Too High Too Far Too Soon - Simon Mason

TOO HIGH TOO FAR TOO SOON –

SIMON MASON

There was a nagging familiarity with Simon Mason's memoir, Too High Too Far Too Soon, that was impossible to shake off. I kept looking at the section of photographs of the author included within its pages and thinking 'Do I know this man? Have I met him or seen him somewhere before?' Then finally on page 275 there it was: 'As well as sharing a house, they also rented a studio together in Easton and over the following years, whenever I was passing through, we'd all hang out, either at the workspace, The Plough pub or various free parties and festivals'.

Simon is talking about the neighbourhood where I used to live in Bristol and my then local pub, The Plough. The 'they' he refers to is Banksy and his flatmate who did indeed frequent from time to time the same pub. It's a small world.

The title of Simon Mason's book is taken from the Waterboys song, The Whole Of The Moon, and he describes the pivotal moment when whilst on LSD he watched them perform at Glastonbury Festival in 1986. I was there too and though I wasn't on acid, from what I remember they were indeed very good, The Whole Of The Moon being for everyone watching them the very high point of the set.

The book starts with him writing about Weston-super-Mare where he grew up and the drugs he started taking whilst living there. Weston-super-Mare, of course, is next to Bristol and was always well known to be a place where heroin could be scored quite easily. I was never into heroin though I knew a fair few people who were. I was never into crack cocaine either, unlike Simon who discovered it whilst living in Los Angeles having flown over to America for a 'holiday' at the age of eighteen.

As you might gather, Simon's book is all about drugs and rock'n'roll and his experiences of both whilst traversing their respective worlds, which as everyone knows is essentially one and the same world.

It's not the most difficult thing to write a book about your drug-taking experiences. If you've ever done drugs then you're going to have some anecdotes to tell. If – as Joe Strummer once sang – you've ever been a 'drug prowling wolf who looks so sick in the sun' then you're going to probably have a lot more. Did I ever say about the time me and my friends once had a gun pulled on us by some Jamaican Yardie at some free party? Probably not because it's not of much interest to anyone else and the same goes for a lot of Simon's anecdotes.

Getting mugged at gun-point on Venice Beach as he informs us he was is all well and good but of little interest to others. On the other hand, taking Bez of the Happy Mondays up to the travellers field at Glastonbury Festival to score some opium is of interest, if only limited. This is what Simon informs us he does and it's his very first foray into supplying drugs to the stars and his first tentative steps into making it into a career.

1994 and Simon's back at Glastonbury Festival and this time he's got his own tent in the fenced-off camping area at the back of the pyramid stage where he's set himself up as the main on-site dealer, with members of Oasis being some of his best customers. The drawback being that in a bid to ingratiate himself with the band, Simon's giving his drugs to Oasis for free and though it leads to him introducing them to the audience at T in The Park before they make their entrance on stage – that's about it. Essentially, he's paying for the privilege of hanging out with them.

There's still profit to be had from selling to normal punters and journalists but the cost of glad ragging with what is soon to be one of the biggest bands in the world doesn't come cheap. The only payback apart from his five seconds of fame introducing them on stage being some good anecdotes derived from the whole experience.

When he first meets Oasis he chops out some lines of coke for them as a freebie and after finishing off, notices the rolled-up £20 note he's also supplied has vanished. For the first and only time one of them asks how much he's selling it for?

'Sixty a gram,' Simon tells him to which he's asked if he can do it for fifty? Simon agrees and is given his rolled-up £20 note back and told the rest will be sorted out later...

The band's van breaks down on the motorway whilst on the way to a festival and when the AA arrive they're told it will have to be towed away. The AA man tells them he's got space for four passengers to get them to their destination and the others will have to wait a few hours for the tow truck to arrive to ferry away the others. So the lead guitarist steps up and makes an executive decision:

'Right, obviously I'm going with the AA man now, cos I'm in fookin' charge and I've got press interviews in three hours' time. Simon, you're coming with me for obvious reasons'. Simon doesn't say which band members were left behind but it's pretty funny to think that the guitarist viewed Simon as being more important than them...

Later on at the festival, the same guitarist tells Simon 'You are my personal chemist this weekend and as such you need to remain within 20 feet of me for the duration, OK?'

'Of course, it'll be my pleasure,' Simon replies.

'It's your fookin' job, Simon!' the guitarist tells him. No mention is made, however, of payment...

As Oasis ascend to super-stardom, Simon's services are not deemed as being indispensable and he's ditched, or rather the band simply fail to make contact with him ever again. Life goes on, however, and Simon's next plan is to make a bid for fame and fortune himself by forming his own band. Unfortunately, all that happens is that he ends up being a fully-fledged junky strung out in heavens high hitting an all-time low.

As an insight into the depths a person can sink in pursuit of heroin, Simon's book is as good as the multitude of other books written on the same subject. From William Burroughs, to Christiane F, to Shaun Ryder's autobiography. Apart from a few of the anecdotes its saving grace is the self-depreciating, black sense of humour that runs through it. At times, the dialogue is even quite comical in a Lock Stock And Two Smoking Barrels kind of way. Which makes you wonder if during the writing of it Simon had one eye on the possibility of it being made into a film? It's all there but the problem is that it's all been done before with Trainspotting.

Nowadays Simon Mason is a recovering addict who sings and plays guitar in a band called Hightown Pirates. They're a relic from the past, of course, ploughing an epic, Rolling Stones/Eric Clapton groove but for all that are surprisingly good. They're never going to be massive and I suspect Simon knows this but that's okay because the bottom line is that Simon's very lucky to still be alive and that anything he does from now on whether it be making music, writing a book or just being a good father and helping other people is a bonus. A little gift to the world as a way of saying both 'sorry' and 'thank you'.

John Serpico

Fighters Against Fascism - Max Arthur

FIGHTERS AGAINST FASCISM – MAX ARTHUR

“I ain't got no heroes,” as Johnny Rotten once said “They're all useless.” and overnight a generation identified and adopted 'No more heroes' as a totem. We were all so much older then and we're younger than that now, however, and after being round the block a few times we see now that there are indeed heroes in this world, with some more deserving of the accolade than others. The International Brigades – those men and women from all corners of the globe who made their way to Spain during the Spanish Civil War in defense of the Republic against Franco and his fellow Fascist supporters – are such heroes to me.

Fighters Against Fascism – British Heroes Of The Spanish Civil War by Max Arthur is a collection of the fascinating and inspiring testaments of various British men and women who answered the call in 1936 and headed to Spain. There are eight testaments in total, this being the total number of those still alive at the time of writing who went there and survived to live to a ripe old age. Written in 2009 they are now, however, all departed, serving to make the book more poignant and more important than ever.

The first thing that is apparent when reading these testimonies is that they were all of the Left, but also that they were all working class and had all come from extreme poverty. As Jack Jones (who in later life went on to become the General Secretary of the Transport and General Workers' Union) says: 'I was continuously struck by the working class background of most of the British and Irish who were fighting in Spain. This was the first working class war, in which people got involved directly, rather than being in an organised force in trenches. In that sense it was genuine warfare.'

Interestingly, he identifies an exception to this in the appearance of a young Ted Heath – future British Prime Minister – who was there as part of a five-man delegation from the Federation of University Conservative Associations. Though not there to take up arms, apparently Heath was genuinely supportive of the Spanish Republic as opposed to those in the Labour Party who advocated non-intervention who Jones held a strong feeling of repugnance towards. As Jones says, he had more support from Ted Heath than he had from the Labour leaders and in later life identified more with him than with Harold Wilson.

Heath was, however, an exception as exemplified in the testimonial of Bob Doyle, a former IRA member who whilst being held captive in a Fascist concentration camp in San Pedro de Cardena was visited by a British government delegation headed by Lady Chamberlain, widow of the British Foreign Secretary, Austin Chamberlain, who was the brother of the Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain.

Whilst inspecting the line of prisoners, Lady Chamberlain asked them why they had come to Spain, to which they all replied “To stop Fascism before it comes to England”. According to Doyle, she probably would have preferred someone to say “I was in Hyde Park one day and someone came up and asked me if I wanted to go to Spain and as I was unemployed, I joined up”. Disgusted with the actual replies, she turned to her escort and said “I say, can you pick me out an intelligent one?”

All of the testimonials give mention to Oswald Mosley and his Blackshirts and indeed, Jack Edwards says in his testimonial 'If it was me I'd have bloody shot Mosley if I'd had a gun. I would: I hated the bastard. He was against the working class and that was it'.

What also binds them all is their conviction that if other governments had supported the Spanish Republic and quashed the Fascist threat in its infancy, the course of history might have been different, and perhaps there would have been no Second World War.

According to Penny Feiwel, who went to Spain as a nurse: 'If the Fascists in Spain were beaten, there wouldn't be any danger of air raids over London. I never ceased to believe this, all the time I was in Spain. Spain was a warning of what would happen to all of us. If we let Spain go, then it would be our fate too, to go to war'.

According to Sam Lesser, an East London boy growing steadily wary of the rise of the Blackshirts: 'The Spanish could have beaten Fascism, and could have stopped Hitler and Mussolini. I know it sounds idiotic to say so – we might even have averted or avoided the Second World War'.

And according to Jack Jones again: 'At that time Hitler and Mussolini weren't the enemy of everyone in Britain, but at the time of the civil war there were Mosleyites – Fascists openly marching around in black shirts. The Second World war ended any idea of sympathy for Fascism. Our cause was justified subsequently, so in a way we feel ours was a little part but in a progressive direction, justified later by the war against Fascism in general, in which the whole country was involved'.

When Johnny Rotten declared that he didn't have any heroes, he himself became a hero of sorts but at the same time forged a contradiction and a conundrum. Rotten inadvertently threw a question mark over the word that ultimately could only be resolved subjectively. The word 'hero' comes always with context and it's the context that always needs to be considered before agreeing whether the attribute is fitting or not.

When it comes to the people featured in Max Arthur's book and indeed to all those who joined the International Brigades, there is no doubt in my mind that they are heroes whose bravery, foresight, compassion and conviction should be applauded and forever remembered. The word 'hero' is too easily bandied about these days as indeed so too the word 'Fascist'. Max Arthur's book and the testimonies therein underscores the true meaning of the word.

As La Pasionaria Dolores Ibarruri declared in her farewell speech to the International Brigades at a parade at which more than 300,000 people lined the streets: 'Communists, Socialists, Anarchists, Republicans – men of different colours, differing ideology, antagonistic religions – yet all profoundly loving liberty and justice, you came and offered yourselves to us unconditionally. You gave us everything – your youth or your maturity, your science or your experience, your blood and your lives, your hopes and aspirations – and you asked us for nothing. But yes, it must be said, you did want a post in battle, you aspired to the honour of dying for us.

Banners of Spain! Salute these many heroes! Be lowered to honour so many martyrs!

You can go proudly. You are history. You are legend.'

John Serpico

My Eighty-One Years Of Anarchy - May Picqueray

MY EIGHTY-ONE YEARS OF ANARCHY– 

MAY PICQUERAY

Obscure anarchists, aren't they the best? There's nothing wrong, of course, with the anarchist grandees such as Bakunin, Kropotkin, Goldman, and Proudhon etc but they are in a way but the very tip of the spear and it's the more obscure ones that give strength to the whole length of that spear, without which the tip would be pretty useless. The obscure anarchists are like a metal horseshoe hidden inside a boxing glove ensuring the delivered blow is a knock-out one.

A case in point is May Picqueray. Born in France in 1898, even as a child Picqueray always felt she was the rebel of the family though it wasn't until the age of twenty when she moved to Paris and met a Serbian medical student who introduced her to anarchist ideas that she became active in actual Anarchist organisations. Two years later she ended up sending a parcel bomb to the US Embassy in France as part of a campaign on behalf of Sacco and Vanzetti. Whilst this act achieved its desired aim as in catapulting the Sacco and Vanzetti case onto the front pages of the French newspapers, it was in the end to no avail and the two men were sent to the electric chair only to be redeemed decades later after their innocence was proven. From there on, however, there was no stopping her.

My Eighty-One Years Of Anarchy is May Picqueray's memoir and whilst it shows that her life has not always been an easy one it shows at the same time that it's been a life worth living. A finer attitude to life, in fact, is hard to imagine. Picqueray was a natural born anarchist so in that sense her fate was sealed from the start. There was simply no avoiding it and subsequently was no avoiding or turning away from injustice when she saw it.

Her story is a sprawling one, taking in many global, historical events. In 1922, for example, she travelled to Moscow as part of the Metalworkers Federation to attend a Trade Union congress there. After witnessing first hand the desperate poverty and hunger out in the streets she mounted a table at the sumptuous banquet laid on for the delegates and loudly denounced the whole affair. How dare these workers' delegates gorge themselves and stuff their faces when Russian workers were perishing of hunger, she cried.

At another grand meal, this time in the Kremlin, Trotsky himself was there and out of the blue asked Picqueray to sing them all a song 'just like in France'. She responded by singing a French anarchist song. On later meeting Trotsky face to face, she refused to shake his hand.

'Unwilling to shake my hand, comrade May. Why would that be?' Trotsky asked her.

'I am an anarchist,' she replied 'and we are divided by Makhno and Krondstadt.'

'I too am an anarchist,' Trotsky claimed 'but the Russian people are an ignorant people. It is necessary to evolve and, for that to happen, we must go through a transitional phase.'

'Which would last how long?' she responded.

'As long as it takes.' Trotsky replied.

Without doubt, it was a curious and fascinating exchange.

Two years later back in France, Picqueray ended up harbouring Nestor Makhno and his family after having fled Russia following the decimation of his troops by the Bolsheviks in the Ukraine. Around the same time she also got to know Emma Goldman and Alexander Berkman, ending up at one point typing up the manuscripts for Goldman's autobiography.

Come the Second World War, Picqueray concentrated her activities on helping the many Spanish refugees thrown into French prison camps after fleeing Spain following the victory of Franco and his forces in the Spanish Civil War. During the German occupation of France she helped to secure and fabricate papers for the resistance and people on the run, as well as harbouring resisters and smuggling people to safety.

Many years later she was – as almost to be expected – involved in the events of May 1968, and in 1974 she launched her own anarchist newspaper entitled Le Refractaire which she remained at the helm of until her passing in 1983 at the age of 85.

Picqueray starts her book with a long quote from the French anarchist Sebastien Faure, whose words set her off at a tender age and continued to guide her throughout her whole life. The bottom line, as Picqueray puts it is that it is on love that anarchy is based.

Picqueray's final message at the end of her book is a passionate one and sums up one of the main reasons for her writing it: 'Let the young take up the torch, let them learn and be unsparing in their efforts. Should events evolve, the anarchist philosophy is still relevant. It is achievable, and it is the most beautiful thing, the thing that will bring happiness through freedom and joie de vivre.

Long live Anarchy! Go for it, young people! Go for it!... for Love, Fraternity, and Liberty!'

My Eighty-One Years Of Anarchy is May Picqueray passing on the anarchist baton to the next generation in the continuing fight for a brighter and better future.

John Serpico

Porcelain - Moby

PORCELAIN – MOBY

There is a series of videos on YouTube called Jonesy's Jukebox in which ex-Sex Pistol Steve Jones chats to various celebrities in-between playing records in his role as DJ on a radio show in California. It's extremely good, not only due to the interesting guests Jones brings into the studio to chat to but also for his very laid back way of talking to them, making for some very interesting conversations. Jones has obviously met a fair few famous and somewhat eccentric people in his time and is by now well-versed in talking to them. There's one episode, however, where Moby is his guest and the way that Jones looks at him it's as if the aliens have landed.

It's two factors that cause Jones to have this look on his face as if to say 'What the fuck is this?', the first being the calibre of Moby's name-dropping anecdotes along the lines of “I was in my apartment in Upper Manhattan having tea and biscuits with Iggy Pop, David Bowie, Salman Rushdie and Laurie Anderson when I got out my guitar and we all had a sing-along”. The second being Moby's jumpy, excitable enthusiasm for all things as he pulls out his guitar and tries to out-play Steve Jones in precise technical renderings of classic rock songs seemingly plucked from the ether.

Perhaps it's all by accident but Moby comes across as a conversational and musical genius, all wrapped up in the personage of what can only be described as a 'nerd'. There's one particular anecdote that Moby relays regarding an encounter with erstwhile rock god Gene Simmons where Simmons walks up to Moby and says to him “You are a powerful and attractive man”, before walking off again. What with Gene Simmons' testosterone-fuelled machismo and Moby's weedy physique, it's almost certain that Simmons was being sarcastic but Moby seems genuinely proud of the encounter as if Simmons had been acknowledging a kindred soul. This anecdote, of course, serves only to add to Jones' perplexity.

So, what the fuck is Moby? Have the aliens really landed? Well, after having read Moby's memoir, Porcelain – all 500 pages of it – I must admit I'm none the wiser. Yes, that's 500 pages of Moby talking about his life. Can you imagine?

Apparently, Moby is a descendent of Herman Melville so because of this probably feels that anything he writes should be on the same epic scale, so as to keep the tradition going. The problem being, however, that while Moby knows how to write he isn't actually a good writer. He's a classic case of someone badly in need of an editor but due to whatever reason, one hasn't been deployed. Hence 500 pages that could have easily been slashed by half and in doing so make for a much better book.

I'm not sure if Moby owes me a personal debt of gratitude for ploughing through his memoir or if I should be thanking him because by the time I got to the 300^th page I started to wonder what I was doing with my life? Might there not be better ways to spend my time rather than reading a book such as this? Might there not be better books to read? Like Moby Dick, perhaps? Or Tolstoy's War And Peace? Is it just me, I wondered? Is there something wrong with me? Why are writers from such esteemed organs as The Guardian, New Statesman, Mojo, and Rolling Stone able to laud Moby's book with grand plaudits but I'm barely able to muster the will to live?

To be fair, Porcelain isn't the worst book I've ever read and in fact there are some decent bits in it such as when Moby is describing New York during the late Eighties/early Nineties when it was still a dangerous place to live and when everyone except him and his immediate circle of friends seemed to be on crack. Or when he's talking about aspects of the early New York rave scene and the changes to it brought about by the changing of drugs being devoured from Ecstasy to Ketamin.

There's a lot missing from it, however, such as any decent mention of the New York Hardcore punk scene in which Moby was once involved, frequenting hundred of shows at CBGBs apparently. Or any real examination of his Christianity or how he became vegan and an advocate of animal rights. There's no explanation of how he managed to attend and DJ at practically every club in New York and managed to remain drug-free. How could this have been humanly possible?

A strange thing about the book is that it only starts to get better and more amusing about two thirds in when Moby suddenly starts drinking a lot. The people he meets become more interesting as does his anecdotes. The book at this point starts to flow more easily as he suddenly reveals he's got a very good sense of humour. His sex life even begins to improve though the thought of Moby having sex isn't really an alluring one it must be said.

I've got nothing against Moby, I should add. He's a likeable fellow and a lot of his records are actually really good particularly the albums 18 and Hotel. His Animal Rights album, however, is a crock of shit which was universally slated and rightfully so. He did, however, blot his copy book by the absolute selling out of his Play album. So much so that there was a time, in fact, when you couldn't put the television on without hearing something from Play being used as the theme music to some advertisement or other and it was just too much in the end. Overkill, essentially.

And maybe that's what it is with Porcelain, the book? It's just overkill, basically? It's just too much? Too much froth and not enough bite? I'm not really sure. In fact, I'm not really sure about anything any more after finishing it. Then again, 500 pages of Moby is enough to daze and confuse anyone. Perhaps Moby can say a prayer for me? Especially as I've got Then It Fell Apart - the sequel to Porcelain, clocking up to another 400 pages - waiting on my shelf to be read. Whispering my name: 'John, John, come and read me'. Like a Siren calling me to the rocks.

Yes. Pray for me.

John Serpico

Penguin Modern Poets - Gregory Corso - Lawrence Ferlinghetti - Allen Ginsberg

PENGUIN MODERN POETS –

GREGORY CORSO – LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI – ALLEN GINSBERG

Poetry used to always be published in expensive hardback books but during the 1960s and 1970s in an attempt to introduce contemporary poetry to the general reader a series of inexpensive paperbacks were published containing some thirty poems by each of three modern poets in a single volume. These were the Penguin Modern Poets and apparently the venture was an outstanding success.

There was an unlikely encounter once upon a time between Freddie Mercury and Sid Vicious where Freddie greeted Sid with a “Aha! Mr Ferocious!”, to which Sid replied “'Ello, Fred. Still trying to bring ballet to the masses are we?”

If true, this was an interesting exchange for not only Freddie's witty greeting but also for Sid's retort which was actually ambiguously multi-layered. Was Sid saying this so as to mock Freddie due to ballet being an uncool art form to try and foist upon the public, or was he implying that Freddie was on a hiding to nothing in trying to promote ballet as the general public were an ignorant bunch who would never appreciate it? Knowing Sid, it could have been either – or both. “I've met the man in the street,” as Sid is quoted as once saying “And he's a cunt.”

Poetry isn't all 'Moon in June' and chasing butterflies with nets though that's probably a not too uncommon perception. It all depends on how discerning the reader is and what they are presented with and what they discover by actively seeking or venturing out beyond the given horizons. As with anything, of course.

Penguin Books' endeavour to bring poetry to the masses was a noble one. Somebody back then obviously possessed of a love of poetry took a gamble and it paid off - and not only financially. The influence of this series is incalculable. The man on the street might well be a cunt, as Sid advised, but there is a vast number who are curious of mind and have a thirst for culture and knowledge only hindered by access and economics. Penguin Modern Poets was a solution and nothing less than a key to a kingdom.

The series is no longer available so can only nowadays be bought second-hand. Number 5, first published in 1963, features poems by Gregory Corso, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, and Allen Ginsberg. The Beat poets, of course. Ferlinghetti and Ginsberg I've read before but for some reason I've not actually read a lot by Gregory Corso though I'm fully aware of who he is. 

The value in this book (and subsequently the whole series?) was instantly proven by it instigating me to read-up on and investigate Corso further. The wikipedia page on him was the obvious place to start and though badly composed, it was sufficient enough to nudge me to YouTube and various old interviews with him there along with recordings of him reciting some of his poems.

No frat boy was Corso but rather a product of deprivation and poverty, terrorised by time in jail at an early age but then also finding salvation there through encountering books by the classical poets. Another chance encounter – this time in a bar – with Allen Ginsberg led to further salvation through him becoming an integral inner circle member of the Beat poets.

That's not to single Corso out for special attention in this book, however, because none of the poets featured are any better than the other. There are no single lines to quote and no particular poems to highlight for special praise. They are all equally good.

No, on reading this book it caused something else and that was to consider the meaning of being a poet and why anyone would choose to be one? There's no money in it, that's for sure, so why bother? According to Plato, “at the touch of love everyone becomes a poet” and therein lies the answer. No-one writes a poem from a position of hate. As Che Guevara even once said: “At the risk of seeming ridiculous, let me say that the true revolutionary is guided by a great feeling of love. It is impossible to think of a genuine revolutionary lacking this quality.”

To be a poet and to compose a poem is in itself an act of love. It's a declaration of having love in one's heart. A declaration of love. A declaration of being alive and an inkling of being aware of what that might mean. To write even just one poem in your life is a life well spent. Whether a poem is any good or not is academic. Subjective. Every act of creativity in whatever medium is meaningful. One act leads to another to another and to another. Corso, Ferlinghetti, Ginsberg, Kerouac et al begat the beatniks who begat the hippies who begat the punks along with a million other off-shoots along the way including me sat on a train writing these thoughts down.

All this from a book bought for 10p in a second-hand shop in Exmouth. It can't be bad.

John Serpico

Gobbing, Pogoing And Gratuitous Bad Language - Edited by Robert Dellar

GOBBING, POGOING AND GRATUITOUS BAD LANGUAGE –

AN ANTHOLOGY OF PUNK SHORT STORIES

Another day another anthology of short stories, this time compiled and edited by Mad Pride founder Robert Dellar. Gobbing, Pogoing And Gratuitous Bad Language is a collection of twenty-one punk rock stories (twenty-two if you include Nick Blinko's pages from his sketch book) written according to the blurb on the back cover by the world's leading punk authors.

What exactly qualifies you for being a 'punk author' is, of course, debatable and a question that Dellar addresses with the inclusion of a haiku-like poem by Robert Wyatt. 'Not strictly 'punk' in itself,' Dellar writes 'Wyatt's work has always been admired within punk circles for its intense spirit and sincerity'. I would tend to agree. What constitutes 'punk writing', however, is a whole other debate due to punk always being an organic concept rather than something cast in stone and held within strict parameters. Was Dellar on a hiding to nothing in trying to wrap some cloak of punk rock identity around these stories? I suspect so.

Mark Perry understands this and ably demonstrates it in what is by far the best story in the collection: 'Elvis was a punk / so was Jerry Lee', he writes in a Crass album sleeve lyrics style 'Chuck wasn't / Lennon was a punk / Macca tried, but failed / Townsend was a punk turned poet / Moon was one of the great punks / so was Hendrix / and Iggy / Zappa maybe although he was too careful, too deliberate / Lenny Bruce was a comedy punk / Dennis Hopper was a film punk / Bolan was a hippy pop elf punk and beautiful person / Patti was all punk / as was Sid / the greatest punk band were Crass / they lived the life / The Clash signed to CBS, so that counts them out / ATV – at times punk, sometimes avant-jazz-punk'.

Mark Perry was a visionary and I say that without any doubt or hesitation. Was it not he who launched Sniffin' Glue fanzine? Was it not he who wrote How Much Longer? Was it not he who forged a bridge between punk and the free festival culture of the 1970s? The Pistols and The Clash had a lot more in common with Here And Now, Hawkwind, and the Edgar Broughton Band than they would care to admit. Was it not Mark who saw through the false divisions and realised that actually, the Stonehenge free festival path was the way for punk to go if it was ever to survive, rather than running into the arms of the major record companies.

'Punk could have been so much better / but it fucked up / who cares? / it moves on / ever changing' Mark continues in a free-form flow of consciousness 'Punk is about creative energy / sexual energy / throwing yourself in the fire of eternal love / commitment / devotion / a punk life – a creative life'. And then in one fell swoop, Mark defines the meaning of punk, or if not the meaning then a meaning but one a lot better than most others: 'Punk is a word / trying to describe a feeling'.

Mark Perry's salvo, entitled A Punk Life, is a very good piece of writing and unfortunately for all the other authors featured in the book is the first entry, setting a near impossible to equal benchmark. Maybe if some of the authors had known the quality of Mark Perry's piece beforehand they would have upped their game? But of course they didn't so we read the consequences.

Nutbourne City Limits by Martin Cooper is rubbish but he's forgiven because he's the ex-singer and guitarist in Salad From Atlantis, a Brighton band I used to quite like. Mental Punk Rock Diaries by Nikki Sudden is an exercise in punk rock reminiscing that's nice because he's no longer with us, having passed away in 2006. Indeed, so too with Robert Dellar, who passed away in 2016. Stewart Home's contribution, Cheap Night Out, is short – just three pages, in fact, and for this reason alone it's good. Lisa Pember's story is genuinely good. Entitled A Warning To Young Girls, it is that very thing and a mighty sensible one too.

Unexpectedly, there's a fair amount of sex in a few of the other stories although even this fails to save them. The book ebbs and wanes and half-way through I'm getting bored. It needs to be said that just because a story is short, it doesn't make it any better. But then like the cavalry appearing on the hill along comes Old Punk, written by Ted Curtis, and the book is saved.

Though nothing at all like Mark Perry's contribution, Curtis' story is still on a par with it but for very different reasons. There is pathos and bathos here; depth, perspective and attention to the minutia, full of recognisable cultural and geographical references. A perfectly composed snapshot of an age and place giving succour to Mark Perry's dictum that punk is indeed a word trying to describe a feeling.

Mark Perry's and Ted Curtis' stories both start and (almost) end the book so in effect act as bookends, and for these two stories alone the book is worth it.

John Serpico

Poems And Prose - William Blake

POEMS AND PROSE - WILLIAM BLAKE

There's Poems And Prose by William Blake... and all the rest is propaganda.