THREE McGARRETTS
The Big Kahuna!
The Free World is safe with this sort of inspired writing.

Hey Ho Let's Go: The Story Of The Ramones
by Everett True
(Omnibus Press, 344 pages)

"All I ever wanted was to see smiles on the kids' faces" - Marky Ramone

In 2003, life without the Ramones remains a novel concept. After the playing the last of some 2,200 (very) odd gigs in 1996, the band hung up their leather jackets, t-shirts, torn jeans and tennis shoes and rode off into the sunset to the strains of Ennio Morricone's "The Good, The Bad & The Ugly" theme. Anyone with a pulse is cognizant of "da bruddahs" rightful coronation as rawk royalty, although most of the accolades didn't start arriving until they went away.

Everett True postulates they functioned as much like a gang as they did a band, but a more accurate analogy might be La Cosa Nostra, with Johnny as capo di tutti capi and the rest as misfit goombahs. Until the end, it appeared the Ramones' creed was "in for life" and to this day, there appears to be some sort of omerta regarding Richie, who came up to the bigs for a cup of coffee when Marky was too drunk to sit upright on his drum stool.

True, himself a huge fan, paints a picture, warts and all, of four maladjusted kids from Forest Hills who had a musical vision that was rammed home with all the subtlety of a trouser cough on a crowded elevator, succeeding as purveyors of pure white noise in spite of themselves. Embittered somewhere along the way about the brass ring that seemed to elude them in the form of hit records and credit for if not creating punk rock, then at least kickstarting it, the Ramones turned to infighting, drugs, booze and tinkering with their sonic fabric.

The rift between Johnny and Joe is as much attributed to a struggle for control of their musical direction as it is to Johnny's stealing Joey's girlfriend and then marrying her. Is it any wonder long-suffering tour manager Monte Melnick's job is likened to that of a special-ed teacher chaperoning four retards on a 20-year field trip? Surprisingly, for all of the legend surrounding Dee Dee's heroin addiction and the lengths he allegedly went to to cop, it's given short shrift by True, although he doesn't sugarcoat Marky's liquor-soaked tours of duty. As I read True's account of Joey's passing while laying in a hospital bed surrounded by family and friends, I cried like a baby while riding a bus home from work surrounded by total strangers.

As punk marches into the 21st century, the Ramones have been rightfully iconized as the ultimate anti-heroes and the most influential band this side of The Beatles - no, make that the most influential band ever - architects of a unique universe of bad taste, volume, melody, and momentum. Despite that dubious achievement, there is a noticeable dearth in print about them, but True's book takes to places none of the others do, whether you like it or not. - Clark Paull

King of the City
by Michael Moorcock
(Scribner, 421 pages)

How many books has Michael Moorcock written? Dunno, but it must be well over 100. I'll freely admit that I haven't read too many of them. The first Jerry Cornelius novel was okay and "Behold the Man" was a great short story, although it became slightly flaccid when expanded into a novel. I tried getting into Elric of Melnibone and Dorian Hawkmoon and Count Brass and Corum and all that other fantasy rubbish, mainly because it kept getting recommended to me by people whom I mistakenly thought had some taste, but I just couldn't get with it at all.

That was years ago and I'd come to assume that Moorcock and me were destined ever to remain estranged. However my mate Frank pressed this one on me recently, claiming (as they always do) that "this one is different". I was apprehensive at first, then pleasantly surprised. Very pleasantly surprised in fact. For once, there is a Michael Moorcock book that lives up to its praise. First up, it's loosely autobiographical, but more in a "magical realism" sense; friends and events from Moorcock's past, along with Moorcock himself in various guises, get pressed into literary service, cheek by jowl with the fruits of his considerable imagination. Throughout the novel its hero, Denny Dover (about a decade and a half younger than Moorcock, but conveniently holding many of the same opinions), speaks to the reader in the first person, but with Moorcock's tongue pressed firmly into his cheek. "Believe me, pards, we're living in an age of myths and miracles", he (or rather Moorcock) begins, signifying right up front the author's intention to mix fact and fiction as the mood takes him.

During the course of the book Dover (not much mention of his brother Ben, heh heh) crosses paths with a number of people Moorcock himself would also know, often much better than Dover claims though sometimes not as well (and like David Mummery, who alone amongst the characters in "Mother London" tells his story in the first person, Denny's world view has been partially shaped, as was Moorcock's apparently, by a chaotic upbringing at the hands of a sporadically unstable mother). Secondly, it's bloody well written. Given that Moorcock used to be able to churn out three or four novels a year during his peak "productive" years, it's obvious that he's a skilled word wrangler. However now that he produces less and spends longer on each book, he has the time to sharpen and refine the text (or maybe taking things a little more slowly simply means that it comes out this way to begin with).

While the pace and complexity of the story keeps you turning the pages, the words and phrases on those pages have been carefully chosen, lovingly polished and arranged so that every sentence is a pleasure to read, something that can be savoured just for its own sake. Clearly Moorcock has written this as much for his own pleasure as for the enjoyment of his readers. Thirdly, the fantasy element is kept to a minimum. Oh yes, there is still a discernable quantity of unreality though, which overbalances into full blown fantasy towards the end of the book, when Moorcock extracts an improbable deus ex machina finale (that borders on pure Hollywood hack job) out of some convenient CCTV footage, a few bits of half digested computer jargon and some equally improbable conspiracies and collaborations.

But here the ultimate destination is only of secondary interest. What is far more interesting is the journey that protagonist and reader together take to get there when Denny Dover, a former musician, former renowned photo-journalist, sometime celebrity photographer turned part-time bottom feeding paparazzo and general burnout case, owing enough back taxes "to cover at least half a cruise missile or fund a South American dictator" (talk about your complete anti-hero!), lucks onto the scoop of the century by managing to snare some snaps of a supposedly dead Robert Maxwell-like robber press baron going at it hammer and tongs in a hammock in the Cayman islands with an agile, upper class twat transparently based on the toe sucking Duchess of York. Unfortunately for Denny, by the time he gets the pictures back to London, he finds his scoop has been snookered by the death of "the People's Princess" (or "Our Lady of the Landmines" as Dover sarcastically refers to her) and the consequent public reaction against the paparazzi's continual invasion of celebrities' privacy. "You can't invade their privacy", he protests to no avail. "They've sold their privacy. It belongs to us... That's our money they're living on".

What's all this got to do with rock'n'roll, you ask? Well, one of the key plot points revolves around the staging of a reunion concert for the cult band Deep Fix and here's also where the autobiographical details come flying off the page thick and fast. It turns out that Denny Dover is a competent, if idiosyncratic, guitarist. It also turns out that he, like Michael Moorcock, once played with Hawkwind, having met the band while taking photographs for the NME. In Moorcock's case they appropriated the first chapter of his book "The Black Corridor" as a spoken word introduction to their song "Space Is Deep", which then led to an offer to co-write songs, which in turn led to an offer to record ("Warrior on the Edge of Time" and more recently "Choose Your Masques") and to tour with the band (as rhythm guitarist on Robert Calvert's good days and as lead singer on nights when Calvert was otherwise engaged in dealing with his personal demons). Dover, like Moorcock, has been known to hang out with Lemmy Kilmister (which is probably why Lemmy appears briefly as a character in the novel, while the rest of the band only rate passing mentions in their absence). Moorcock has also worked with Blue Oyster Cult and Brian Eno (briefly and separately) and yes, he did once front a band called Deep Fix and they did once open for the Damned.

However the real Deep Fix would hardly be allowed or able to bring London traffic to a standstill by staging a reunion concert on London's busiest bridge, nor was any member of Deep Fix ever a member of an early line up of New Order, even if Denny claims otherwise. It should be noted that as a musician Moorcock is much more pragmatic about his abilities than Dover, going so far as to acknowledge once in an interview, "I have to play with much better musicians than myself or I'm total crap. I try to rise to at least a standard that won't have them looking at me as if I'm suddenly crippled and tone-deaf", although he still manages to convey pretty well the actual joy of playing a guitar. The book is also something of a "roman a clef" as the French are prone to say between swigs of claret. For instance, the Martins ("famous farting novelist" father Rex and son Felix), are pretty obviously Kingsley Amis and son Martin, while "Jillian Burnes, the transsexual romancer" seems to be a dig at the author Julian Barnes, although I have no idea what Barnes can have done to Moorcock to earn his ire. Through Dover, Moorcock pokes fun at former magazine colleagues and friends as well, like the writers for New Worlds, which Moorcock himself edited for a number of years ("the NW crowd didn't have any rocks to get off"), and Oz ("mostly middle-class Australian wankers and worse"). However he does make a particular point of praising long time friend and fellow writer J.G. Ballard, though Dover claims to have met him only once and then goes on to describe him as reminding him of "a mad but amiable suburban bank manager".

When Dover speaks of a "fat little office boy who wanted us to think he was the editor", it seems to be a(nother) reference to Moorcock himself, who left school when he was 15, threw himself into freelance writing for low budget genre magazines, mainly mysteries and westerns (becoming a stalwart of the Sexton Blake Library and providing many a thrilling tale of Texas, Arizona and similar mythical regions in and around the Pecos to a variety of publications dedicated to "horse opera" and stories of the sons of the old sage in general). By the time he was seventeen, he had graduated to editing "Tarzan's Adventures" and dealing with authors at least twice his age. On the other hand, I strongly doubt that Moorcock is the son of the last Londoner to be hanged for murder, as Dover claims to be, although they both seem to have had the same grandmother. Also, the vision of the "East End" he spends much of the novel alternatively celebrating and mourning seems to be rooted as much in "Passport To Pimlico" and other British films of the immediate post war period as it is in the reality of his own childhood during and after the blitz. True he did live for much of the sixties and early seventies in the Ladbroke Grove/Westbourne Grove/Notting Hill area, when that was practically the centre of the alternative universe (though still a long way from the East End), but he was actually born in Mitcham in Surrey, far indeed from the sound of Bow bells. Of course, in the last quarter of a century Ladbroke Grove and the neighbouring areas have suffered just as much as the East End from the crass ministrations of greedy and insensitive developers, smothering the stylish stonemasonry of ages past in bland concrete and glass boxes, all in the name of progress and profit (though not necessarily in that order), so his denunciations still have the ring of truth and sincerity about them.

Ultimately I'm not sure who is the King of the City, whether it's an ironic title for the despised media magnate and property developer John Barbican Begg, who owns much of the city but only sees it in terms of surveyors' maps and architects' models, or an honorary title for the naive Dover, who owns none of it but has de facto possession of much of it through his upbringing, family history, friendships and familiar acquaintance. The novel ends up being part oral history, part requiem for lost friends, lost heritage and lost ideals and part revenge for the virtual destruction of the spirit/heart of London, ground to dust beneath the heels of arriviste wide boy yuppy merchant bankers ("Merchant banker? I thought that was rhyming slang", to quote Arthur Daley, the archetypal East Ender) and the caterpillar treads of grasping and soulless developers. He also attempts to contrast, somewhat less successfully, the distant horrors of Rwanda, Kosovo and the like with the increasing greyness of life at home, the suffocating blanket of conservatism thrown over England by the ultra bland John Major and the consensus by sleight of hand of Tony Blair (or Toney Blur) and his "Sultans of Spin". There's a little sleight of hand on Moorcock's part as well. The novel opens at a certain point in Denny's life and describes the events leading up to that point in the past tense, then shifts to a later point, still staying in the past tense, before subtly shifting into a virtual continuous present the closer it gets to the end. And then of course there's that left turn into technological fantasy at the end, including a near death experience, appropriately enough brought about by one of the landmines the people's princess was campaigning against.

But all's well that ends well - all you need is a well placed CCTV and some miracle eye surgery; then just punch a few numbers and a well chosen url into the computer and all the loose plot threads suddenly weave themselves into a Hugo Boss suit and matching travel rug. Just 'coz there aren't any goblins or sorcerers, doesn't mean it ain't fantasy. Moorcock himself has publicly poured scorn on the fantasy genre in recent years, as witness his indignant comments about "Lord of the Rings" in a recent issue of Ansible: "Since Prof Tolkien pooh-poohed most science fiction for not being logical in its world-building, especially its languages, of course, and since he swore that this was not a post-holocaust fantasy, how come these early industrial revolution kulaks, with sophisticated metal working skills, gunpowder, focusing lenses and advanced printing methods, couldn't make one simple fucking cannon and blow the bad guys off their keeps in a trice? Jesus, they could put an intercontinental ballistic missile together with the resources I spotted in hobbitville without even thinking about it, since my eye kept wandering off the leprechauns and wizards. [...] It's the last fucking unicorn opera I watch in a long while. Frankly, "Star Wars" was a lot more convincing and I thought that was crap, too."

Despite this, Moorcock has just revived the Elric character in a new book, "The Dreamthief's Daughter", which doubtless will please his many fans almost as much as it pleases his bank manager and it may be that ultimately he will be remembered more for his fantasies than for more realistic novels like "King of the City" and "Mother London", but if so it will only be through sheer weight of numbers. "King of the City" has been promoted as a sequel to "Mother London", so I read that one straight afterward. It is good too, but I don't detect much of a relationship between the two, either structurally or narratively. However, some fans are determined to find connections with everything. Not long after I finished "King of the City", someone even claimed to me that Denny Dover is really just another aspect of Moorcock's Eternal Champion and that this novel fits right into that whole Multiverse/Dancers at the End of Time "thing" that Moorcock's got going. I just told him to fuck off. This book stands perfectly well on its own. - John McPharlin

1/2

Since I don't have a lap top (or a portable computer), I'm always looking for something handy and convenient to read when I'm separated from this flickering screen and forced to sit twiddling my thumbs somewhere (be it on a bus or on the bog). It's times like these that a bit of honest, amateur rock journalism comes in handy. Here's what's been saving me from boredom lately.

Strum #1

This is the first issue of a new Sydney fanzine. Perhaps you've just scratched your head and asked yourself, "Does Sydney really need another new fanzine?". If so, then think again: Yes it does. What have we got now? Radio and TV are disappearing under a never ending deluge of plastic, interchangeable artistes performing bland, manufactured crap, while professional music journos are queuing up to sell their souls (or at least sign on the dotted line for a 25-year lease - they're really only doing it temporarily to pay for that honest, hard hitting book they're always going to write some day) in exchange for a chance to suck hungrily on the corporate teat. Anyone who wants to write about music, especially local music, just because they like it, is more than just welcome, they're essential.

This zine is created and edited by Danny Yau, who apparently spent a year writing a column called Strum for Revolver (I wouldn't know, I'm a Drum Media man myself), got a taste for the whole rock writing thing and now can't leave it alone. He's written most of this issue himself, with contributions from former Waterfront owner Frank Cotterell (on the Velvet Underground), Lazy Susan's Pete Wilson (on the Arias, from the perspective of a "wannabe rock star on drugs" - my favourite piece in this issue) and a couple of mates who supply the occasional record review and help with the headings (which are all song titles - bet he starts to regret that decision long before he gets to close to issue 100).

This first outing features his take on Uncle Tupelo, Jeff Tweedy (who was in Uncle Tupelo), the Beach Boys' "Sunflower" album, a eulogy to Dee Dee Ramone, a brief interview with Ashley Naylor of Even, a paean to Calvin & Hobbes, a profile of the real Hopetoun (e.g. Lord Hopetoun, Australia's first Governor General - I didn't know that, though like most Australians I can name plenty of American presidents and more than few English prime ministers too), a crossword puzzle that name checks everyone from the Monarchs and the Monkees to Jonathan Richman, Savage Garden, Oasis, Crowded House and the Kinks (oops, just gave away the answer to 11 across), lots of news and reviews and well, anything else he likes. I'm not sure that I'd rate any album by Ben Folds Five a "five star classic", but once you get people writing about what they really like, instead of what they've been told to like, you tend to get diversity of opinion - good for a healthy music scene, not so good for corporate sales; sad, but there you go... I can live with it.

Contact details are:
STRUM
99A Burwood Road
Belfield N.S.W. 2191
Australia

or via their web site

Off The Hip #3, June 2002

The boys at Off The Hip haven't quite kept to their original quarterly schedule. Seems that between issues two and three they got distracted and became a record company (and a pretty good one too, if their first couple of releases are anything to go by). Of course I can't complain about any hiccups in their publishing schedule since, once my copy arrived, I promptly misplaced it and it has only recently come to light again, after I accidentally knocked over a particularly unstable pile of newspapers, back issues of Drum Media, old photographs and a variety of threatening letters from several credit card companies (shit, it isn't as if they weren't champing at the bit for me to have their lousy cards in the first place).

Once again there's a free 10 track CD, so that your ears can get acquainted with what your eyes are reading about. That is unless, like me, your reading lags far behind your listening, until something like Naked Eye's "Too Far Gone" compendium of classic riffarama suddenly rouses you from your lethargy and sends you diving for the centre spread where all the band details for the bonus CD are laid out.

This issue's cover girl, er guy, is Dom Mariani, interviewed by Pop On Top's Neal McCabe. Apparently editor Mickster Baty has a policy of not putting band mates into the magazine, so Dom's just slipped in under the wire, having now joined Mickster in the Stoneage Hearts earlier this month to fill the gap left by Danny McDonald's recent departure to go solo.

Other featured acts are the Mooney Suzuki, interviewed by Mickster himself on the eve of the release of their new album (and boy, isn't a pity that You Am I's plan to have the Mooney Suzuki tour Australia with them last year fell through at the eleventh hour), Queensland's Shutterspeed, the Hekawis (also from Queensland apparently, although I've been living for years under the mistaken belief that they were from Melbourne), Andy Heaney (no, I hadn't heard of him either, but the "Action Man" song - officially by Sector 7G, though Heaney plays everything except the drums - is a cool piece of light, deft, guitar pop) and part time local Sydney svengali J.A. Youni talks about bands he's been involved with - including the Psychotic Turnbuckles, Sheek The Shayk, Tito Riviera & the Pearl Birds, the Obvious Question and most recently Sunset Flip - while Funter (a.k.a. Mick O'Regan) contributes a tour diary from last year's Pyramidiacs/Scruffs sojourn to Spain, where beer seems to speak the international language of diplomacy - it's a wonder the united nations hasn't cottoned on to this yet (next issue will cover the subsequent Finkers' tour of areas further north).

There's also the usual news and reviews of course.

Contact details remain as before:
OFF THE HIP
PO Box 1211
Carlton Vic 3053
Australia

or via their web site

Dig It!, #26

This lobbed into the old letterbox without warning one day. The contents, as listed on the cover, contained some righteous rock'n'roll names, like Tek & Morgan, Jim Dickson & Radio Birdman, Adam West, Off The Hip Records... but when I opened it up, fuck me if it didn't turn out to be all in French. Needless to say, four years of grudging inattention in a high school French class doesn't get you too far when it comes to serious rock'n'roll, so I contented myself with looking at the pictures. The ones that go with the Jim Dickson interview looked pretty shitty, but somehow strangely familiar at the same time.

I'd heard from someone or other (probably that most knowledgeable of all interlocutors - a bloke I met in a pub) that Jim speaks reasonable German, but on the basis of this interview it seems that he speaks pretty good French as well, e.g. Dig It!: Tout d'abord, comment se fait-il que les membres de Radio Birdman t'aient choisi pour cette tournee? Jim: Ce n'est pas une question a laquelle je peux vraiment repondre... Rob m'a dit que j'etais le seul capable d'assurer ce job et que la decision etait unanime. And so on; obviously I've had to leave off the little thingies over some of the vowels, but you get the gist.

Hey, wait a minute, what's this in ultra small print at the end of the interview? Photos: John MacPharlin! Hot damn, credit in a foreign magazine - I really am an international photographer now! Okay, so they got my name slightly wrong - they still got one letter closer than Shock Records, at least on the first pressing of "Do The Pop". I guess they must have grabbed the images off this site, which certainly weren't scanned at anywhere near the right resolution for producing decent photos. On the other hand, they don't look that much worse than any of the other photos in the mag (if I do say so myself - and I do!).

Contact details appear to be:
c/- Armadillo,
32 rue Pharaon
31000 Toulouse
France

or via their web site where they have European news, a gig guide (looks to be restricted to France, but still seems like there's a lot more good rock action happening) and even English translations of some of the articles from previous issues (along with thousands of annoying pop up ad screens unfortunately - proof yet again that Philip K. Dick saw it all coming with crystal clarity and was right to be paranoid).

The Big Takeover #50

I waxed all lyrical about this magazine when I reviewed the last issue. I'm not sure what else I can say about it now: it's still outstanding, it's still thorough, it's still fuckin' huge, I still give it the full three McGarretts instantly and unconditionally.

When someone starts publishing a fanzine out of their bedroom, this is ultimately what they hope to end up with. Broad in its tastes, comprehensive in its coverage, positive in its outlook, honest in its opinions, clear in its expositions and attractive in its presentation, but most of all created by someone who cares about the music and for twenty years has resisted any pressure to go with the flow and become a corporate shill. In each issue you'll read about a lot of great bands, but you won't have seen too many of them on the cover of Rolling Stone.

This issue features Social Distortion (an interview with Mike Ness), Mission of Burma, Mike Watt, the Breeders (Kim Deal), Mike Azerrad (author of "Our Band Could be Your Life"), the Church, Slaughter & the Dogs, the Monarchs, Ash, Super Furry Animals, Soundtrack of Our Lives, Brian Jonestown Massacre, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club... plus continuations of interviews with/articles on the Damned and Radio Birdman and a reprint of the Ken Shimamoto's interview with James Williamson (which you read first here at the Bar).

I'd also like to celebrate a personal achievement at this point. For only the second time since I started subscribing, I've actually managed to get all the way through an issue before the next issue arrives and that includes the well over 100 pages of record reviews at the back. It's published biannually, in June and December, so I've even made it with a couple of weeks to spare. Hmm, what am I going to read until then?

Contact details remain as before:
249 Eldridge St. #14,
New York,
NY 10002-1345,
U.S.A.

and of course they have a web site

In summary:
Strum #1


Off The Hip # 3
1/2

Dig It! #26


The Big Takeover #50

Sniffin' Glue (And Other Rock'n'Roll Habits)
by Mark Perry, with Danny Baker, Terry Rawlings
(Sanctuary Publishing, 325 pages)

Of all punk writing, Sniffin' Glue has been both the most lauded and yet hardest to find, which has always begged the question as to whether those two circumstances were related. Now finally this volume collects together 14 of the 15 issues (numbered 1 to 12, plus one of the two "half" issues and the Christmas "Sniffin' Snow" special), so the multitude who missed it first time round can see for themselves and at last make up their own minds.

Like punk itself, this magazine exploded into existence seemingly out of nowhere, connecting with an audience that knew it had been waiting for something, but didn't know what it was until it saw it. Mark Perry was a bored bank clerk, surrounded by (in his words) creeps and brainless morons, nineteen years old and going nowhere in a soul destroying job (even a decade later, the average banking corporation still expected to exercise more influence over how its employees looked, spoke, behaved and lived than almost any other organisation, including the armed services; only the church demanded a greater degree of control over the daily lives of its office bearers, employees and miscellaneous minions).

Musically Perry had graduated from glam rock to pub rock, but still hadn't attained the essence of what he knew deep down he was hungering for. Finally Nick Kent's review of the Ramones' first album handed him the box of matches he needed. Listening to that album lit a fire that then was fanned into a blazing inferno when he caught them live - twice - during their first English tour; at the same time making contact with fellow proto-punks like Shane McGowan and Brian James.

In the aftermath of those experiences, the initial issue of Sniffin' Glue represented an urgent despatch direct from the trenches; fuck grammar, spelling and punctuation - fix bayonets and take no prisoners! Eight pages whipped up on an old typewriter towards the end of July 1976, adorned with some rudimentary graphics hand drawn in black felt tipped pen, photocopied (in a "print run" of fifty copies) by his girlfriend at the office where she worked and intended to be sold for fifteen pence each. The ultimate in DIY music journalism celebrating the ultimate in DIY music.

When the manager of the Rock On record shop (or stall, accounts differ) in Soho, where Perry was a constant customer and persistent loiterer, not only took all fifty copies off his hands straight away, but also gave him an advance for the first of several semi-professional reprintings (another fifty copies), there seemed to be no looking back. Before he knew it he was rubbing shoulders with journalists from Melody Maker and Sounds.

Melody Maker's Caroline Coon even took him along to the 100 Club to see the Sex Pistols in action for the first time. He dismisses most of the Pistols' entourage as shallow posers, more interested in how they looked than what they were hearing. This includes an ostentatiously obnoxious Sid Vicious, still a long way from taking over from Glen Matlock as the Pistols' bass player (but then, was he ever ready?). However the band itself lived up to every promise ever made on its behalf.

Six months later, in January 1977, he'd quit his job at the bank and was working full time on the magazine, operating out of a spare office belonging to Rough Trade and the magazine was up to twelve pages (not including bonus "pin up" picture) professionally printed in a run of 2000 and selling for thirty pence each (thirty five if subscribing by mail). However by July he'd had enough and issue twelve (or so it stated on the cover, though technically it was issue fifteen), which ran to twenty eight pages, had a print run of 8,000 copies and was cover dated August/September, was the last - coming a mere fourteen months after the first.

During that period in between, Perry got up close and personal with most of the major figures of the English punk scene. Having met Brian James in the audience for one of the Ramones shows, he leveraged that acquaintance into an interview with his band (the Damned, but then you already knew that, didn't you?). That interview went smoothly and others with the likes of the Adverts, Subway Sect and reggae DJ Don Letts followed, though he now says that during his interview with the Clash he felt that he was definitely the one under the microscope ("like going to a job interview") and the interview with the Jam's Paul Weller reads more like an argument in the front bar of the local pub than a formal question and answer session.

He and they (Perry and the Pistols) were both back at the 100 Club a month after his first visit there for a two day "punk festival", which led to a special issue ("3 1/2") with a smaller than usual print run. From the "This issue is rare... Rip it up and it'll be rarer" emblazoned sarcastically next to the official price of "Open yer wallet, you bastard!", it's clear that he already had at least some idea of how important the magazine was becoming (though it was not until much later that he learned that someone in New York was blatantly copying each issue and selling these bootlegs at the usual mark up for "imports" - another notable first for free enterprise in the punk press!).

At first sight, a punk "coffee table" book might seem a complete contradiction to the ethos it documents, even more so in the case of this most ephemeral of all punk publications, but with punk's "summer of hate" now a quarter of a century into the past, most punks of that vintage probably stay in by the fire a lot more than they go out to try to light a new one, so what better way to recapture the warm glow of yesteryear than this?

Not only does this weighty tome contain every page of every issue (except for issue "7 1/2", which seems to be missing in its entirety), printed on suitably authentic looking cheap newsprint, there's also an additional 136 pages worth of glossy paper stuffed with foreword, preface, introduction, reminiscences and heaps of photos (some excellent work by Jill Furmanovsky; check out more of her work at http://www.rockarchive.com, but at £350 a pop, you'd better be prepared to "open yer wallet, you bastard" and beware - she seems to have done a lot of work for Oasis in recent years).

However it's the contemporary reportage that holds the greatest importance. Interestingly there was never an interview with any of the Pistols, presumably because their fame quickly elevated them above the rest of the scene, while the likes of the Stranglers and Vibrators (and to a lesser extent the Jam) were dismissed as falling outside the punk canon, even if Eddie and the Hot Rods did remain firm favourites to the end.

No intellectual pretensions nor snobbery here; not much evidence of proof reading either (confusing "idle" and "idol" is my favourite, but there are typos and malapropisms galore to choose from). No playing favourites either - the Saints' "(I'm) Stranded" got a full page (two columns) in issue four as an import single; a third of a single column in issue six when the single was later released in England ("...the whole thing is fantastic. It's a fuckin' great noise!"); but when the subsequent album came out, it only garnered a mere five dismissive lines in issue nine ("Most disappointing album of '77").

Such criticisms notwithstanding, there is plenty of passion and a real sense of urgency, which generally carries all before it.

Many of these interviews date from before the bands concerned had released their first record, with Chelsea mutating into Generation X in the time it took to transcribe the interview tape, while the gig reviews often catch bands in only their second or third public performance. In addition, bands like the Pistols, Clash and Ramones may be still household names (well, in this household anyway), but it's the ones who fell by the wayside that make for the most interesting reading; who remembers Roogalator, Eater, Johnny Moped, the Cortinas or the Hammersmith Gorillas these days? While history may have dismissed them, even a flash in the pan can be an inspiring sight if you're there to see it when it occurs. More often than not, Mark Perry was there.

From its inarticulate conception through its triumphant ascendancy ("we're the only mag who knows what's happening") to its disillusioned and discouraged conclusion, the writing was always earnest and never less than honest. The lack of interest in reprinting copies of back issues that had sold out was explained in the fifth issue by, "We're into thinking ahead, the early issues ain't much good anyway. For Christ's sake don't collect SG for the sake of it. It ain't a stamp collection". Unfortunately that faith in the future had dissipated by the 9th issue. Perry turned the editorial duties over to his long time friend and collaborator Steve Mick (Micalef), then sacked him when he didn't like the way that issue turned out.

Meanwhile Perry had formed his own band (Alternative TV) and record label (Step Forward), both of which were progressively absorbing more and more of his time. He was also becoming increasingly embarrassed by the commercial success of the magazine, even going so far as to cease numbering the pages which contained full page paid advertisements, and tired of the seemingly endless caravan of earnest yet uncomprehending film and television documentary makers turning up on his doorstep for an in depth discussion of the punk phenomenon (as well as the usual lazy journos looking for a quick quote to pad out a superficial article in the national media).

Despite the rigid orthodoxy that settled over punk like a form of artistic hardening of the arteries, to Perry the DIY ethos meant enjoyment and the freedom to write about whatever interested you. He wasn't reluctant or embarrassed to mention non-punk bands like Blue Oyster Cult (who actually got almost as much space in the first issue as the Ramones), Eddie and the Hot Rods or even the Raspberries (though a threatened Mothers of Invention piece never eventuated) if he liked them.

Now as then he lets it all hang out in public, in this omnibus volume even going to the extent of including a 1973 letter to Disc magazine praising an ELP concert (later reprinted in the NME in what he feels was an unashamed attempt to embarrass him). Unlike the "year zero" punks who claimed a complete break with the past, he's not ashamed to assert that not every piece of music prior to punk was worthless rubbish (neither apparently was Joe Strummer, who unself-consciously quotes a Kinks lyric during the Clash interview).

Sadly it all ended in tears, bitterness, resentment and complaints about the vacuous trendoids and posers flooding into punk once it had become fashionable, moshing mindlessly and aggressively while slavishly copying the rest of the herd in dress and attitude. I can't help referring back to Joe Strummer's "like trousers, like brain" comment in the Clash interview - meaning that those who dress unhip necessarily are unhip; unfortunately the opposite was clearly far from true - dressing hip didn't necessarily mean they had a clue, or even a brain. However by this time not too many in the punk movement were doing much in the way of introspective navel gazing, so such nuance was lost in the rush to achieve and maintain the correct look.

For Perry the magazine already had gone on too long by the time he pulled the plug on it; for him punk died the day the Clash signed to a multi-national record company (despite which he still gave their records enthusiastic reviews when they came out). "The bigger punk was getting, the more arseholes were getting involved". Now that's a real punk epitaph.

Aside from issue "7 1/2", all that's missing is a copy of the Alternative TV flexi-disk that came with the final issue ("Love Lies Limp" - fat chance of that I guess, although the Nina Antonia book on Johnny Thunders did come with a CD...). It's enthusiastic and immediate, but fuck the persistent typos do get to be a drag after a while. I bought my copy from Helter Skelter - John McPharlin

9/10

Search & Destroy, The Complete Reprint (two volumes)
Edited by V. Vale
(V Search Publications, 142 and 148 pages)

The first thing you have to come to grips with is the sheer size of it. "Search & Destroy" was printed originally as a tabloid (newspaper) and even with a ten percent reduction in size for this collected reprint, it's still a big bastard to handle and the print inside is tiny. With fewer than 150 pages in each of these two volumes (volume 1 reprints issues 1-6, while volume 2 reprints issues 7-11), you might be misled into thinking that it'll be a quick read, but believe me it's not.

If I remind you that "Search & Destroy" went on to become the ultra artistic and intellectual "Re/Search", does that give you some idea of the density of prose and breadth of ideas you're going to encounter between these covers? Punk is not treated here as just a passing fad for raw noise, ripped tee shirts, bondage trousers, "spitting and safety pins"; it's approached and analysed as a worldwide cultural phenomenon.

One of the interesting aspects of this magazine is that it originated not in New York or London, but in San Francisco - the spiritual home of the hippies so vocally despised by punks. Not only that, the editor was an employee of the City Lights Bookstore, that mecca for the beat generation, and publication began with donations of $100 each from Allen Ginsberg and Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Talk about a comprehensive refutation of punk's "year zero" doctrine!

Perhaps being slightly removed from the twin epicentres of the initial punk explosion allowed for a more detached and dispassionate view, which in turn fostered a more rigorous and comprehensive overview. Clearly, as the subsequent issues of "Re/Search" corroborate, V. Vale has a deep and abiding interest in "fringe culture", although his partiality towards in depth, uncompromising (and categorically "underground") content did not really achieve its zenith until years later with the 148 page "Guide to Bodily Fluids".

In the meantime, "Search & Destroy" represents a first step (well, eleven steps) in that direction between 1976 and 1979. Issue number one begins with the Ramones and the Damned ("New Wave History in San Francisco at The Gabba-Hey Gardens") and ends with Iggy Pop ("James Osterberg: Would You Let Your Sister Marry An Iguana?"). Sandwiched in between are local punk identities Crime, Vermillion (later "Vermillion Sands", a direct reference to the work of British novelist J.G. Ballard), Deaf School and the Nuns (via interviews with vocalist and "mother superior" Jennifer Miro and guitarist Alejandro Escovedo... hmm, wasn't he one of the acts on that Laughing Outlaw Records compilation I reviewed for the Bar recently?).

From there on, every major punk (and punkesque) act/figure is covered: the Clash, Zeros, Dils, Devo, Vivienne Westwood, Patti Smith, Johnny Moped, Blondie, Tom Verlaine, Alternative TV (fronted by Sniffin' Glue's Mark Perry), the Damned, Avengers, Residents, Mutants, Dead Boys, Sex Pistols (naturally), Screamers, Suicide, Talking Heads, Dickies, DNA, D.O.A., U.X.A., X (only from LA, not Sydney though), Buzzcocks, Pere Ubu, Deviants, Throbbing Gristle, Cramps, Siouxsie & The Banshees, Roky Erickson, Nico, Dead Kennedys... well, you get the idea.

Patti Smith, in particular, takes the interview process very seriously. She begins by upbraiding the interviewer for being fifteen minutes late, but later in the interview she comments without apology or apparent irony that half the band are late (because they're off getting some of the band's equipment repaired). We also learn that: she's never heard Lou Reed's "Transformer" because she didn't like the cover and she can't listen to a record if she doesn't like the cover; she always knows what's happening "two years ahead of time"; she feels like Jimi Hendrix every time she plays guitar; she and her band (this is in 1978) are the logical extension of the MC5; she'd like to do a film with Bertolucci... and on and on in similar vein.

In this journalistic endeavor, Vale was aided considerably in achieving the breadth of band coverage by Vermillion Sands, who had decamped to England soon after the first issue, made local contacts and sent back first hand reports and interviews direct from the heart of the English scene. However the magazine wasn't subtitled "new wave cultural research" for nothing and the interpretations of "punk" and "punk culture" became increasingly broad and varied. Towards the end, film makers John Waters, Russ Meyer and David Lynch could be found rubbing shoulders with influential and pioneering authors William Burroughs and J.G. Ballard (both of whom later would have entire issues of Re/Search devoted to them), while punks described their dreams (the kind you have in your sleep) and regular columnist Nico Ordway contributed articles on topics as diverse as the "Politics of Punk", surrealism, an account of anarchist thought since the middle ages and "A History of Black Humor".

As with Sniffin' Glue, the contemporary interviews and reviews have an immediacy that you don't get from something written in a state of cool reflection twenty years after the event. On the other hand, there was a lot more on the spot analysis and philosophical enquiry going on here than in other punk publications, right alongside the contemporaneous reportage (and Search & Destroy was probably the only punk magazine to make a habit of asking interviewees what books they'd been reading). Also the coverage is much wider, not only due to the interests (or should that be obsessions?) of the editor, but also simply because the magazine ran for three times as long as Sniffin' Glue, even if it actually produced less issues in that time (but more pages and many, many more words).

Where it also differs is in the wider variety of contributors, on two continents, and the greater effort put into layout and design right from the initial issue. Vale later went on to own his own typesetting business for a number of years and the subsequent Re/Search publications were not only labours of love but also striking examples of the printer's art. Each of these two volumes even has an index.

I can't help noting a certain irony in this collected reprint beginning with an introduction by Jello Biafra in which he talks about ethics in punk music, given the revelations which have come out of the succession of legal shit fights between him and the rest of the Dead Kennedys in the US courts, but you're free to make up your mind by getting both volumes direct from the publisher or via the likes of Amazon (against which the publisher rages passionately and persuasively on his web site). - John McPharlin

3/4

Punk: The Original
Edited by John Holmstrom
(Trans-High Corp, 128 pages)

Since I've just given the "Sniffin' Glue" and "Search & Destroy" collections the once over, I figured I might as well have a quick rant about this too, even though I've had it for several years (all we need now is a "Ripped And Torn" collection and we'd have a grand slam!).

While this may have been the journal that gave punk its name, this particular volume is sadly inadequate and would be so even without the aforementioned competing collections for comparison. Firstly, it's nowhere near complete. Of the eighteen original issues (or technically seventeen, since the last one never made it out of the financial black hole that the magazine found itself sucked down into), seven are not represented at all. Of the others, only issues three and fourteen come close to being complete and even then you only get about two thirds of each issue.

Taking the book at face value and sticking only to what is there, it's still disappointing. Frankly it's very light on substance and heavy on self-indulgence. Clearly the intention was to put out something like a hip, updated Mad magazine (Harvey Kurtzman's name featured fairly regularly for a while and there are some obvious "homages", including the "Beware Of Imitations" drawing which is an outright steal). What they had in mind was a cynical, satirical approach to pop culture from a "gonzo" perspective (where the reporter/writer is at the centre of the story, not the nominal "subject"), supported by lots of clever and generally arty visuals.

Music was just one facet of American (particularly Noo Yawk) culture being targeted and the choice of bands to be written about (especially to begin with) seems to have had as much to do with CBGBs being close and convenient as it did with the style of music they were playing. Sure the first issue had Lou Reed and the Ramones, but when it came to album reviews they were just as happy to review Bob Dylan, David Bowie, Queen, ZZTop and Aerosmith as the Ramones or Television. Later they would cheerfully interview AC/DC and the Bay City Rollers (4 pages worth), both included here, and Robert Gordon and Ted Nugent (not included).

However, punk music got relatively big (at least as far as the tabloid media was concerned) and Punk, the magazine, accidentally found itself close to the centre of it all, so the magazine's focus was narrowed down to take advantage of the opportunities thus presented. Unfortunately it was the English flavour of punk that was soon getting the lion's share of the media attention so while Punk, the magazine, continued to acknowledge non-English punk, it started to give much greater emphasis to the Sex Pistols and this bias comes over even stronger in the limited selection of pieces for this book.

Looking back now, there isn't much new that Punk, the magazine, could add to the Pistols story, though the coverage of the last days of the US tour is sharp and concise. What does that leave in this book then? Several interviews with the likes of David Johanson, the Ramones, Richard Hell, Iggy Pop, Lou Reed (twice) and the Clash, some of them surprisingly shallow, plus a couple of bogus and pointless interviews with cartoon characters, several "photo stories" (e.g. comics made from photographs - I think the Italians call these "fumetti") which are of interest solely because they got a few up and coming punk luminaries (plus Lester Bangs) to participate, a few "glamour" photos of Debbie Harry and the ultra-leggy Niagra from Destroy All Monsters and the results of a variety of grafitti contests, where readers defaced images of Patti Smith and Shaun Cassidy.

There's also a colour section which contains a reproduction of one of the magazine's covers, no less than eight pictures of the Sex Pistols, two of Iggy and a mere one each of Debbie Harry, the Ramones, the New York Dolls and Richard Hell.

You can get this book (or individual back issues) direct from the source , but you're probably better off waiting until they decide to redo the whole thing properly. In the meantime, keep an eye out for it on sale secondhand or remaindered somewhere. - John McPharlin

1/2 a McGarrett

The Big Takeover
249 Eldridge St. #14, New York, NY 10002-1345, USA
http://www.bigtakeover.com
(4 issue subscription, in US dollars: $20, Canada $26, anywhere else $28)

If this world was only just a slightly better place than it actually is, then this periodical labour of love would have a prominent spot on the magazine stand at your local newsagent, right next to Rolling Stone (that's assuming Rolling Stone could stay in business in the face of competition like this).

It began in true punk style with a print run of 100 copies, produced on the photocopier at the editor's local public library and given away outside Max's Kansas City in 1980. Living in Sydney, I of course missed out on much of the magazine's early days, having only caught up with it a couple of years ago thanks to a gift subscription from I94 Bar stalwart, rock philosopher and all round deep thinker on important subjects, Ken Shimamoto. Twenty plus years after its humble beginning, it is now a thick (nearly nudging 300 pages), full colour, glossy paper, offset printed and generally very professional looking affair. However, as the publishers of the first punk fanzines knew, looks aren't everything (or in some cases anything) - it's what's inside that counts.

In this case, what's inside is editor Jack Rabid's undiminished enthusiasm for honest, passionate and original (which usually means independent) music, or as he prefers to call it "Music With Heart". The Big Takeover is a magazine so chock full of good writing about good music that I've only ever once managed to get through a whole issue, cover to cover, before the next one lobbed ominously and inexorably into the mail box. This is coverage that goes well beyond reproducing general issue publicity photos and the reformatting and recycling of record company promo packs. Perhaps the reason for that is that it's still published privately by its editor, without big company sponsorship or the obligations and constraints that inevitably would go with such sponsorship.

What becomes clear when reading this magazine, named after a then-unreleased song by Bad Brains (the pioneering US hardcore band, not the French rockers of the same name), is that it is the work of someone who not only loves the music he writes about, but who has also kept completely up to date with it. Hardly surprising since, aside from editing and publishing the magazine over the last two decades, Jack has also played drums in a series of local bands, such as Even Worse, Springhouse and currently the Last Burning Embers (with whom he achieved a major career highlight late last year, opening for long time/all time favourites the Buzzcocks) and DJed around New York (that's "DJ" as in play records featuring great rock'n'roll songs, not orchestrate doof doof noises). He even admits to having given the Beastie Boys their first ever paid support gig (at the bottom of a four band bill), which leaves him in the position now of being able to assert confidently that success did not spoil them in any way - in his experience they were ungrateful and obnoxious right from the start.

This issue, number 49, is the first issue to come out since September 11th (the magazine is published biannually, in June and December) and being a New York publication, not surprisingly the editorial focus turns to the events off that day. However in this case it's more than just a New York thing, it's personal. Not only did Jack Rabid work for a shipping company in the World Trade Center building for a while in the early eighties; half a dozen early issues of the magazine actually were produced on the office equipment there (outside working hours naturally, when the rest of the staff had gone home) and mailed out to subscribers at the company's expense, thanks to his access to the postage franking machine!

While the aptly named (or pseudonymed) Mr Rabid still contributes an amazingly large proportion of the contents of each issue himself (including this issue's main interview with Iggy Pop and an almost as lengthy interview with the Damned's Captain Sensible), these days he's aided and abetted by the likes of former "Noise For Heroes" publisher Steve Gardner, who this time contributes a short Nomads feature and the first part of a comprehensive Radio Bridman interview/feature that upholds, or maybe even overshadows, the quality of his previous interviews/features on the likes of the New Christs, Died Pretty and the Celibate Rifles.

Don't be misled, though - it isn't all just vintage punk and Oz/Detroit hard rock legends by any means. The contents of this issue range from sixties Brit band the Creation, through the Residents, Squeeze's Glenn Tilbrook and the Soft Boys to current indie poppers like Death Cab For Cutie and Built to Spill.

Other regular contributors include Mark Suppanz, who also moderates the Big Takeover email discussion list and even helps transcribe Jack's interviews in his spare time ("we make the guy do everything but put our CDs back on the shelves"); recurring Big Takeover discussion list participant Stephen Slayburgh, who interviews Ian McCullough of Echo & the Bunnymen for this issue; and a horde of reviewers who contribute over 100 pages of CD reviews between them, with anywhere from one to ten CDs reviewed per page!

Despite a circulation now close to 15,000, punters still get a short (but hand written!) thank you note from the editor when they renew their subscriptions, as I found out recently when it came time to renew mine. You wouldn't get that from Rolling Stone these days and I'll bet you never did. You also wouldn't get anywhere near the comprehensive coverage of fresh, emerging bands, since they don't have any major record company clout or the financial backing required for the necessary quid pro quo on advertising space. Fortunately you do find that sort of coverage in the Big Takeover though, because it's all about the music, not the money.

If the decision is ever taken to produce a collected reprint, like the recently reviewed "Sniffin' Glue" and "Search & Destroy" collections, it'll be an amazing document and probably the ultimate coffee table book - as in buy four legs and attach one to each corner and you'll have a very solid coffee table! Meanwhile, I've still got about forty pages of record reviews to read in this issue...- John McPharlin

GIVE THE ANARCHIST A CIGARETTE by Mick Farren (Jonathan Cape)

First, an admission: Mick Farren is one of my idols for his ability (like Deniz Tek) to integrate a productive career doing Other Stuff with one as a rock'n'roller. Self-educated, an aficionado of U.S. garbage culture, what I once referred to as a rock'n'roll Renaissance man. Part apocalyptic visionary in the manner of Bill Burroughs or amphetamine Dylan, part social critic, Mick Farren is definitely the most ROCK'N'ROLL scribe working in the genres of science fiction and more recently, Gothic horror (18 novels at this writing, including the shamefully out-of-print DNA Cowboys trilogy and three volumes of the excellent Renquist Quartette). He's also written nonfiction, from agitprop rants for the seminal Brit sixties underground rag International Times, to prescient critiques of punk while it was happening for the New Musical Express, to books about paranoid conspiracy theories, the black leather jacket, and Elvis Himself. Oh yeah, and he's released 19 (so far) albums of twisted rock'n'roll insanity, usually under the Deviants rubric; a series of appearances are planned for L.A. and the U.K. this fall.

These are his memoirs of sixties and seventies excess and abandon. We've had tantalizing tastes of this in Ugly Things and Ptolemaic Terrascope, but this is the full monty, and it doesn't disappoint. For such a tireless self-promoter, Farren's voice here is pretty matter-of-fact and unsensational, with a good bit of self-depracating humour. (I see a similar shift in his recent fiction, the relatively unornamented prose of the vampire novels contrasting with the more fantastic style which seemed to be wearing thin in "Jim Morrison's Adventures in the Afterlife.")

This is far from the confessional autobiography one might have expected; no childhood familial traumas here (although he briefly alludes to his father's having been shot down on a bombing raid over Germany during World War II and an adolescence spent feuding with an "evil stepfather"). This is the narrative of a witness to momentous events, and Farren was present for more than a few: the bank holiday Mod-Rocker riots in Brighton, Dylan's epochal '65 and '66 Royal Albert Hall appearances, working the door at the UFO Club (early hub of the London underground), the "14-Hour Technicolour Dream" (early watershed of same), the IT and "Nasty Tales" obscenity trials, the Phun City and Isle of Wight festivals (arguably the last hurrah), not to mention a kaleidoscope of gigs and riots (and getting head onstage at the Roundhouse). Besides the obvious cultural touchstones (Dylan, Hendrix, the Sex Pistols), he profiles such underground movers-and-shakers as "Bomb Culture" author Jeff Nuttall, IT founder John "Hoppy Hopkins, UFO impresario Joe Boyd, Indica Books don Miles, academic/feminist/groupie Germaine Greer, the various Deviants and backstage mainstays Boss Goodman and "H" (whom I remembered from his appearances as a talking head in "A Film About Jimi Hendrix").

Farren's definitely a minority taste, but the curious who try this out will be rewarded by his keen observer's eye and surprisingly good memory for detail. This gives the lie to whoever it was that said, "If you can remember the sixties, you weren't there." Farren was there; he remembers and provides some fascinating glimpses. A worthwhile read that culminates with his departure for the States at the ass-end of the seventies. Could there be a sequel in the offing? We'll wait and see. - Ken Shimamoto

THE HEART OF ROCK & SOUL: THE 1001 GREATEST SINGLES EVER MADE by Dave Marsh (Da Capo)

Everyone's favorite restorer of out-of-print music books, Da Capo, brings us a goodun from the one-time Creem magazine Teenage Dwarf , Springsteen apologist, and more recent Rock & Rap Confidential honcho.
I remember reading Marsh back in Creem daze and digging the fact that he was even more into the Who than I was, and that he had the nerve to say in print back in '71 that he didn't do drugs anymore (and seemed to mean it; conversely, I told my friends the same thing every six months until I was about to enlist in the Air Force). I bought his admittedly overlong Who bio "Before I Get Old" when it was new and dug it real fine (although I now know that the Who books to get are John Perry's "Meaty Beaty Big and Bouncy" and Tony Fletcher's "Moon" 'cos they respectively hit the musical and extramusical high/low spots without becoming overly focused on Townshend's neuroses), but that didn't stop me from selling it to Half Price Books when I got strapped for beer and burger money a few years back. (It's like I tell the guys at Half Price and CD Warehouse, I don't BUY 'em, I just RENT 'em.) Almost puked reading his fawningly sycophantic Springsteen bios, especially the second one ("Glory Days," I think). Seemed a tad disingenuous in light of the role Marsh himself had played in selling Sprooooce to the masses (for the dirt, read Fred Goodman's "Mansion on the Hill").

(But that's just my opinion. A fella who read my scrawl here wrote to tell me that I have no right to diss R. Meltzer 'cos I'm nothing but a shitty Meltzer wannabe myself. He could be right.)

Actually saw Marsh in the flesh on the MC5 panel at SXSW back in '99 and was kinda disturbed by how much he looked like David Gilmour. Was supposed to interview him a few months back, but I let the opportunity pass 'cos I couldn't think of anything I wanted to ask him (and not JUST because Jeff Jarema did such a boss job back in Here 'Tis #9). Then I was kicking the rockwrite gong around with Deniz Tek awhile after that and the Iceman allowed that "his 1001 greatest singles book was a good read," so when, on a recent foray to Half Price (to unload some CDs by Scandinavian bands with flames on their album covers) I stumbled on this in remainderama, I had to scarf it. I wasn't disappointed.

I'll admit to being a sucker for big fat books with lots and lotsa capsule reviews. This isn't so much a list of "the greatest records of all time" as an attempt at describing what makes this noise so great, with 1001 examples. The concentration on singles rather than albums (the coin of the realm, rekkid wise, these past 30 years or so) allows Marsh to pay attention to the details, the little things that, as Willie Nelson says, mean a lot. I think it says a lot about how the context in which we hear something can affect our response. Reading about records that mean very little to me personally, but which have reduced me to tears given the right set/setting (like Tracy Chapman's "Fast Car" or the Pretenders' "2000 Miles") helped me understand a little better why a friend of mine in the rekkid biz told me a couple of years back that his customers were getting more "song-focused" and less "artist-or-album focused."

Besides being an opinionated cuss, Marsh is also highly knowledgeable, well versed in the history of blues, R&B, and country as well as rock, and he argues his case well, even when I disagree with him (I usedta say the same thing about Grandpa Greil Marcus, before he got more abstruse than any sane human being should tolerate back around the time of "Lipstick Traces" or one of those).

A diverting read for late nights when there isn't a rerun of "E.R." or "NYPD Blue" on the box. You'll probably wanna pass on it if you dig Detroit/Oz/Noo Yawk Rock Action exclusively, 'cos Marsh's mandate is a lot wider than that. If your ears will accommodate other musics, tho, I double damn DARE you to read it without discovering at least a handful of gems you missed that you're gonna HAVE to hear after reading this. (Now, where'd I put that Bobby Bland album with "I Pity the Fool" and "Lead Me On" and "Cry Cry Cry" on it?)
- Ken Shimamoto

OFF THE HIP # 1, April 2001
OFF THE HIP # 2, September 2001

I meant to write a few words about this new publication when the first issue came out, but being a lazy bastard the days slipped by ever so quickly and before I knew it there was a second issue to consider as well. Even so, I still might not be extracting the digit now but for bumping into co-publisher Chris Baty at the recent Rocket Science gig at the Annandale. He told me that work on issue 3 is well in hand, so I realised that I'd better shake some action or else there'd soon be a third issue to contend with.

The major difficulty in writing about this enterprise is not knowing whether to treat it as a series of issues, each with a free CD, or a series of CDs, each with the biggest load of cover notes you've ever seen... The publishers reckon it's a magazine, so I guess I'll take their word on it.

The magazine's stated aim is to be (roughly) quarterly and provide coverage of all things garage, power pop, surf & generally rock'n'roll. In the editorial in the first issue, co-publisher Mick Baty, the sometime Crusader and Pyramidiac and currently Finker, boldly starts out by telling his readership that he failed high school English. In other fields of endeavour this might be something of a drawback when it comes to editing a magazine, but since his failure was due in no small part to ditching homework in favour of seeing bands around the inner city pubs of Sydney, it was more akin to an apprenticeship than the mere idle dissipation of youth.

The first issue runs to 32 pages and contains features on the much lauded Melbourne band Hands Of Time and the lesser known Spoilers, Noo Yorkers the Insomniacs and Sydney bands the Thurston Howlers and the Scruffs; plus an interview with the founder of newish Melbourne label Full Toss (or rather his spokesman, Fred Toss); brief scene reports from Brisbane and Perth; and the first parts of career retrospectives on former Kryptonics front man Ian Underwood (now sadly "former Challenger 7 front man" as well) and Western Australian power poppers the Chevelles. Oh, and review of a Rocket Science gig and a shitload of record reviews as well.

The 10 track bonus CD contains songs by most of the bands featured in the issue: Thurston Howlers, Scruffs (a demo/rough mix of "Trash"), Hands Of Time, Chevelles (their cover of Air Supply's "Lost in Love"), Spoilers (the evocative "Pissing Blood") and two by the Kryptonics; plus three ring ins: Jack & the Beanstalk, Superscope and the Finkers. The CD even comes with an official cover and tray insert!

The second issue adds an extra eight pages, opens with an editorial by the other Baty brother, Chris (hmm, two Baty boys? Ali G would have a field day with this!) and features interviews with Tom Loncar of the Intercontinental Playboys, Danny McDonald from P76, High Society (collectively), Michael Carpenter and Rocket Science front man Roman Tucker (hmm, they look like becoming something of a continuing theme here...); articles on Sydney surf band the Alohas and the alt.country Starlings; plus the second parts of those two Underwood and Chevelles career retrospectives. Danny McDonald also contributes a tour diary covering P76's eight day/three state jaunt back in February and there's another sack of CD reviews.

Missing this issue are the Brisbane and Perth reports, but they've added a general, albeit brief, news section and full listings for all the tracks on the bonus CD that comes with this issue, which is very welcome. This time the CD contains songs by Scrumfeeder, Challenger 7, the Alohas, Rocket Science, P76, Michael Carpenter, the Starlings, High Society, Intercontinental Playboys (an ultra lo fi live recording that regrettably does not do them justice) and Sand Pebbles (the inclusion of which continues to perplex me almost three months after receiving this issue). Only three of these tracks are taken from albums/EPs, the rest are otherwise unreleased. Once again, a printed cover and tray insert are provided, so all you need to do is to scrounge up a plastic case for yourself.

Talking to Paul Simon recently, he said, "Complaints, I've had a few but, then again, too few to mention"; at least I think that's what he said. I also have a couple of my own and I will mention them, since he's being so reticent. First up, rumour has it that Mr Baty (M) doesn't want to cover any of the bands he is/was involved in, for fear of being pilloried as biased and self-promoting. Given the nature and prominence of those bands, that decision is going to leave some gaping holes in the coverage unless a way is found around this unacceptable impasse, no matter how nobly intentioned the decision may have been.

Also, dropping the Brisbane and Perth scene reports is not a good idea. Most of the time the rest of the country doesn't have a clue what's going on in either of those towns, so any light that can be shed shines out like a veritable beacon in the darkness. Come to think of it, they probably could do with adding a Melbourne scene report as well, as that's just as big an information black hole, at least when viewed from the distance of Sydney, even though we do know that things of interest must be going on there. [ED: If someone wants to fill the gap for the I-94 Bar, you know where to contact us.]

Other than that, it's just the sort of reading I like (big print and lots of pictures). Chris has said that the magazine owes its existence not just to their love of the music, but also to a desire to avoid one day finding themselves looking back and realising that they were just another bunch who sat around complaining that nothing ever gets done and ineffectually grumbling that "someone" ought to do "something". Whatever else happens, and they currently have plans for issues well into the future, no one's ever going to be able to accuse them of not having made an effort to raise the profile of some undeservedly neglected local bands (and Rocket Science, who are currently anything but).

In Oz, it's $12.95 for a single issue or $44.00 for a four issue subscription (which includes postage and seems like a real bargain). Contact them by e-mail or at the snail mail address below if you insist on being completely retro:

OFF THE HIP
PO Box 1211
Carlton Vic 3053

Elsewhere, it's US $26.00 for a four issue subscription, or check their web site for local distribution wherever it is that you choose to live. - John McPharlin

BLUNT A Biased History of Australian Rock
By Bob Blunt
(Prowling Tiger Press, 348 pages)

Some have suggested, not altogether in jest, that this book's sub-title might be more appropriately applied to the collected writings of Clinton Walker, but I'm not going to go down that path this evening. Equally, others might say that this book provides a much needed balance (the more cynical might use the word "antidote") to the generally limp and shallow "Long Way To The Top" cut and paste job recently passed off to the public as a comprehensive television documentary. It also serves to throw into sharp relief the consequent ill informed spray in the Sydney Morning Herald from the ever out of touch Bruce Elder, in whose view commercial success, a la Savage Garden apparently is the only indicator of musical worth. I do applaud his casual dismissal of tedious local hero Jimmy Barnes, since I too find the level of his continuing popularity incomprehensible, but I cannot resist noting at the same time that Elder cheats as he advances his argument, labeling and embracing all the Young brothers as "Scottish immigrants" because they succeeded in foreign markets, while branding and condemning Barnes, though he speaks with a similar accent, as "Australian" because he failed to make a mark beyond these shores, thus adding to the "proof" of Elder's solipsistic thesis.

Of course the whole notion that we need an ignorant and venal US record industry to validate our own music for us is so clearly specious as to be beneath contempt, as are the hacks and media sluts whose perspectives are so limited that they can put forward such suggestions. Despite the "biased" tag which this book proudly displays, it suffers no such obvious flaws, being made up largely of direct quotes from the participants themselves, through interviews which are succinct, frank and free of any obvious editorial interference. Bob's approach has been simple: he has talked to the bands he likes and ignored those he doesn't, no matter how many times they may have appeared on Countdown or been fawned over in the commercial press. Maybe that's where the "bias" comes into it but, with that attitude and the taste demonstrated by his choice of subjects, he'd be welcome in this Bar any time he likes to drop around.

Chapter 1 covers: Madroom/Box The Jesuit, Kim Salmon and the Scientists (and Surrealists), X, Died Pretty, Tactics and Louis Tillett. Pretty damn good starting point in my view, since it provides a very clear indication of the diversity of both the book and the scene it documents. Although most of the chapters which follow are devoted to bands (mainly from Sydney, but fortunately Bob lived in Melbourne for a while, so bands from that city get a well deserved look in as well), two entire chapters are dedicated to the local radio stations and independent record labels which the independent scene spawned and then was supported by in turn, while sections within other chapters also are devoted to the key venues and fanzines which were integral to local scene (the real scene, not the pale processed pre-digested and prettily packaged commercial imitation that seems to be all that Mr Elder has been aware of over the past twenty years).

Beware though, while this is technically a history and provides an abundance of opportunities for those who now like to stay at home on a Saturday night and are content to wallow in nostalgia while they're waiting for their cocoa to cool, mourning venues closed and lamenting bands lost along with their youth, first car and favourite tee shirt, plenty of the bands covered in these pages are still active. Blunt may celebrate the past, but he does not fall into that complacent trap of ignoring or undervaluing the present in order to obsessively revere some cherished memory of decades ago. This book doesn't run to that kind of bias.

Aside from his two page introduction at the beginning of the book, Mr Blunt himself is extremely self-effacing. By word and deed he makes it refreshingly clear that the book is not intended to be about him; it's about the music that he likes and the musicians who made it. Most interviews are credited to "Blunt", but generally it's an impersonal third person, a mere conduit for the interviewee to speak directly to the reader. However he does find himself forced to make a few Hitchcock like appearances over the course of the book, sporadically providing a personal context for an interview or a review, though many of the non-interview pieces are the work of other hands (most appreciations of the venues are written by members of bands who played there, rather than the punters who paid or the publicans who profited). From the limited autobiographical information provided, it appears that early in his working life he ditched a boring office job in order to spend most of his waking hours throughout the '80s and well into the '90s in noisy, smoky pubs, starting as an eager fan then graduating into an unregenerate gig pig before becoming a booker at various venues, where he experienced pub rock from the uncomfortable no man's land between punter and promoter. Much of his spare time during those two decades was devoted to documenting independent Australian music in realms as diverse as an honours thesis, a show on community radio station 2RSR (popularly known as Radio Skid Row) and his own photocopied fanzine, which he published sporadically for around 10 years.

Every page of this book has a fanzine look to it, albeit generally far better printed than what was the norm during the times covered by the text. Far more than a fanzine look though, this book has an overwhelming fanzine sensibility. Each page is an earnest communiqué from those who are passionate about their music to those who are on the same wavelength; if you're not interested, or at least open minded, then you might as well keep moving along, because you probably won't find a lot for you here. While many of these interviews were done especially for his thesis and/or this book over the last couple of years, on occasion unavailable or uncooperative artists have left him with no alternative except to fall back on contemporary commentary and interviews, either from the pages of his own fanzine or those of the other like-minded obsessives he freely and warmly acknowledges. Clearly if he thinks a band should be in this book, then he has made a concerted effort to get them in one way or another and, I suspect, no amount of pleading would have gained admission for a band he isn't completely enthusiastic about. On the other hand, the Happy Hate Me Nots for example are name checked multiple times, but don't cop an interview; one can only hope that eventually there'll be a volume two, even if Bob does exhort his readers to write their own books if they think someone is missing...

At the book launch, early purchasers (yep, I forked out my own money for this, no free promo for this rock'n'roll derelict) were given a double CD as well. I believe that when the book is released officially some stores will also have a limited number of copies of the CD to give away. It's well worth chasing down; here's 44 reasons why: CD1 (mineral): 01 TACTICS: New York Reel 02 EL MOPA: For Flotsam 03 PEG: Soundsick 04 LA HUVA: Tennis Shorts World 05 HAREM SCAREM: Hard Rain 06 ASHTRAY BOY: Crusty Singers in Crapped Out Bands 07 BLACKEYED SUSANS: The Eastern States 08 BERNIE HAYES: You Made Me Hard 09 GLOVEBOX: Please Skill Me 10 JACKSON CODE: Jessica's Tree 11 LIGHTHOUSE KEEPERS: Springtime 12 LOBSTERMAN: Wouldn't I Say No 13 MAGIC LUNCHBOX: Andini 14 LOVE ME: Drink Too Much 15 PLUG UGLIES: Johnny Panic 16 THE PLUNDERERS: Lonely 17 CHARLIE MARSHALL AND THE BODY ELECTRIC: Crying Shame 18 NOT DROWNING, WAVING: Wobble 19 THE CANANNES: You Name It CD2 (animal): 01 ALIEN CHRIST: Little Girl 02 FRONT END LOADER: Fuck You Guys 03 VENOM P STINGER: 26 Milligrams 04 FEETIME: Highway 05 CRAVEM FPOS: Send Me 06 KISS MY POODLES DONKEY: Going Down 07 DJ SMALL COCK: Radio Edit 08 NON BOSSEY POSSE: Frequency Response 09 MASSAPPEAL: No Light, No Shadow 10 MENSTRUATION SISTERS: Lemonia 11 MURDER: Clown 12 NUNBAIT: Poor Henry 13 SMOKE: Stop The Ants 14 SCRATCH MY NOSE: Artline 39 15 TOY DEATH: Pleasey Poliezi 16 SPURS FOR JESUS: This Ain't No Place For A Lady 17 TROUT FISHING IN QUEBEC: Drag 18 VICIOUS HAIRY MARY: Spyro 19 WHOPPING BIG NAUGHTY: Opportunity Knockers 20 X: Suck Suck 21 MU-MESONS: Orgastic Potency 22 MATRIMONY: Kitty Finger 23 PETER, PAUL AND HELLEN: Suit Yourself 24 BOX THE JESUIT: Righteous 25 DIED PRETTY: Ambergris

Despite the touted bias, you can see that it's a pretty eclectic mix of the famous, the infamous and the unfairly forgotten. For some of these bands, sadly their only legacy may be a track on this CD and/or a couple of pages in the book. Even if most do appear in/on both, not everyone who made it into the book is represented by a track on the CD (though in most cases this applies to bands whose recorded output is wholly or largely still readily available), just as there wasn't enough room in the book for everyone who was willing and able to contribute a track to the CD. Some of the tracks are clearly just lifted from existing releases, but others are confrontingly live and provide documentary evidence that a night in the hothouse environment of an inner city pub wasn't always just joyous singalongs and calm, reverent worship. I'm not sure how many others share the same broad expanse of this author's seemingly boundless experience and enthusiasm sufficiently to be familiar with all the bands he highlights. For the rest of us, but especially anyone who might have been fooled into thinking Bruce Elder had a valid point, there will be plenty of new names (or old names never properly investigated) to chase down; if you're too apathetic to do so then you might as well keep moving along, because you probably won't find a lot for you here.

Anyway, your cocoa's probably ready by now. One last thought: these two CDs are labeled "mineral" and "animal"; doesn't this imply that we should be on the lookout for a third one? When volume two comes out? Bob? The author can be contacted here or drop a line to the publisher if you can't find it. - John McPharlin


Statement of the Obvious: zines have distinct strengths and weaknesses. By their very nature, they're up-front and personal...inevitably a snapshot viewed from the writer's perspective. That means you, dear reader, are often in or out, depending on what tastes you and the author have in common (what the media theorists term "a negotiated exchange".) And a lot of "Blunt" is, by definition, drawn from the Sydney zine of the same name, hence a pretty good indication of where author Bob Blunt's tastes lie.

Personal note: I didn't spend a lot of time with many of the noisemeisters mentioned herein. The Trade Union Club was a magic venue, but I always thought the Evening Star Hotel was best-suited for drinking with guttersnipe journo's, rather than judging the musical worth of someone playing a guitar with a microphone stand embesllished with a pig's head. I never had much time for Black Eye label bands, either, but I still found "Blunt" compelling reading. If you're in this Bar (and you must be to be reading this review), you probably will too.

"Blunt" is a personal journey through the varied musical jungle that's been Sydney for the past two decades or so. Starting off on an "indie-mainstream" level (if that's not a paradox) with insights into venerable early 1980s bands like X, Died Pretty and the Wet Taxis, "Blunt" then takes a detour into the less-travelled, distinctly murkier world of places like The Performance Space and The Gunnery. There's a lot of time given over to the more eclectic acts like Monroe's Fur, the Mu-Mesons, Kiss My Poodle's Donkey and Distant Locust, but in almost Ying/Yang fashion there's a light shone onto the beter-known acts, too (Falling Joys, Chris Wilson, Kim Salmon, Jackson Code and Joel Silbersher.)

"Blunt" (the author and the zine) moved to Melbourne for a while, and that city's blues-derived scene (much of it bastard offspring from the loins of the Birthday Party) rates fair space too (Rowland Howard, the under-rated Harem Scarem and The Wreckery.) The book also nicely ties together the threads of Sydney's Canberra Mafia (Hayes brothers, the Plunderers et al) who should have been paying rent at the pre-renovation Sandringham Hotel (those that weren't working behind the bar, that is.) Radio (we really do miss Triple Jay) and the main labels of the '80s and '90s (Citadel, Au Go Go, Abberant, Waterfront, Half a Cow and Shock, but not Phantom) receive a sub-chapter, as well as venues, B-Side 'zine and the odd issue (Just who did invent grunge? Salmon or Seattle?)

Variety's here in spades. Mostly in the participants' own words, too. What "Blunt" doesn't lack is immediacy - you can almost feel your ears bleeding and your feet sticking to the carpet. There's enough space given over to contemporary (or recently departed) acts like Front End Loader, Harpoon, The Gadflys, Matt Walker & Ashley Davies, Bernie Hayes and Spurs for Jesus to make this up-to-date, if not comprehensive.

Some effort to get nearly 350 pages of this stuff written, let alone published in an era of escalating commercialism and diminishing returns (top marks to enlightened publishers like Melbourne's Prowling Tiger Press). The double CD that came with early copies (write to the publisher and and ask) makes this an aural, as well as visual, experience. - The Barman

LIFE ON THE ROAD
by Dinky Dawson & Carter Alan
Foreword by Mick Fleetwood
(Billboard Books, 354 pages)

Although this book came out in 1998, its focus runs from 1968 to the end of the '70s. During this period Stuart "Dinky" Dawson, blue collar worker in a Sheffield steel mill and part time DJ at a local teen club, graduated into a fulltime job at the cutting edge of rock'n'roll.

Starting with the exulted position of roadie (e.g. van driver, equipment loader and unloader, technician, soundman, minder and general factotum) for the fledgling Fleetwood Mac (or "Peter Green's Fleetwood Mac" as that band was known in those days) and ending up with the ownership of his own concert sound system business in the USA, he provides a generally jaundiced, but occasionally sentimental, portrait of life on the road, describing from first hand experience tours throughout the UK, USA, Europe and Scandinavia by acts as diverse as the early Mac, the Byrds, the Mahavishnu Orchestra, Steely Dan, Joan Baez (with a gig at Sing Sing prison, where the power came direct from the junction box that supplies the electric chair), Jeff Beck, the Kinks, Lou Reed (including the shows that were used for "Rock & Roll Animal" and "Lou Reed Live"), the J. Geils Band, Joni Mitchell, Boston, Elvis Costello, Warren Zevon and B.B. King.

Fortunately this is no cheap and lurid "Confessions of a Roadie". Though there is plenty of sex and drugs - and violence, from Keith Moon blowing up hotel toilets with high grade fireworks through the infamous roadie van races down the M1 (which ended tragically with the deaths of drummer Martin Lamble and guitarist Richard Thompson's girlfriend Jeannie Franklyn when Fairport Convention's roadie lost control of their van), to Byrds producer Terry Melcher being hunted by the Manson family - Dinky does not sensationalise; rather the events are recounted matter of factly, as conventional aspects of the rock landscape and simply the price paid for being on the road for lengthy periods.

The picture that he paints isn't always pretty. From the pettiness of Ray Davies not allowing Kinks support acts to have a sound check before they go on stage and the meanness of Heart, using their sound crew to sabotage their support acts by making them sound weak and thin, so that Heart would seem better in comparison, through the laziness, unreliability, antagonism and sheer bloody-mindedness of the local backstage crews at a variety of venues to full blown road dementia, with Lou Reed and Peter Green coming out a well in front of a stressed and wildly temperamental Joni Mitchell and a vodka marinated Warren Zevon. In this context, the Byrds' Roger McGuinn driving a rented Cadillac through the front doors of a nightclub (or at least almost through the front doors, since the doorway was narrower than the car...) looks like a mere foible. Of course Messrs Reed and Green did have copious quantities of chemical assistance fueling their endeavors.

My only reservations with this book are that the writing gets a trifle pedestrian in places and seems rushed towards the end. He devotes 215 pages to the first five years from 1968 to mid 1972, but then dashes through the next seven years in only 130 pages, reducing much of the later tour descriptions to thumbnail sketches in comparison with the earlier lengthy, loving portraits.

However it's apparent from the delight he brings to the description of his explorations into new developments, many of which are now considered standard, that the author's main interest is in the technical side of concert sound - an aspect of rock that most punters probably take for granted. In a period when all too often a "good" performance was simply one where the artist (and sound crew) was marginally less drugged out than the audience, Dinky did not fall into the conceit of thinking that "improvement" merely meant bigger and louder.

His account of his continual pursuit of the ultimate sound system - cleaner, crisper, clearer, more responsive and yes, louder as well - along with his dedication to providing audiences with the best sound that he possibly could, often under the most frustrating circumstances - including a couple of confrontations with the legendary Officer Obie Obanhein (although already immortalised in song by Arlo Guthrie, international fame had not mellowed him one iota!) - sheds some overdue light on a crucial yet undervalued aspect of the live rawk experience.

Although it's usually unknown to an audience, he makes it clear that there are often behind the scenes machinations and unnecessary obstacles and stresses which have little to do with the music, but nevertheless can exert a tremendous influence over whether or not the audience gets to hear a good show. In an entertaining, informative and thought provoking exposition, Dinky makes a good case for thanking soundmen everywhere for what they are able to achieve, sometimes in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds, rather than holding them liable for circumstances (and artists) beyond their control.- John McPharlin

NEIGHBORHOOD THREAT - ON TOUR WITH IGGY POP
By Alvin Gibbs
(Codex Books, 144 pages)

This book could have failed miserably if written by a lesser wordsmith than Alvin Gibbs. The onetime UK Subs bass player answered the call to fill a spot in the backline for the Iggster on his 1988-89 "Instinct" world tour, and spins a mighty fine yarn. He's now onto a novel and a film script, having also written a personal reflection on punk ("Destroy"). Of course spending seven months on the road with The World's Forgotten Boy, you'd expect him to come back with something to say, although it's the one-step-from-the-edge antics of guitarist Andy McCoy that steal the show. Despite Ig's occasional dalliance (one all-night encounter with Bolivian Marching Ants in Miami a stand-out), he seems a choir boy compared to his hired gun axeman (at least on this tour).

Ex-Hanoi Rocks member McCoy was instrumental in having Gibbs signed to his $US1500 a week gig wih the Pop Band. Expat Pom Gibbs was playing locally in LA and jumped at the chance to play with Ig. Gibbs doesn't hide his admiration for the past musical exploits of his employer, who was a formative influence on the punk scene right around the world. After hearing a few less-than-flattering stories from some with first-hand experience of Iggy, it was a contrast to read Gibbs' personal impressions of him as an erudite, professional and thoroughly charming guy. The gradual pre-tour metamorphisis of Jim Osterberg into dual personalities (Jim off-stage, Iggy on-stage) as rehearsals moved on and the business end of the deal approached was another piece of enlightenment.

There were rules in place (no drinking before shows, no hard drugs at any stage) but the author 'fesses up to succumbing, from time to time, as road-weariness and the influence of Andy McCoy set in. His hilarious description of McCoy's pre-gig administering to him of a particularly lethal brand of hash as a cure for flu in Amsterdam will induce flashbacks for many who've visited that fine city. It's not all so light-hearted: McCoy's administering of something a bit more serious (a smack habit) to a Japanese record label gofer was Keith Richards at his worst.

Gibbs has a colourful turn of phrase and pretty good recollection for a road warrior. Iggy's performance as support to the wretched Jimmy Barnes on a brace of Pepsi-sponsored New Zealand shows was a sweet moment. (Just the thought of Ig and Band blowing that banshee and his hand-picked hacks offstage induced a smile, but Mr Pop's personal Search & Destroy mission targeting the sponsor's backdrops was worth ther price of admission). As someone who caught Iggy on that tour (and reckoned his band was streets ahead of the shambolic crew he brought to Australia in 1982), it was a surprise to hear the Down Under leg almost didn't happen with a pay dispute almost provoking the musicians to strike.

This book was published in a bigger format (and sold at a ridiculous price) by the defunct Britannia Press. This is an althogether more reasonably-priced re-print and one of the better rock reads around at the moment. - The Barman

"White Trash: Race and Class in America"
Edited by Matt Wray and Annalee Newitz
(Routledge)

"White Trash: Race and Class in America" is a compilation of academic essays on White Trash culture edited by Matt Wray and Annalee Newitz, and it covers a lot of (sometimes thin) ground. It tries to define what white trash culture actually is, by looking at music, the aesthetics of skin flicks and Hustler magazine (in the fabulously-named chapter Crackers and Whackers), via personal anecdotes about impoverished rural or trailer-park childhoods, and through historical essays about relationships between slaves and poor whites in the US in the 19th century.

Of most interest to music fans will be the final two chapters. The last, and probably best, chapter in the book, "The King of White Trash Culture - Elvis Presley and the aesthetics of excess" by Gael Sweeney covers a hell of a lot of ground about what Elvis means to American culture, including questions about his racial origins - apparently a common, anxiety-laden question levelled at people of "white trash" background. She says Elvis personified the South, celebrated the "carnivalesque", revelled in the body and glorified excess - all at odds with the plain, puritan aesthetic of US middle-class culture, which caused the moral panics of the 1950s about Elvis the Pelvis. An idea she touches on - not a new one, thanks to rock historian Greil Marcus - is that President Clinton was the US's first "Elvis president", and one of her more interesting conclusions is that the cult of Elvis is becoming a bona-fide Southern Pentecostal religion, helped by his tragic, early death and now complete with pilgrimages (Gracelands, Las Vegas), icons (memorabilia, black velvet art, records), high priests (impersonators who channel his spirit), sightings (the Messiah's return to earth?) and healings. Perhaps the last word belongs to Sam Phillips: "The two most important events in American history were the birth of Jesus and the birth of Elvis Presley". Gael Sweeney makes a convincing case for the latter.

"Acting Naturally: A Critiques of Pure Country" by Barbara Ching debunks the idea that there was an "authentic" country sound or era before today's cookie-cutter crooning cowboys and girls. The tried and maybe-not-so-true either/or argument about commercialism versus creativity, routinely applied to most types of music, is dismissed by this author. She says "authenticity" is irrelevant, that Nashville, especially in during its golden age, was always a commercial operation and its most revered stars such as Patsy Cline and Hank Williams were products of this, and this does not detract from their talent or creativity. She criticises the plethora of country singers who evoke tiresome ironic nostalgia as a credibility-building exercise (K.D Lang, please stand up) or who try and hark back to some mythical memory of "rural purity" in their songs.