Life On A Dartmoor Scrapyard - Peggy Harris

 LIFE ON A DARTMOOR SCRAPYARD - PEGGY HARRIS

Gentrification has a lot to answer for. Unless you're middle class and slumming it or you're living in downtown New York during the early 1970s, no-one likes to live in a crap hole. There's nothing wrong with a bit of tidying up, a bit of good housekeeping, or even a bit of modernization which is all things gentrification brings but the problem is the displacement. The pushing out or even the forced removal of the local populace to make way for a whole other and mostly much wealthier populace. With gentrification comes also homogenization and the flattening-out of culture where everyone likes the same things and behaves the same way. Where the only areas that cultural differences are exchanged are safe ones such as in the liking of culturally-different music or clothes. This then all leads to a monoculture, terminal boredom, the death of imagination and ultimately the death of any sense of real community.

Gentrification is mostly associated with cities but it also takes place out in the countryside where once-working farms and even chapels are turned into holiday homes or are bought-up by would-be developers, renovated and then sold at prices well beyond the means of local people.

Life On A Dartmoor Scrapyard by Peggy Harris is a collection of childhood memories and anecdotes from when the author did indeed grow up on a scrapyard on the edge of Dartmoor, near a village called Chagford. It's a collection of stories about a time, a place and of people that you just don't encounter nowadays, having all been squeezed-out and side-lined by economics and legislation. Leaving the world, it must be said, as a much poorer place.

To be clear, Peggy's childhood was never an easy one not least from having no mains water and no mains electricity, where the family's drinking water was fetched from the nearby river. We're talking the 1970s here. Her childhood was, however, a very special one and though money may have been in short supply she and her family were rich in the things that money cannot buy: a closeness to nature, the freedom to roam, the schooling in life-lessons and life-skills far beyond anything the national curriculum could ever imagine.

Peggy's father was called Sam, and that's him in the photo on the cover of the book. 'A gentleman and friend, known by all, loved by many' as it declares on his gravestone, having passed away in 1988. Sam Harris was the kind of character you would only find in the countryside. Devon born and bred. The kind of character that nowadays you very rarely hear of the one-time existence of let alone actually meet. The kind whose home and birthright has now been taken over by more often than not Londoners with more money than sense. 

'He often said that he never wanted to be the richest man in the churchyard,' Peggy writes 'As long as he had enough food to eat and enough money in his pocket to have a deal, he was happy.'

Sam was a legend and an example to us all of the heritage we are losing and are never going to get back, and Life On A Dartmoor Scrapyard is an ode to him. It's a love letter from Peggy to her Father, her Mother, her two brothers and also to her childhood self. It's a reminder of a time now gone. A funny and very wonderful picture of what it was to be young when the world was what you made it, not something you purchased online.

Apparently, the original print run of 1,000 copies of Peggy's book sold out in a fortnight and when she did a book signing at a local pub in Chagford she signed and sold over 250 copies, with people queuing up all the way down the road to get in and meet her. Which all goes to show, of course, an interest in if not a yearning for the world that Peggy describes from those who are aware that another world is possible.

John Serpico

A Happy Death - Albert Camus

A HAPPY DEATH - ALBERT CAMUS

A Happy Death by Albert Camus was conceived and composed between 1936 and 1938 so he would have then been about 25 years old. He died in a car crash in 1960 at the age of 47 and this particular book was published posthumously in 1971 after his death. It's commendable and it's appreciated that his estate allowed it to be published because Camus is obviously a towering figure in the worlds of philosophy and literature so anything written by him is of interest. The slight problem with it, however, is that up until the time of his death Camus was on a roll, with every new book written by him being another step forward in his thinking. A Happy Death is a step backward. At the time of his death, Camus was actually writing his autobiography, entitled The First Man, that he felt was going to be his masterpiece but unfortunately it was never completed though an incomplete transcript of it was eventually published in 1974. Before that, however, came A Happy Death.

This is a book that was written before Camus wrote The Outsider and essentially it's a precursor to it. A practice run. The main character in The Outsider is called Mersault and so too is the main protagonist in A Happy Death. In The Outsider, Mersault kills an Arab and in A Happy Death the Mersault character murders a crippled man although both are under completely different circumstances. In The Outsider, there is no real reason for shooting dead the Arab only that it was done in a moment of illumination but in A Happy Death, the crippled man is shot dead because of money though possibly with the victim's consent.

A Happy Death is Camus ruminating on the question of freedom and how to achieve and retain it. What he's doing here, however, is rather than calling it 'freedom' he's calling it 'happiness'. So is freedom and happiness one and the same thing? Well, no it's not and I think Camus whilst writing his book had some kind of epiphany and realised this too, leading him to scrapping what he'd written and starting all over again. The result being The Outsider.

It can happen. Once you start writing down your thoughts, they're captured on the page and cemented, enabling if not causing you to look at them afresh. If you're happy with what you've written then you leave it as it is but if you're not then you re-write it or even scrap it entirely. Sometimes the words you write fail to convey what you mean but sometimes they invite other extended thoughts. This, I believe, is what happened with Camus, that when writing about happiness he realised that what he actually meant was 'freedom'. So when Camus asks 'How to die a happy man?' what he really means is 'How to die a free man?'

'What matters - all that matters, really - ' Camus writes 'is the will to happiness, a kind of enormous, ever-present consciousness. The rest - women, art, success - is nothing but excuses. A canvas waiting for embroideries.' Swap the word 'happiness' for 'freedom' and this sentence suddenly becomes a lot more relevant.

For Mersault, 'happiness' seems dependent on having money though not because money can buy happiness but because money can buy time to be happy. Having money is a way of being free from money. This, however, begs a lot of questions: In having no money is there no happiness? In poverty is there no time? Is poverty but a ghetto to escape from? If so, is wealth not also a ghetto?

Mersault murders a crippled man and steals his life-savings, making the murder look like suicide. He then leaves his native Algeria and travels through Europe only to fall sick and miserable. He returns home, sets up house with three women before finally moving to a quiet coastal village to play out his days in longed-for solitude, face-to-face with his own self.

A Happy Death is Camus casting around for answers to the questions in his head. It's his first tentative steps into exploring the questions of human existence. The Existential questions. The heavy stuff. It's a very well-written book and very descriptive but Camus still chose to scrap it, and this is a very important point about it. For all that, however, though it may not have been good enough for Camus, it's certainly good enough for me.

John Serpico

Angela Carter's 'Provincial Bohemia' - Stephen E Hunt

ANGELA CARTER'S 'PROVINCIAL BOHEMIA' -
THE COUNTERCULTURE IN 1960s AND 1970s BRISTOL AND BATH -
STEPHEN E HUNT

Fascinating and genuinely so on many levels. Stephen E Hunt's Angela Carter's 'Provincial Bohemia' - The Counterculture in 1960s and 1970s Bristol and Bath is a unique insight not only into renowned novelist Angela Carter's life of which she spent twelve years of it during the Sixties and Seventies living in Bristol and Bath but more so into the radical and artistic countercultures that flourished in the two cities during that period.

Between 1961 and 1969 Carter lived in the Clifton area of Bristol, in a ground floor flat on Royal York Crescent and then following this between 1973 and 1976 she lived in Bath. Her time in Bristol was arguably her most productive and was where she found her writerly voice, whilst her time in Bath was when she was arguably at her peak as a writer.

Clifton is a place that every Bristolian has an opinion of. It's the area in Bristol that has always been associated with wealth and prosperity and it's where you'll find some of the biggest and most expensive properties. For some it's the area they aspire to live in one day whilst for others it symbolizes nothing less than class division and wealth disparity. Within Clifton itself there is an additional aspect to it that acts as another clear dividing line, that being whether you own the property there or are renting. And if you own a property there is a further division of whether you come from 'old' money or 'new' money and if you rent, if this is privately or from a housing association.

People don't tend to pay much attention to nuance, however, so for most Clifton is simply posh and rich but this works both ways, meaning that if you move into the area you can adopt a position of privilege if not one of splendid isolation even if you're neither posh or rich.

During the early 1980s there was some graffiti on a wall in St Paul's that read 'I'm bored of sex and drugs and rock'n'roll, let's go up to Clifton and smash it up'. Whenever a riot might occur in Bristol there was a similar underlying whisper that said rather than damage be caused to the local community, to go mob-handed instead to Clifton and cause damage there. And when a riot would occur in St Paul's for example, those up in the Clifton heights would peer down upon it with but one thought in their minds: that the rioting remain in St Paul's and for it not to travel.

Language, as William Burroughs once observed, is a virus and so too I would argue is radicalism be it in the form of politics or culture, meaning it will traverse and mutate. Countercultures know no boundaries be that of class, wealth or geography which is why in a place like Bristol an idea born from a cultural tangent in Clifton might be picked up in the outer council estates of Hartcliffe and Southmead or the inner city of St Paul's and ran with -  and vice versa. It's called cross-cultural pollination and it's this very thing that Angela Carter tuned into during her stay in Bristol.

Carter's involvement with the 'provincial bohemianism' of the book's title began with her support for nuclear disarmament and a commitment to CND along with an enthusiasm for folk music. The relationship between the peace movement and the folk revival in the 1960s was mutually inspirational, both being well represented in Clifton. Along with a number of clubs and venues sympathetic to hosting folk nights around the Clifton area there were also a significant amount of pubs where the new bohemians of the period would meet. It was these clubs and pubs that Carter would frequent and from where she drew a lot of material and inspiration for her first books. One of the most prominent of these places being The Berkeley opposite the museum on Queen's Road where Carter would meet and chat to various local situationists and anarchists.

This is where Stephen E Hunt's book gets really interesting. Was The Berkeley a regular haunt for Bristol anarchists during the 1960s? It's a venue I used to personally go to myself during the 1980s to see all kinds of wonderful punk and post punk bands from the Angelic Upstarts, Killing Joke, the Fire Engines to the Polecats. It was never a well-known venue in the slightest and actually seemed at times as if it was in fact a somewhat secret venue. To know that it was also a place where local anarchists and situationists would hang out in the Sixties adds further to its near-secret history.

Mention of this in the book gives rise to a quote from a long-term friend of Angela Carter's in regard to Bristol being an important place for anarchists back then, with even arch anarchist and would-be Franco assassin Stuart Christie staying for some time. This connection to Bristol anarchists allows Hunt to then explore the tangents, off-shoots and cross-pollination of this nascent hippy/alternative/bohemian scene of which Carter herself might also have explored dependent upon the timeline: The 1968 student occupation of Bristol University's Senate House, for example. The Bristol Free Festival of 1971 held on Clifton Downs, organised by a group calling themselves The Bristol Dwarves with links to the Provos and Kabouters of The Netherlands. The Bristol Women's Liberation Group, the Bath Arts Workshop, and Comtek. 

All of these things went into forming a West Country counterculture, a 'provincial Bohemia' that though not on the same scale at all as what was going on in Haight Ashbury, Amsterdam or Notting Hill during the same period was certainly on the same page. The kind of things that Angela Carter if not directly involving herself with would have observed and been privy to discussions of, subsequently going on to influence and inform her writing.

If it was ever even the intention, it must be said these things in themselves emanating from the Clifton area of Bristol and the Walcot area of Bath that fed into the counterculture failed to change the world in any obvious and concrete way. Using Angela Carter as an example, however, very subtly they influenced. They echoed, travelled, traversed and cross-pollinated. Spreading out from epicenters subliminally like fractal strands of Chaos Theory. Like William Butler Yeats' gyres. Like tributaries feeding into larger rivers before entering the sea. 

This is what Stephen E Hunt's book is about and though it may not quite be the definitive book on the subject it's certainly an important one. Angela Carter's 'Provincial Bohemia' is a genuinely interesting and fascinating account of what went on up in Clifton in Bristol and out at Walcot in Bath during the Sixties and early Seventies with the repercussions of it still to this day echoing.

John Serpico

Dirty Harry - Phillip Rock

 DIRTY HARRY - PHILLIP ROCK

There are two options, basically. One, to watch the film again to see if it still stacks up nowadays. Two, to read the novelization of the film and see how it pans out in relation to the film. One or the other? So I do both. I watch the film again and I read the novelization written by Phillip Rock, based on the screenplay of Dirty Harry featuring of course, Clint Eastwood. I'll never make a film critic so all I can say is yes, it's still a classic. As for the book, well it does exactly what it's meant to do.

Dirty Harry is pulp fiction essentially but with a definite 1970s slant when it comes to violence. The storyline moves along at full-throttle but then so it should. Descriptions of the weather and of the violence taking place are the only points at which the pace goes into a sort of slow motion but of the kind you would get in a Sam Peckinpah film when bodies are hit by bullets.

The film script is adhered to faithfully but then you would expect nothing less and the dialogue is duplicated almost exactly apart - bizarrely - from when the "Are you feeling lucky, punk?" line is spoken. In the book it's slightly different from the film and there's no obvious reason for it. The slight change in the line doesn't make it any less effective but it doesn't make it any better either.

Interestingly when reading the book, when it comes to Scorpio the psycho killer it's impossible to not visualize the actor Andrew Robinson who played him in the film, which just goes to show what such a good job he made of it. When it comes to the Detective Harry Callahan character however, you don't automatically visualize Clint Eastwood. The book doesn't really add anything to the character but it's very easy to imagine a host of other actors in the role from Paul Newman, Robert Redford, Warren Beatty or even Robert Mitchum.

Noticeably as well, there's a distinct lack of women in the story apart from when they're victims. There's also a lot of attention to detail when it comes to naming the streets and areas of San Francisco, which is fine but pretty meaningless to anyone who doesn't know the city at all.

There's nothing ultimately to gain from reading Dirty Harry though of course that could also be said about a lot of other books. It's an enjoyable read, however, which is also more that can be said about a whole lot of other books.

John Serpico

Nina Simone's Gum - Warren Ellis

 NINA SIMONE'S GUM - WARREN ELLIS

Warren Ellis is most commonly known as the musical collaborator of Nick Cave in the groups the Bad Seeds and Grinderman as well as on various film soundtracks. In his own right he has also composed solo film soundtracks and has had eight albums released of his own band, Dirty Three. In 1999 Nick Cave curated the Meltdown Festival at the Royal Festival Hall in London and Warren Ellis was obviously there too. It was an eclectic line-up of artists but the biggest scoop was to have Nina Simone perform.

In 2014 the Nick Cave documentary 20,000 Days On Earth was released and in it was a short scene of Cave talking to Ellis about the Nina Simone performance where Cave mentions Simone taking some chewing gum out of her mouth and sticking it under the piano. To Cave's surprise, Ellis tells him he has that chewing gum, that after the show he had gone up onto the stage and taken it, wrapped up in a towel she had used to wipe her forehead with. 'Oh, fuck. I'm really jealous,' Cave says.

On the surface this is what Warren Ellis's book Nina Simone's Gum is all about. How a piece of discarded chewing gum gets elevated to a near religious status and the whole process of how this came about. The real story, however, is below the surface and is about ideas and how they're born and how they take on their own life once released into the world. It's about synchronicity and how one thing leads to another. It's about the magical and why not to be afraid of it. It's about the magic of life.

For good reason the book doesn't begin with Nina Simone at the Royal Festival Hall but with a story of when Ellis was five-years old and is woken up one night by the giggling of his slightly older brother sat on his bed peering out of his window.

'What is it?' Warren asks. 'Come and have a look,' his brother replies. So Warren joins him on the bed and when he looks out the window he sees the backyard is full of clowns. Bathed in light, eating hamburgers, climbing, doing somersaults, smiling, contorting, hanging upside down in the trees. The boys laughter wakes their father who calls out and asks if everything is OK? 'There's clowns in the backyard!' Warren yells to which his father replies sleepily: 'They'll be gone in the morning. And if they aren't, your mother will scare them away when she hangs out the washing on the clothes line.'

The boys grow tired and fall back to sleep and when they wake up in the morning and look out the window, all the clowns have gone. Such a scenario, of course, could easily be a nightmarish one for such a little boy but Ellis writes that he's been looking for those clowns/spirits ever since. Waiting for them to return.

Whether or not there really were clowns out in the backyard that night or was it dreamed or imagined isn't the question. Everything can be real yet unreal at the same time and that juxtaposition can often birth something other. Like a stone can be dropped into a pool of water and the ripples edge out forever. What we do in life echoes in eternity and likewise for a dream or a thought, or an idea once hatched.

Did the scene in 20,000 Days On Earth where Cave and Ellis first discuss the chewing gum really take place? Probably not or if it did then the scene in the film is just a reenactment but again that isn't the question. The important thing is the idea.

Nina Simone's Gum is a very wonderful book and Warren Ellis is certainly an interesting character. For all that, nothing can eclipse or be compared to the presence of Nina Simone who is there throughout like the sun in the sky even when reflected by the moon. The anecdote regarding her request for some champagne, cocaine and sausages backstage at the Royal Festival Hall when asked if there's anything she needs thirty minutes before going on stage is even worth the entrance fee alone.

John Serpico

The Art Of Travel - Alain De Botton

 THE ART OF TRAVEL - ALAIN DE BOTTON

Firstly, what exactly does it mean to 'travel' and what exactly is the art of it? As Alain De Botton points out in his book The Art Of Travel, if you say 'He journeyed through the afternoon' it's never quite as simple as that. It's never a straight, uncomplicated going from A to B, from one place to another. It's all the things in-between, all the unacknowledged if even tedious things that are done along the way whether it be on foot, by car, train or aeroplane. It's the showing of tickets or passports, the stopping off for a rest, a snack or for the toilet. It's the swatting away of a fly, an irritable itch, the sighting if even only briefly of faces and objects. Cursory glances, fleeting comments during brief encounters, and no end of thoughts, dreams and reveries passing through your head.

Then when you arrive at your destination, what is so very different about it from where you have left? Is it all just a shuffling of chairs, a movement of furniture and a change of temperature? As again De Botton points out when describing a holiday to Bermuda: 'I had inadvertently brought myself with me to the island.'

I'm not sure if it's still the same nowadays but when at the age of seventeen I set off on a trip around Europe and then down to Greece (a country then considered to be the half-way stop between the West and the East more than being European) it was whilst living on the island of Crete that I first came upon the notion that there was a difference between a traveller and a tourist. A tourist would typically have a date in mind as to when they'll be returning home, whilst a traveller had no such date and often no home to even return to. Would De Botton be aware of such a difference?

Alain De Botton is very well read and what he does in The Art Of Travel is to write about such people as John Ruskin, van Gogh, Wordsworth, Flaubert, Edward Hopper and Baudelaire in regard to their thoughts and relationships to travelling and then he applies his own thoughts and experiences to it. It's all good stuff without any question but there seems to be a certain element missing from it all and that's the lived experience of being a traveller rather than a tourist.

Has De Botton ever hung out with the hippies of Katmandu, or slept in the caves at Matala, or pitched up in Amsterdam looking for a squat to stay at with just the hope that it won't be too drug-devastated? Of course he hasn't. Not that there's any intrinsic value in these experiences but when you're writing about travelling rather than cheap holidays in other peoples misery then it probably counts for something at that point if no other.

De Botton has a background of wealth and privilege behind him alongside a healthy trust fund which means most of his life would have been a physically comfortable one. This doesn't of course make him exempt from having inner demons, in fact it's pretty apparent he has an abundance of them although one advantage of this is that they drive his writing. They're the engine behind his curiosity of the kind that gives him cause to wonder why he has a fascination with service stations, motels and airports? He finds an answer in the paintings of Edward Hopper. Why does the idea of travelling appeal? He finds an answer in Gaustave Flaubert. Apart from inner demons, what drives a curiosity about other places? He finds an answer in Alexander von Humboldlt.

A good education gives access to the art and the writings of such people whom De Botton discusses. A good education points you in the direction of where to look to both enhance or satisfy a curiosity. For those without that privilege, however, there is but the public library of old (or nowadays in more likelihood the Internet) and maybe a weeks holiday in Majorca to explore the world, sold by a picture seen in a brochure or on a web page of a palm tree on a beach. Or else there's the option of simply throwing yourself into the world to see what happens when you land. If you ever actually do land?

On reading The Art Of Travel, 'throwing yourself into the world' is something that may well have benefitted Alain De Botton far more than all the books he has read and all the paintings viewed. Or better still, to have combined both: For him to be well-educated, well-read and then to throw himself into the world with abandon. Letting go of his security and his metaphorical lifeboats. To sink or swim.

The Art Of Travel is a decent enough read but it's scraping the bottom of the barrel pickings when it comes to philosophical insights - and philosophy  is meant to be De Botton's forte. It's an assemblage of notions that aren't particularly earth-shattering, hung out and strung together between musings from various writers and poets and De Botton's interpretations of them in relationship to his own life. If travel is meant to broaden the mind then either De Brotten isn't doing enough of it or he's doing the wrong kind.

I'd suggest it was the latter and that he needs to shake off all this jetting off to the Sinai desert 'in order to be made to feel small', or driving down to Provence to spend a few days with friends in a farmhouse because he's not really getting much out of it when it comes to validity. Instead he should perhaps try a bit of hitch hiking, navigating the sexual advances of hairy lorry drivers and spending a few nights sleeping under hedges after nobody cares to stop to give him a lift when standing at the edge of a road at midnight. That would give him something to write home about, for sure.

John Serpico

It's The Truth - Making The Only Ones - Simon Wright

IT'S THE TRUTH - MAKING THE ONLY ONES -

SIMON WRIGHT

The Only Ones were a quintessential English rock'n'roll band and whilst vocalist Peter Perrett was so obviously influenced by Bob Dylan, that influence was thoroughly rinsed through deep layers of Englishness. In Simon Wright's book It's The Truth - Making The Only Ones, Perrett is quite open about his Dylan influence but he also mentions the influence of the Velvet Underground and their first album, on which Heroin is the first track on side 2...

Do you know those moments in conversations when there is sometimes a pregnant pause? Those moments when eyes meet and for a second lock on to each other as if the subtext of the conversation has suddenly been revealed and eyes are fleetingly meeting in recognition of this? Peter Perrett mentioning the Velvet Underground's first album with the first track (on side 2) being called 'Heroin' is one such moment. A moment when time suddenly stops and everything hangs suspended in mid-air. It's only ten pages into the book but it's almost as if the book should end right there.

When you think of The Only Ones you can't but help thinking of heroin and Peter Perrett's long love affair with it. The Only Ones were a functioning drug band with their most famous song, Another Girl Another Planet, being one of the most splendid odes to heroin ever recorded. Typically, Perrett denies the song is about heroin but then so did Lou Reed about Perfect Day and Hugh Cornwell about Golden Brown, although Perrett is happy to cite drugs as being the problem that led to The Only Ones breakup. Whatever. 

Heroin isn't cool, heroin isn't clever and taking heroin certainly isn't romantic but there's no denying that drug bands of certain denominations occupy significant places in the pantheon of rock'n'roll, and when it comes to The Only Ones their position is a pretty prominent one. 

Wright's book focuses on the formation and early days of The Only Ones up until the release of their debut album. It's a fan book, essentially, written by a fan for fans. I'm not sure, however, if it's been fully thought out as it comes across as not quite knowing where it's going and what its point is, though it does tend to make some interesting points and raise some interesting details.

Wright admits rather weirdly that the debut album on which the book focuses isn't even his favourite Only Ones LP and in his opinion the second album, Even Serpents Shine, offers a better selection of songs. So why not write a book covering all their output and the whole of their career rather than only up to the debut album? 

But back to the drugs. Prior to The Only Ones, Perrett played in a band called England's Glory whose debut album was made possible primarily due to the funds generated by Perrett's rapidly developing drug dealing business. So even before forming The Only Ones (inspired after witnessing the Sex Pistols at the Chelsea School of Art in December 1975) Perrett was not only a habitual user but an established dealer. 

Like calls to like, as any Zen Buddhist would know, and in their very early days The Only Ones caught the attention of Keith Richards who was particularly taken by their song 'Prisoners'. On hearing that Keith Richards rated them, Johnny Thunders paid them a visit and became friends with Perrett due to them 'sharing the same interests'. Richards was apparently interested in doing some production work with The Only Ones in the studio but in the end nothing came of it. Perrett did, however, go on to work with Thunders on his debut solo album, So Alone, providing guitar and backing vocals on some of the songs including You Can't Put Your Arms Around A Memory.

Keith Richards, Johnny Thunders, and Peter Perrett. A near-holy trinity of a very particular kind.

Whenever it comes to writing or talking about The Only Ones, the question always arises in regard to why they never achieved far greater commercial success than what they did, particularly with a song like Another Girl Another Planet in their roster? A song, of course, that some consider to be one of the greatest of all time. Simon Wright doesn't come up with any specific answers although in contrast to what Perrett says, he's in agreement with guitarist John Perry's assessment in that it had nothing to do with drugs. In comparison, he cites the Pretenders who have a variety of similarities with The Only Ones including not least the use of heroin within the band. Guitarist James Honeyman-Scott OD'd and bass player Pete Farndon was sacked for drug-related unreliability but this did nothing to deter or impinge upon the massive success the Pretenders achieved.

So why did The Only Ones split? John Perry suggests it was more down to maladministration, which is a bit of a boring reason but probably close to the truth. For all that, however, The Only Ones' legacy is a good one. Near-golden, in fact. Flawed but genius.

John Serpico