A Spy In The House Of Love - Anais Nin

A SPY IN THE HOUSE OF LOVE - ANAIS NIN

There's that thing, isn't there, about how men might only read Playboy magazine or Men Only for the articles? Well, that can go also for reading Anais Nin and A Spy In The House Of Love that I've just read due only to Nin's connection with Henry Miller whose work I greatly admire. And it's just as well, really, for if I had read it for the sex, I'd have been mightily disappointed.

A Spy In The House Of Love is a book you read for the art, for it being the voice of a woman that when stood alongside the likes of Henry Miller, Lawrence Durrell, Antonin Artaud and even John Steinbeck, can hold its own. It's a book that when reading, you need to change down a gear so as to be on the same contemplative level as the author. Once you do this, there can be at moments what Patti Smith once called a 'brainiac-amour', where the inner voice of Anais Nin swirls up from the pages and talks to you over the passage of the years.

What comes across and between the lines is a desire for liberation. To be as free as some men appeared to be back then in 1954 when it was first published - but more so. Free of attachment. Free of dependency. Free to love and to not love. Liberation also from the monotony of repetition and the idea that there is only one of everything: One birth, one childhood, one adolescence, one romance, one marriage, one maturity, one ageing, one death. There being the desire instead for the myriad and the infinite multiplicity of experience.

This is what A Spy In The House Of Love is about. The desire for more. The desire for something greater than that which is offered. The desire to move beyond and above. The desire for love and life beyond the given. A Spy In The House Of Love is about the ardent frenzy of desire and all that it entails.

John Serpico

Orbital - Samantha Harvey

ORBITAL - SAMANTHA HARVEY

Well, it's a thing of beauty. Who'd have thought? You walk into a second-hand bookshop and there it is: Orbital, by Samantha Harvey. The Booker Prize winner of 2024. It would, of course, be churlish not to buy it because obviously it was meant to be. I mean, what are the odds? It's not just a question of finding a book, however, but more like finding a jewel. An opal. A rare stone. Or of it finding you?

But then no, it's not a jewel. It's not so much a physical object whose value can be put in monetary terms. Rather, it's a thought. A murmur. A consideration. A daydream. A meander. It's that moment when you gaze into space but look at nothing and you're asked 'What are you thinking?' and you reply 'Thinking? I wasn't thinking anything.'

If ever a book deserved to win the Booker Prize it is this one. To describe it as 'a thing of beauty' doesn't even do it justice. The language in these pages is sublime, written by - and could only be written by - a lover of language. There are sentences in these pages that could never be spoken, only written. The imagery is wondrous. The descriptions are breathtaking. The thoughts are heavenly. The ideas human but of the highest calibre.

There is poetry in Samantha Harvey's words. Names of places on earth and the universe alike, tumbling out onto the page over and over, again and again. Like hearing the shipping forecast - Cromarty, Forties, Forth, Dogger, Tyne, Humber - there is comfort and art and wonder. Have you ever tried to describe the world? To find suitable words? Here is how to do it.

Six astronauts are in a spacecraft orbiting the earth, their job being to conduct scientific experiments in regard to life under zero gravity, and to collect meteorological data. They are there for nine months and in that time they observe the earth below rotating endlessly. At the same time, so do their thoughts, dreams and reveries rotate endlessly too.

News of the passing of the mother of one of the astronauts reaches them, subsequently igniting a rumination on the meaning of the word 'mother'. As in mother Earth. They watch as a tornado over the Pacific builds to life-threatening dimensions and in its path is the family in the Philippines that one of the astronauts befriended some years before. There is mention of Michael Collins, the third astronaut who during the moon landing of 1969 remained onboard the command module whilst Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldwin took giant steps for mankind on the moon's surface. It was Collins who took the famous photograph depicting every living person except him. There is mention of Russian cosmonaut Sergei Krikalev, the 'last Soviet citizen' having been aboard the Mir space station during the dissolution of the Soviet Union. And there is so much more. 

What leads to man wishing to venture into space? Why would anyone place themselves into what is essentially a tin can in a vacuum, just four inches of titanium away from death? Why is man trying to live in a place in which he will never thrive? Is the earth not good enough? Is it down to curiosity or ingratitude? Twelve people have walked on the moon, all American men. No other nationality and no women. And yet we're bound and entwined by our common humanity.

Anyone can be a literary critic. I reflect on books I read and put down my thoughts but I never really tend to recommend as I kind of think everyone should find their own books or even have books find them. Orbital, by Samantha Harvey is a gift from its author and is the essence of the happiest surprise on unwrapping it.

John Serpico

So Here It Is - Dave Hill

 SO HERE IT IS - DAVE HILL

You've got to wonder though, haven't you? What must it be like being Dave Hill of Slade? Pretty surreal, I imagine. I mean, he was always more Ziggy than Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars put together. An ultimate Man Who Fell To Earth. Stranger in a strange land but completely unaware of the fact. The haircut, the boots, the outfits, the teeth, the accent. What the fuck? So yes, being Dave Hill must be a pretty hectic affair. At the same time, however, it's also been pretty obvious he was always a good soul possessed of a solid, working class heart of gold.

There was a time in their early days when Slade's publicist cast them as a skinhead group - all boots and braces and shaved heads - but this was but an aberration of management. For a start, skinheads back then tended to be called Masher, Bruiser, Psycho or Mongo but never Noddy. Apart from this, Dave Hill was always the Glam Pop-God in waiting, not some caricature on the back of a Weetabix box. He was the council estate boy from the Black Country destined to be a British pop culture icon.

So Here It Is, is Dave Hill's autobiography and an interesting thing about it is that it's not like how you might imagine it's going to be at all. At peak-fame during the early 1970s, Slade were all about being loud and entertaining on all levels, and whilst there are tales of mansions and Rolls Royces being bought there's no pop star ultra-decadence or tales of sex and drugs to be found here. In fact, quite the opposite. The book is totally grounded in Hill's working class background and the mental health problems of his mother and it's for this that it's very heartwarming, inducing much respect for him more so as a person rather than for him as a pop star.

The pop star stuff, however, is why anyone would be here of course, and Hill delivers it accordingly. Slade were massive in the early 1970s but unless you were there it's probably going to be hard to fully comprehend this. They were a part and parcel of the British cultural landscape during a time before the Internet when there were only two music programmes on the three available television channels. Top Of The Pops on a Thursday evening was where they ruled, and from where they would cast their light upon the nation. Slade were a good-time band acting as an antidote to the direness of the news and the economic gloom that held sway.

Their manager, Chas Chandler, always knew however, that the mega-fame and the mega-money was to be found in America so in 1975 Slade relocated there so as to be able to tour there more easily as they strove to crack the American market. Essentially, it was a failure and Hill offers some interesting explanations as to why - mostly all cultural ones. On returning to England, Slade then realised that musically everything had changed. Glam Rock was out and Disco was in, whilst on the horizon something called Punk Rock was looming.

Rather than using a ghostwriter, Dave Hill has written his autobiography himself, which is always a good thing in my eyes. Whilst his writing is nothing exceptional, it does the job and tells the story. It's unclear how Glam Rock is actually viewed these days as in whether it's with fondness, incredulity or derision. One thing almost for certain is that it's not really taken seriously but to counter that, it's clear that a band like Slade once played a big part in people's lives. For this reason alone, though So Here It Is doesn't necessarily need to be read, it definitely needed to be written.

John Serpico

The Islanders - Pascal Garnier

 THE ISLANDERS - PASCAL GARNIER

I should by now have learnt my lesson and know not to be swayed into buying and reading a book based on the blurbs on the cover but what can you do? I'm a sucker for this stuff and though a hardened cynic when quotes from reviews are used to sell something, my defenses sometimes fall and in I go. In for a penny, in for a pound.

The Islanders by Pascal Garnier and no, I've never heard of him either but apparently he's the prize-winning author of more than sixty books and a once leading figure in contemporary French literature. Born in Paris in 1949 and died in 2010.

According to the Sunday Times, The Islanders is 'A dark, richly odd and disconcerting world... devastating and brilliant'. According to the Financial Times, it's 'A mixture of Albert Camus and JG Ballard'. Well, that did it. I was going to have to read it now.

Like in a Robert Altman movie, the main characters are introduced one by one and we see how their lives are either already entwined or become entwined. There's Olivier, whose mother has recently passed away and he's travelling to Versailles for her funeral and to sort out her estate. There's Roland, a young homeless man. And there's brother and sister Jeanne and Rodolphe who share an apartment together. Rodolphe is blind and Jeanne looks after him. When their lives collide, tragedy unfolds and murder is the game both past and present.

Beyond this, it's hard to say too much about the plot as it would give too much away. Too many spoilers spoil the broth, you might say? If, however, you like your noir as cold as a new razor blade then Pascal Garnier's your man. Cynicism, fatalism, moral ambiguity, it's all here.

I'd say there are echoes here too of Jean Cocteau's 'Les Enfants Terribles' and Gilbert Adair's 'The Dreamers' (perhaps more widely known by Bernardo Bertolucci's film version of it starring Eva Green?). It's in the way that civilization breaks down within four walls of a house and how another world is born bearing very little resemblance to what has gone before.

Pascal Garnier's The Islanders is a book of interest. Whilst not really on the same level as Camus or Ballard, it's still a good read. Noteworthy, might be a better way of putting it? A significant player.

John Serpico

Beautiful Chaos: The Psychedelic Furs - Dave Thompson

 BEAUTIFUL CHAOS: THE PSYCHEDELIC FURS -

DAVE THOMPSON

How to explain the Psychedelic Furs? How to put into words? Well, firstly let's break them down a bit because as with the life of many bands there are phases, usually dictated by changes in line-up. With the Psychedelic Furs I'd say there are three phases to them. The first phase being their early days, up to the release of their debut album. The second phase being their 'Americanization'  and their subsequent mainstream success following the Pretty In Pink movie. Their third phase is that which followed their splitting up and subsequent reunion - the phase they are still in to this day.

It's the first phase that I'm mostly interested in because during that time I believe the Psychedelic Furs were tuning in to something very special. Something that was beyond words. Something unspoken. The audience they were attracting was essentially a punk one, although the kind of punks who had a very refined taste in what they considered to be 'good punk'. And remember, this was at a time when punk was a broad church.

Those who appreciated the Psychedelic Furs might also for example like Crass, early Antz, Poison Girls, Crisis, early UK Subs, Chelsea and the Lurkers. The kind of bands that still possessed a punk spirit. Bands who like moths drawn to a flame, continued to orbit around the punk ideas of individualism, outsider art, and - for want of a better word - belief. Fundamental belief. Punk was a word trying to describe a feeling, as Mark Perry once put it, and the Psychedelic Furs in their early days were very much a punk band though to recognise this took a certain awareness of the fact that punk was multifarious, multifaceted and multidimensional.

Like all the best and most interesting bands, the music press hated them - which in itself was always a good sign. The abuse heaped on them by music journalists being at times the equivalent of what was always heaped upon Crass and early Adam And The Antz: 'Psychedelic Furs give being bad a bad name', as Sounds music newspaper declared, as a typical example.

Almost every time the Furs were written about there was also an inevitable mention of the Velvet Underground, as though to have been influenced by the Velvets was somehow a bad thing. Yes, the Psychedelic Furs wore their influences on their sleeves but when those influences are the Velvet Underground, Bowie and the Sex Pistols, then they are not only good influences but ones to be worn proudly.

Very few journalists, however, seemed to pick up on and give much thought to the influence upon the Psychedelic Furs of the 1960s. The name of the band in itself would have rang alarm bells but it was hardly ever delved into. The music they played couldn't really be described as 'psychedelic' as such (putting aside the question as to whether The Stooges could be called psychedelic) as it was more a bass-driven, forward-moving wall of sound entwined with saxophone and rasping vocals.

The sound they created - the world they created, even - was that of the Sixties being waved goodbye and having the last word on the subject: 'This is the pulse of fools like you, who sound so red and turn so blue. The sound of uselessness in summer, the war is over if you want,' from the song 'Pulse'. Or putting to bed forever the hippy trail to India notion with the line 'Needles on the beach at Goa', from the song 'Fall'.

The summer of love was done. The dream was over. And if the Manson killings and Altamont were the cultural low points of the psychedelic Sixties, the Psychedelic Furs were providing the final comments along with the full-stop at the end of the exclamation mark.

This is all, of course, my own interpretation of what the Psychedelic Furs were about and it's one that differs somewhat from Dave Thompson's in his book Beautiful Chaos: The Psychedelic Furs. But then that's always the beauty of a band when they refuse to explain themselves, or to explain their lyrics. It leaves the audience free to apply their own meanings to the songs and to perceive the band on whatever level suits them.

Thompson's book tells the story of the Psychedelic Furs in a very A to Z manner, starting from the witnessing of the Sex Pistols at the 100 Club Punk Festival in 1976, to them achieving the American success they always sought. It is also, however, a classic case of 'For what good is it for a man to gain the world but to lose his soul'.

Come 1987 and there they are, all big hair and shiny suits, touring an album in America, on heavy rotation on MTV, girls down at the front of the stage, cocaine on tap - and coming to the horrific realisation that they are hating every minute of it.

There was always - in their early days in particular - a certain mystique around the Psychedelic Furs that added to them being somewhat apart from other bands of that time who also ended up throwing themselves at America. Think: U2, Simple Minds, The Cure, Depeche Mode, etc. A problem with Dave Thompson's book - though unavoidably so - is that it goes some way in dispelling that mystique. Weirdly, however, there are also a lot of contradictory quotes throughout its pages, so rather than revealing the truth about the Psychedelic Furs it somehow wraps the band up in barbed wire and protects them against too much invasiveness. 

Was vocalist Butler Rep an unacknowledged genius or a pretentious prat? Were the Psychedelic Furs important players in the story of music culture or just an accident of the times who sold their integrity for a swift one off the wrist down on the old main drag? The answer is that we'll probably never really know and it's probably even better if we don't ask because as with the Sixties, when the dream is over all that remains is the memory. And when the memory is tempered with the mother of all hangovers, all that is left is the wreckage and you crawling out from under it.

John Serpico

Fire And Flames - A History Of The German Autonomist Movement - Geronimo

FIRE AND FLAMES - A HISTORY OF THE GERMAN AUTONOMIST MOVEMENT -

GERONIMO

Politics has always been the playground for the rich but more and more it's becoming the courtyard of the prison where the rulers of the roost carve and stake out their areas, and woe betide anyone who crosses the line. There has, however, always been incursions into politics that are uncontrolled and often uncontrollable. One example of this is the Italian Autonomia movement of the 1970s that saw a uniting of students, the unemployed and unskilled workers organizing themselves independently of the traditional workers' unions. These bodies of people weren't interested in reformist mediation via the unions but rather a complete negation of the existing system and the holders of power at all levels within it. Rather than arbitration and moderation, what this led to in Italy was an embracing of militancy, riot and spontaneous revolt as a means to an end.

According to Fire And Flames - A History Of The German Autonomist Movement, 'the theory and praxis of the West German Autonomen of the 1980s can be seen as a second wave of autonomous struggles after the crushing of the Italian Autonomia movement in the late 1970s'. And yes, there is a lineage, and one that I would even argue goes way beyond Germany in the 1980s and into other countries in the 1990s right up to the present day - and England is included in that.

In Germany, one of the largest and most impressive manifestations of the Autonomia movement took place in June of 1987 when 50,000 people gathered in Berlin to protest against the State visit of Ronald Reagan, with 4,000 of them forming an autonomous bloc. Dressed mainly in black, sporting scarves, ski-masks and motorcycle helmets, the bloc made for a mightily impressive sight. Clashes with police and mass rioting, of course, ensued.

The bloc was a coming together of multiple political affiliations, bonding over one specific aim: to protest the Reagan visit in whatever way they saw fit and if that meant attacking police lines then so be it. It was collective, spontaneous, autonomous strength in action. To join and form such a bloc took a particular mindset, one that though organized was essentially anarchist in nature. A mindset that fully understood what Raoul Vaneigem meant when he spoke of the positive in the refusal of constraints.

Beyond the anti-Reagan protest, those in possession of this same autonomist attitude would also be involved in countless other campaigns, protests and alternative forms of living, with West Berlin being arguably the epicentre of radicalism during the 1980s. The strength and successes of the German Autonome lay in the fact that to all intent and purpose it was non-hierarchical. There were plenty of forms of organization, of course, but there was never any central organizing committee. As said in Fire And Flames in its reproduction of the 'Autonomous Theses' 'To this day, the movement has not produced any individual representative, spokesperson, or celebrity. That is, no Antonio Negri, Rudi Dutschke, Cohn Bendit, etc'.

To my knowledge, there hasn't been very many books written about the German Autonomist movement (or at least not in English) so for this reason alone, Fire And Flames is important. One of its strengths is that it's written from the personal experience of the author which means that whilst there are things that are obviously missed out such as cultural influences upon the movement and the involvement and the role of women, you know that what he does write of is more than likely to be factual. Or at least factual as in seen through his eyes.

Interestingly, the book ends in 1989 with the fall of the Berlin Wall which to put it mildly, left everyone reeling not least the Autonomen. There comes a time, it seems, in the journey of every social movement that an event occurs or an impasse is reached and the only question to ask is 'What now?' The end of the (West) Federal Republic of Germany was one such moment: 'It seemed clear that coming to the defense of disappearing nation-states was not very autonomous. But was there anything else to do?'

Whilst all the many squats in Berlin were steadfastly evicted, the black bloc tactic of the German Autonomen - like a genie from its bottle - had been released and would continue to be utilised over the years and throughout the world, particularly in regard to the mass protests against the WTO and G8 summits.  As almost a prelude to these, the Stop The City protests in London during the 1980s can also be linked to the German autonomist movement in the way that both were excluded from the main organizing bodies of the anti-Cruise missile protests of that time.

According to Fire And Flames, in Germany the peace movement with its strong nonviolent ideology distanced itself from the Autonomen, choosing to collaborate instead with the police. In England, the CND leadership did likewise when it came to the Stop The City demonstrations, believing that because Stop The City was unregulated and without any clearly defined structure that it would be too unpredictable, potentially leading to a clash with the police. To have a protest take place in the heart of the financial district of London might also lead to antagonism from those who worked there as any disruption to 'business as usual' might have significant impact on the diverse range of business interests located there. The penny was being dropped but the CND leadership were failing to pick it up.

Fire And Flames is a good book because not only does it go some way in joining the dots between such things as industrial disputes in Italy during the 1970s and the social upheaval in Germany during the 1980s, but it also goes some way in recording a history that over time is being forgotten if not even being erased. 

Know your history, is what I say. For those who fail to remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

John Serpico

The Triple Echo - H E Bates

 THE TRIPLE ECHO - H E BATES

It's my contention that rather than Vanessa Redgrave it should have been Glenda Jackson who starred in Ken Russell's 'The Devils'. She would have made the perfect possessed nun and would probably have been down on the church floor with the rest of them, shedding her robes and cavorting for all she's worth around the pews. In fact, she may well have insisted on it even if it wasn't in the script. For authenticity. 

Oliver Reed and Glenda Jackson made for a good pairing when cast together in Ken Russell's 'Women In Love' though it wasn't until the following year after the release of The Devils that they came together again in the film adaptation of H E Bates' The Triple Echo.

When it comes to films based on books and vice versa, the question always rises as to which is better: the book or the film? Nine times out of ten the book wins but when it comes to The Triple Echo I'd say it's a draw. Both have their merits but then both have their shortcomings. The merits are in the compactness and brevity of the main characters playing out their respective roles against a background of a wide open landscape under a vast sky. The main problem of both is in the story's central premise.

It's World War Two and a 'war widow' whose husband has been taken prisoner by the Japanese is living alone at subsistence level on an isolated farm somewhere in the English countryside. She one day comes upon a young soldier out wandering around on his day off from the local Army barracks, and after no time at all they become lovers.

Together, rather than him going back to his regiment it's decided he should stay with her at the farm, disguising himself as a woman with fake breasts and all. To quell suspicions when anyone asks, she tells them that it's her sister who has come to stay a while.

Into the mix enters another soldier (in the film played by Oliver Reed), a very uncouth and brutish man who takes a shine to the woman's 'sister' and gets 'her' to go to a Christmas Eve dance being held at the barracks. It's at this point that everything starts to unravel. 

On one level, The Triple Echo can be read as a description of one of the more unusual sorrows of war but on another level it can be read a bit more lightly: War! What is it good for? Absolutely nothing apart from men dressing as women only to then invite the amorous advances of Oliver Reed.

Was H E Bates an inhibited and repressed cross-dresser, I wonder? A would-be sweet transvestite? Was him writing The Triple Echo a way of safely coming out of his closet under the guise of fiction? Everyone likes a bit of cross-dressing, for sure. It's only natural. So is The Triple Echo the equivalent of H E Bates sending a message in a bottle, with the hope that it might one day wash up on a shore and lead to his rescue? I think it might be.

John Serpico