterday may be uncomfortable for those expecting a work of fiction. It’s more a work of journalism, but some of the best topical writing I have ever read. Burn has a talent for recognising coincidences and parallels in events that only appear to share time and place in common. He follows several obsessions, primarily the Madeleine Mcann media frenzy and the fate of a handful of Britain’s Prime Ministers. Maggie Thatcher, old yet still stately, spotted walking in a London park with her minders. Tony Blair and his often comical relationship with George Bush, and most of all Gordon Brown – a man who although often labelled as dull proves an excellent candidate for analysis. He really is a fascinating, odd character and Burn writes superbly about him; this is critical of the man but it is also touching. I think Burn has a sneaking admiration for him, although I suspect he would be the first to deny it.
Gordon Burn subtly blends apparent coincidences into his writing where others would appear to be trying too hard to forge connections. He tracks down the soap star who sat in the same London restaurant where Blair and Brown supposedly made their famous deal. Their meeting doesn’t result in any insight into the Blair/Brown relationship, but it offers a wealth of insight with the fresh glimpses of life it reveals. He strips away apocryphal media tales, although managing to convince that things are often linked in the way that the press suggests – they only lack the talent or insight to report it with any justice. And they remain blinkered – Burn allows us to think a little and read around subjects.
Born Yesterday is a book about 2007, published in February 2008. It’s still resonant, although its importance may fade. Or shift – I think it will remain a valuable insight of Britain in this decade. Ditch your tabloids, your broadsheets even. This is the best, most thoughtful, reporting I’ve read of recent history.
This one’s only for the fans. That’s not to say that Paulo Hewitt’s biography of Paul Weller is worthless. It isn’t. However, Hewitt is much enamoured with the singer-songwriter. A close friend for over quarter of a century (a friendship that ironically ended with the publication of this book), his depth of knowledge is unquestionable – as is his appreciation of the music. But the writing is spoilt by the presence of the author in the timeline. There’s too much of the sycophantic “me and Paul” stance in this biography, which made me understand just a little why Weller perhaps ditched this supposedly close friend.
No matter. He’s a strange man, and his odd character is one of the reasons why I warm to him so much. Growing ever-grumpy with age, now to almost Van Morrison proportions, Weller has always been weirdly inarticulate. He’s never come across too well in interviews, especially in the Style Council days where he attempted to experiment with humour. Hewitt attempts to drill into us the fact that he was having a great laugh, although my memories of the 80s Weller are uncomfortable. As are the interviews with his Council cohort Mick Talbot at the time, a bit part player strangely almost completely absent from this book. But Hewitt also exposes his mood swings, erratic choices in life and cruelty of character, which somehow works in his favour. An archetypal artistic temperament perhaps, but Paul Weller is certainly a great artist.
It all began for me in 1979/1980 where as an English schoolboy amongst millions of English schoolboys I discovered The Jam. Looking back, the popularity, artistic brilliance and sheer excitement of this band is possibly second to only The Beatles. Sure, other bands such as The Smiths were subsequently bigger in my life, but The Jam hit me at the right time. It also helped that there was a huge Mod contingent at my school in south London, helped also by the fact that Mick Talbot and his band The Merton Parkas were ex-pupils (some of our Mod contingent later starred in a Style Council video for heaven’s sake). Weller became a huge talking point, and although I wasn’t as big a fan as my friends in the Mod contingent (a friendship that sat uncomfortably with my closeness to the New Romantic contingent) I was kept awake at night by Weller’s creative cleverness, and the brilliant run of singles that included Eton Rifles, Going Underground, Start!, Absolute Beginners and the rest.
Paulo Hewitt dwells, as you might expect any Weller biographer to do, on the fact that Paul split The Jam in 1982. They were at the height of their success at this time and he was only 24 years old. He could have kept it going for another five years at least (this is probably a mean prediction; the ex-members of The Jam are now touring 26 years later with From the Jam and with some success). Crazy perhaps at the time, although it all makes a kind of perfect sense now. Through experimentation with different musical styles throughout the 80s to his mature solo career from the 90s onward he has, as Hewitt rightly points out, outlived all of his contemporaries. The elitist punk bands such as The Sex Pistols and The Clash, who looked down on him as he came from Woking and not within the square mile radius of The Kings Road, through to Elvis Costello, who he has rightly usurped as the long lived elder man of music.
Most telling in this portrait is who Weller’s fans are and who Weller, a difficult man on a good day, himself likes. Alongside his obvious influences such as The Beatles and The Kinks, he’s also a big Syd Barrett fan, and has recently expanded his horizons to include Nick Drake. He’s also embraced Acid House music, although Polydor records refused to release the final and very experimental Style Council album in the late 80s. But, at least within the music business, Weller’s admirers are select. Of his contribution to Band Aid in 1984 Hewitt reports that nobody chose to speak to him on the day of recording. And thinking of the self-congratulatory images of Bono, George Michael, Simon Le Bon and the rest I love him more for it. He’s had run-ins with the likes of Pete Townsend, and mysteriously refused to meet his idol Steve Marriott. The journalist Paul Morley, who can only enthuse about that square mile radius of The Kings Road and its enduring effect on Manchester, is not a fan.
But I am. Read this for interesting anecdotes and facts, but otherwise listen to the music. Start with Wild Wood, then flip back to The Jam stuff. His latest, 22 Dreams, is fantastic too. And if you’ve read this far it isn’t just boy’s music. Driving back from a conference today with a work colleague we listened to a few Weller songs and quietly enthused about the greatness of man. And this with a girl. From an all-boy, semi-Mod school this meant a lot to me.
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