1. DEATHBLOG;

Well it’s happened again. I’ve got a couple of good weblog posts lined up for the next few weeks, and then I get to about page 12 of the free paper on the bus into work this morning, and……. wham, another sledgehammer.

Hunter S. Thompson, R.I.P.

Characteristically, It sounds like it was pretty messy too.

As ever, I don’t really know what to say in the face of the death of someone I never met, but who nevertheless has had a huge influence on my life. “Massive influence..?” Well, yeah, I guess so. I’ve been reading the good doctor’s books and dispatches consistently since the age of 16, and pretty much from the first paragraph he established himself as one of the ever diminishing pantheon of larger than life cultural heroes who I always feel are fighting my corner, reporting back on the world in a way I can understand, and responding to it in the only sane way possible.

He probably made me laugh out loud more frequently than any other author. People say his writing style is a cliché, and they’re right, but fuck them – they’re probably the same people who say that rock n’ roll is a cliché. They’ve thought too hard and don’t understand the importance of energy, and of sound and fury and self-evident truths, and these are the things that HST put across in words on a page better than anyone.

It’ll be a damn shame though if he’s remembered solely as the Dr. Gonzo persona immortalised by Johnny Depp in the movie, because aside from all the (admittedly brilliant) gooning around and tall tales and self-aggrandisement (and the ensuing canonisation by generations of twattish journalism students), let us not forget what a stunningly powerful writer he was. As a young man, before the journalism and the drugs, HST was obsessed with driving himself, through hard graft and tough living, to write the Great American Novel, going as far as to retype the whole of the Great Gatsby word for word in the hope that some of the secrets of that book’s power would rub off on him, buried deep in the sentence construction and the rhythms of the writing. The best immediate result of that period was ‘The Rum Diary’, which is pretty good, but the true legacy of it can be seen throughout his later work – no matter how crazed or fragmentary it gets, the punch-to-the-gut force and beauty of Fitzgerald or Hemingway or Nelson Algren is always there, capable of giving you a good gasp or shiver when you least expect it. You’re also missing the point if you think the subjects of Thompson’s writing were anything less than deadly serious, just because he ditched pompous solemnity and revelled instead in the grotesque absurdity of the shit that runs our world.

I see that people are already writing off the death as the natural culmination of his gonzo-maniac persona, and some guy was quoted in the bit I read in the paper saying “this is sad, but predictable”. How fucking callous… most of the stuck-up tits of the ‘literary establishment’ will no doubt shrug their shoulders at the idea of some famous drug-munching goon shooting his head off, but let’s try and remember this as what it is – the violent and untimely death of a masterful writer, and a great journalist and a tireless campaigner for the cause of all that’s right and true.

If you look back a few months in this weblog’s archives, you’ll find a link to what I guess must be one of Hunter S. Thompson’s last published pieces – his pre-election address to the nation in Rolling Stone. It’s a great, uncompromising bit of writing, but in view of subsequent events, unbearably depressing.

Thompson throws himself fully behind Kerry in a surprisingly affirmative fashion, and tears Bush to pieces so virulently it makes his famous characterisations of Nixon look affectionate.

Having spent the best part of his life chronicling its agonising death-throes, he declares that a Bush victory would mark the final demise of the American Dream. This time it’s do or die, he says in effect - do the right thing or all hope is gone.

So here we are then – the last custodian of the American Dream has declared it dead and blown his brains out.

We live in dark times indeed.

And the Mt Olympus frequented by my living literary heroes is starting to look pretty lonely as well. I think poor Kurt Vonnegut is wandering around on his own up there, looking for someone to talk to. Somebody, anybody, PLEASE write a mindblowing, inspiring book that really kicks out the jams – give him some company. Please Mr. Publishing Man, can we have some GOOD BOOKS again…?

But that’s a rant for another day. For now;

Dr. Thompson, Raoul Duke, Dr. Gonzo, the Mighty Lono, the Mayor of Fat City – R.I.P.




If you’ve never read it, I insist you go and plough your way through ‘The Great Shark Hunt’ in tribute. Now.



2. ONE WORD;

A couple of years ago I borrowed a copy of Low’s ‘Things We Lost in the Fire’ from a friend, having not heard anything by them before (I think the name kind of put me off for a while). So I stuck it on, and heard the band’s justly celebrated male/female harmony vocals launch into;

“When they found your body,
giant answers on your eyes”

And I instantly ceased whatever it was I was doing at the time and froze, struck by perhaps the most stunning opening lines to a song I’d ever heard.

A couple of days ago, I went to see Low play in Wolverhampton, and they came back on for the encore and did ‘Sunflowers’, and through the louder and clearer sound provided by a concert, and the ever-so-slightly-different pronunciation of a live performance, I distinctly made out;

“When they found your body,
giant X’s on your eyes”

It’s still a great song, but it’s not quite the same anymore.

Aside from that though, it was a suitably stunning performance – the beauty of the sounds Low make, both vocal and instrumental, instantly sets them apart as something special, and the intensity they invest in their music makes them even more so. The new material sounded superb – not as bitter or angry as lazy pre-release press has suggested, but just strong, striking, defiant songs that, unlike some of their previous work, refuse to play nice or fade into the background. Really, really brilliant.

3. MAGAZINE WHORING UPDATE;

I’m informed that the third issue of Beard magazine is going to the presses as we speak. It’s a terrific little publication, and this issue promises to be the best one yet. And I’m not just saying that because they let me write stuff and do stupid drawings. Hit the ‘Beard’ link to your right and find out how to get yourself a copy. Oh, go on, do.

The new Plan B is out too of course, and this time even my local HMV has copies of it, so you’ve got no excuse for not checking it out. It’s a great issue too – it’s really finding its feet as a more varied and accessible magazine for people outside the Everett True / Careless Talk.. ghetto, but without sacrificing any of the quality of writing or presentation. The films, books, art etc. sections at the back are getting bigger and more worthwhile, which is good to see, and obviously all the star writers and illustrators are still kicking ass re: the music content.

I’d imagine there must have been some heated exchanges (probably still going on – I haven’t had a chance to check the messageboards) over the decision to put Smoosh (a band consisting of two 12 year old girls) on the cover. I’m kind of in two minds about it I guess – from a purely artistic point of view, why the hell not? Is our culture really over-sensitive to the extent that a perfectly normal and harmless decision like this is automatically seen as weird and note-worthy and a point of controversy? Well if so, it shouldn’t be, so fuck it, who cares – good move.
But from a more practical perspective, for a magazine that needs to establish itself as a valid contender for shelf space amid all the crap, ‘weird’ and slightly ‘unsettling’ cover choices aren’t going to help matters in terms of attracting distribution or new readers.

As for the band itself, I guess it’s pretty much the natural culmination of the Langley Schools Music Project / ‘childlike’ naive music worshipping indie-pop mindset to start championing bands who actually ARE children… and whilst I can’t actually come up with a valid objection, I can’t shake the vague feeling in the back of my brain that it’s all somehow, well, wrong on some level…

Why though? Hmm… let’s have a bit of a think about this; I guess I’ve always thought the poignancy of people like Daniel Johnson comes partly from the fact that they obviously want to recapture the innocence of childlike thought processes, but it’s inherent that they CAN’T – they’ve grown up, and they’ve got to face the grown-up world – hence the sadness behind all that stuff. But a certain section of the naive pop audience seems determined to take things several stages further, into the realm of searching for music to help them actively regress to a childhood state for it’s own sake, and – with no disrespect to the band themselves – Smoosh on the cover of Plan B is the natural conclusion of this, and it’s an attitude that I can’t really relate to.. it just seems slightly weird to me. The very nature of innocence is that it can’t be recovered, y’know? That’s kind of the point. Listen to ‘Sugar Mountain’ by Neil Young, have a good cry, and move on.

Or alternatively, counter-argument;

A re-reading of Everett True’s Smoosh cover feature swiftly reveals that he’s sensibly kept the childhood-worshipping stuff to a minimum, and instead focused on Smoosh’s qualities as a good, intelligent and interesting band regardless of their age, and they indeed come across as such. So fair enough I guess – no complaints here. I’ll withdraw the above as a personal opinion, but post it anyway cos I think it’s still an interesting argument.

Crikey, how did I get on to all that?

Well anyway, buy Plan B, it’s great.