Sunny on the Outside, Stormy on the Inside

I've never been what you'd call a voracious reader, but I've usually had a book or two on the go at once - up until a couple of years ago anyway. Since then, well for one reason and another I've found it nigh-on impossible to concentrate on any serious reading - I've tried several times, but just found myself struggling through a handful of pages, putting the book down and never picking it up again. This lack of focus hasn't stopped me buying the blighters though and when I moved house in October, my aching back told me just how many unread volumes I'd accumulated. So a couple of weeks ago, when out of the blue I was hit by the overwhelming urge to read, you might naturally assume that I'd pluck one of those unread tombs from the shelf and dig in, but no. Instead, I went out to a newly reopened independent bookshop and purchased a copy of Richard Thompson's recently published recounting of his own nascent musical journey, Beeswing. It turns out I made a good decision, instantly drawn in, I polished it off in a couple of sittings. 

Beeswing is a thoroughly engaging read, written in an easy, conversational style that isn't overwrought and doesn't dwell unnecessarily - for example, by as early as page 21 the initial line-up of Fairport Convention is already in place. Songs are dissected, relationships examined, legendary names dropped (Jimi Hendrix, Syd Barrett, Nick Drake, Phil Ochs etc) and tragedies reluctantly addressed. More importantly than anything, Thompson's writing sends you scurrying back to those early records - and I can offer no higher praise than that. 

Here's a Hutchings/Thompson original from the Fairports' oft overlooked 1968 debut LP. 

Fairport Convention - It's Alright Ma, It's Only Witchcraft

Chills and Fever

One of the earliest books that I can remember having a lasting effect on me was Rogue Male, a 1939 thriller by Geoffrey Household. I must have been around 10 years of age when I read it, along with the rest of my English class at junior school, but vivid elements of the story have stayed with me over the ensuing half century, in particular a tightly written chase scene around Aldwych tube station and the claustrophobic later chapters where our unnamed perpetrator hides underground in the hollowed out bank of a remote country lane in Dorset.

I had my first AstraZeneca jab one morning last week and for the following 6½ hours thought I'd got away with it, but then, over the course of just 45 minutes that evening, I went from feeling completely tickety-boo to suffering full-on flu symptoms. Shivering violently, sweating profusely and with my head thumping, I took myself to bed, where I stayed for much of the next 48 hours, phoning into work sick for only the second time ever. Firing up the BBC Sounds app on my phone to murmur away in the background for company as I drifted in and out of a fevered state of consciousness, I discovered that a fifteen part, 2004 serialisation of Rogue Male, read by Michael Jayston, had recently been repeated on Radio 4 Extra and was available to listen again, so I let the whole story go round and round on a continuous loop for most of the two days, missing great chunks when I sank into a fitful sleep and picking it up again when I came to. 

Feeling a bit better on the third day, I returned to work, but my head still wasn't quite right. Indiscriminate thoughts kept popping into my muddled brain throughout my nine hour shift, which seemed for all the world like hazy half forgotten memories of real events, but were actually random scenes from Rogue Male, absorbed while in my delirious state and now seeping out into my mind as I worked. For a while it took a real effort to separate fact from fiction - a very odd sensation indeed.

A mate, one month younger than me, had his first jab on the same day as me with absolutely no side effects whatsoever. My Aunt, at 91, thankfully sailed through both her jabs without issue. Conversely, another guy at work, fifteen years my junior, was rendered totally out of commission for five full days following his injection. There seems to be no rhyme nor reason. My second run-in with AstraZeneca is slated for the first week of June - I've already taken the precaution of booking a couple of days off work, just in case.

Teacho & the Students - Chills and Fever

I Should Watch TV

A recent post over at the ever wonderful Sun Dried Sparrows reminded me of the time I was browsing in an achingly (and I really mean achingly) cool, alternative bookstore in Brooklyn several years ago. It was a fascinating and incredibly arty shop, chock-a-block with obscure titles and with ferocious jazz blaring from the in-store sound-system. Anyway, I was nosing about the shelves, when a skinny young man stepped from behind the counter and approached me. He worked at the store and had recognised my English accent. This was a guy who wouldn't have looked out of place in the line-up of a cutting edge band - an impossibly cool individual. So you can imagine my surprise at the question he asked me. 'You're from England...', he said, '...do you know a TV series called Lovejoy?' 'Errrm...., yes...' I replied, somewhat taken aback, '...in fact parts of it were filmed not far from where I live'. At this, the guy's veneer of cool dropped. 'Oh my God, I LOVE that show...' he babbled excitedly, '...do you know when the third season will be out on DVD?'

If only I'd known at the time....

Yes, it transpired that this arty, uber-cool, bookish Brooklynite was a massive fan of the venerable East Anglian antique dealer and he proceeded to pepper me with questions about the programme for several minutes - fairly unsuccessfully as it happens, as I'd rarely watched it myself. His main gripe seemed to be that, at the time, only the first couple of series had thus far made it to DVD in the USA, so he'd had to rely on acquiring bootleg copies of the show to feed his habit! This was well before Ian McShane found American fame in Deadwood, so, to be quite honest, I was surprised to hear that any episodes of Lovejoy had been released on DVD in the States and frankly astonished that the programme was so admired by such a young hipster.

Now, what's that phrase about not judging a book by its cover? It seems particularly apt in this case.

If you must write prose and poems the words you use should be your own...

It was once such a regular activity, to leave the house, go to a record shop and buy a new single or album on the morning of release - I must have done it a hundred times, if not more. Today though, I did something I've rarely done before - I purchased a book on the actual day of publication. After catching a breathy review of Morrissey's 'Autobiography' on the radio over breakfast, I made a mental note to look out for it in town later on, while in reality doubting that I'd actually be able to find a copy locally. WH Smith didn't make it easy either. I'd all but given up the search when I found a small pile of them at the very back of the shop in a small alcove near the Post Office, on the floor, literally.

So now I pause awhile in my quest to re-read all of Kinky Friedman's books before the year is out, in order to take a gander at what young Steven Patrick has to say for himself. Initial observations? No chapters or index pages and an opening paragraph that spreads itself over 4½ sides. So far so good.