The book launch went well, the people that came along seemed to enjoy themselves. There was a good atmosphere and feel to the place, and I'd like to thank all those who came along. Reading extracts from the book was a bit nervy, but a good time was had by all.
The gig I played with Gary Bushell's Gonads last Friday in Mansfield was a good time, (no money though, so nothing has changed there) long time since I've played the punk drumming though.
Gary turned up at my launch, as did John King, my publisher Martin, along with other good people and my old friends. Thanks for your support, best Pete
Saturday, 15 December 2007
Monday, 26 November 2007
The Book: God's Lonely Men
My book, God’s Lonely Men has come out - finally. What a palaver!
Anyway, it can be ordered from almost anywhere and bought off the internet, i.e., Tesco Books online and Amazon etc; in the next week Paul Kelly who does my website will be putting something up on it about buying the book direct from Paul and me. I’ve got to say I feel embarrassed, if it was fiction I wouldn’t feel that it was so personal, but the people that I’ve spoken to about it have told me not to worry. I’d like to thank the people involved who helped put it together and the people who have contacted me about the book who have been very supportive; just to let you know that I appreciate it.
Hope the people who buy the book like it; it’s not Harry Potter so there won’t be mid-night queues of young people outside book shops wanting to be first in getting their hands on it, but all the same I hope it means something to the people who read it. Best, Pete
Anyway, it can be ordered from almost anywhere and bought off the internet, i.e., Tesco Books online and Amazon etc; in the next week Paul Kelly who does my website will be putting something up on it about buying the book direct from Paul and me. I’ve got to say I feel embarrassed, if it was fiction I wouldn’t feel that it was so personal, but the people that I’ve spoken to about it have told me not to worry. I’d like to thank the people involved who helped put it together and the people who have contacted me about the book who have been very supportive; just to let you know that I appreciate it.
Hope the people who buy the book like it; it’s not Harry Potter so there won’t be mid-night queues of young people outside book shops wanting to be first in getting their hands on it, but all the same I hope it means something to the people who read it. Best, Pete
Sunday, 12 August 2007
'Jam' man
Jam Man.
I went to a pub recently that has a ‘jam’ night, half thinking that I might have a go on the drums, but when getting there I realised that it wasn’t as ‘open’ as I supposed an ‘open’ night to be. It is a particular culture that in a way has amused me, and others I am sure, because of there being a predominant style amongst many who attend such things to identify with Americana yet clutch onto things that they believe to be ‘very English.’ I have found them quick to compromise in their acceptance of the spoon fed diet of ‘rebel’ ‘rack n’ roll’ fantasy world and quick to condemn the voice from the margins that actually does ‘rebel’ and often holds a mirror up to the values that are commonly accepted.
The provincial mind has come of age; cover band cretins abound. The ‘X Factor’ and all the other karaoke type of television programmes have prepared a dumb culture where many have a wish to aspire to the mediocre. It’s safe, of course, it’s predictable and it’s bloody boring, and the pony tailed ‘rocker’ extols ‘the blues’ in pubs that are empty until ‘the jam’ starts. The event is often advertised on boards outside the pub doorway, an admission to the dreary depths that the barren establishment has fallen to. The ‘bar’ fills to it’s normal congregation of being quarter full, and in walks those who watch others with a resentment and competitive eye. The lined faces of the ‘hardened’ blues men show years of dissatisfaction, a guitar case propped between their knees, a cola drink on a table in front of them, ready to play and sing a wail on mourning and songs that depict a life of sour mash whiskey and wanton women.
Being a drummer in a punk group many years back to a time when the face of the ‘blues rocker’ would crease in repugnance at the word ‘punk,’ I remember very clearly how adventurous and accepting to new ideas the ‘blues rocker’ was. I found them to be more narrow minded and fearful of difference than the people that they declared their venom against, these being the people who were seen by them to be ‘pop’ fans and musicians in ‘commercial’ groups, and those liking ‘black’ dance and pop music from the reggae to funk and the other styles that were deemed ‘straight’ by people who I have found to be among the most conservative that I have come across. The ‘weekend rebel’ acting at being ‘radical’ wearing the name of the ‘band’ on the tee shirt that gets washed and ironed and put in the drawer, has in my experience always held that patronising, snobby and condescending view of others with their musical taste; and that snobbery is all to do with fear that is borne on ignorance, and it is a common condition in the provincial mind.
The new ‘punk’ fashion pushed aside and ridiculed middle class English people speaking in an American slur and took themselves too seriously as they bathed in a provincial comfort zone being idolised by a girlfriend and a bunch of incestuous types.
As I was standing in the pub that night I thought of a play that I wrote called Leachfield that deals with a lot of this stuff. I mean good luck to people who want to come out and have a play; but I have all too often found it a humourless affair with many of the participants having had an irony bypass when their personality was being engineered.
Resistant to ‘outside’ involvement the main ‘players’ congregate by the side of the stage spending an inordinate amount of time tuning up before stuttering into a lifeless rendition of an overplayed song, wearing expressions on their faces that I am sure they imagine would fit into a ‘bar’ somewhere in the ‘southern states’ where they play the Delta blues.
Nowadays there is a greater eclecticism thrown into the music mix, but the unimaginative personality continues to exist. I looked across at the chalkboard, half hoping to see names like Big Bum Griffis, Slow Hand Sam, Blind Balls Baker – or something like that. I turned and caught sight of my reflection in the mirror behind the bar, ‘what are you sneering at?’ I said to myself; music accommodates all types, but this type of thing isn’t for me. So I took a quick look at the overweight bloke who was looking at me from the mirror and I went somewhere else for a drink – with a rendering of a REM hit having just finished that reminded me of a country and western song, and as I walked across the car park I was sure that I heard strains of that bloody Mustang Sally behind me.
I went to a pub recently that has a ‘jam’ night, half thinking that I might have a go on the drums, but when getting there I realised that it wasn’t as ‘open’ as I supposed an ‘open’ night to be. It is a particular culture that in a way has amused me, and others I am sure, because of there being a predominant style amongst many who attend such things to identify with Americana yet clutch onto things that they believe to be ‘very English.’ I have found them quick to compromise in their acceptance of the spoon fed diet of ‘rebel’ ‘rack n’ roll’ fantasy world and quick to condemn the voice from the margins that actually does ‘rebel’ and often holds a mirror up to the values that are commonly accepted.
The provincial mind has come of age; cover band cretins abound. The ‘X Factor’ and all the other karaoke type of television programmes have prepared a dumb culture where many have a wish to aspire to the mediocre. It’s safe, of course, it’s predictable and it’s bloody boring, and the pony tailed ‘rocker’ extols ‘the blues’ in pubs that are empty until ‘the jam’ starts. The event is often advertised on boards outside the pub doorway, an admission to the dreary depths that the barren establishment has fallen to. The ‘bar’ fills to it’s normal congregation of being quarter full, and in walks those who watch others with a resentment and competitive eye. The lined faces of the ‘hardened’ blues men show years of dissatisfaction, a guitar case propped between their knees, a cola drink on a table in front of them, ready to play and sing a wail on mourning and songs that depict a life of sour mash whiskey and wanton women.
Being a drummer in a punk group many years back to a time when the face of the ‘blues rocker’ would crease in repugnance at the word ‘punk,’ I remember very clearly how adventurous and accepting to new ideas the ‘blues rocker’ was. I found them to be more narrow minded and fearful of difference than the people that they declared their venom against, these being the people who were seen by them to be ‘pop’ fans and musicians in ‘commercial’ groups, and those liking ‘black’ dance and pop music from the reggae to funk and the other styles that were deemed ‘straight’ by people who I have found to be among the most conservative that I have come across. The ‘weekend rebel’ acting at being ‘radical’ wearing the name of the ‘band’ on the tee shirt that gets washed and ironed and put in the drawer, has in my experience always held that patronising, snobby and condescending view of others with their musical taste; and that snobbery is all to do with fear that is borne on ignorance, and it is a common condition in the provincial mind.
The new ‘punk’ fashion pushed aside and ridiculed middle class English people speaking in an American slur and took themselves too seriously as they bathed in a provincial comfort zone being idolised by a girlfriend and a bunch of incestuous types.
As I was standing in the pub that night I thought of a play that I wrote called Leachfield that deals with a lot of this stuff. I mean good luck to people who want to come out and have a play; but I have all too often found it a humourless affair with many of the participants having had an irony bypass when their personality was being engineered.
Resistant to ‘outside’ involvement the main ‘players’ congregate by the side of the stage spending an inordinate amount of time tuning up before stuttering into a lifeless rendition of an overplayed song, wearing expressions on their faces that I am sure they imagine would fit into a ‘bar’ somewhere in the ‘southern states’ where they play the Delta blues.
Nowadays there is a greater eclecticism thrown into the music mix, but the unimaginative personality continues to exist. I looked across at the chalkboard, half hoping to see names like Big Bum Griffis, Slow Hand Sam, Blind Balls Baker – or something like that. I turned and caught sight of my reflection in the mirror behind the bar, ‘what are you sneering at?’ I said to myself; music accommodates all types, but this type of thing isn’t for me. So I took a quick look at the overweight bloke who was looking at me from the mirror and I went somewhere else for a drink – with a rendering of a REM hit having just finished that reminded me of a country and western song, and as I walked across the car park I was sure that I heard strains of that bloody Mustang Sally behind me.
Saturday, 19 May 2007
Standards
Saw a programme on the television the other night, a documentary about the conditions that women live under in Afghanistan; they have been let down by the so called ‘West,’ and as it is for most ordinary people had the piss taken out of them. It’s cruel, grim and all the other words we can use to try and explain the way we treat each other.And the F. A. Cup Final was today, a game where many of the real fans can’t go and see, they’ve been let down and they’re also having the piss taken out of them. I read the price of the programme is £10; the fans of the game should boycott the whole thing. If I was going to spend £10 on a programme I’d stop myself, and if I had that £10 to spare I would rather send it to the woman in Afghanistan who was featured in the documentary, if I could that is – call me naive, but it’s a disgrace.
Thursday, 10 May 2007
God's Lonely Men: the book to be released August/September
Hello, with a bit of luck my first book will be published in August/September by Headhunter Books. Everything is signed and underway so hopefully it will go to plan. I wrote to Stuart Pearce, the ex England football manager and present mnager/coach of Manchester City the other week. The reason why I did this is because Stuart is a punk rock fan and came to see The Lurkers play, a punk group that I used to be the drummer with, back in the days when Fred Flintstone took Dino for a walk. I met Stuart at a television studio eight or so years back and was surprised how he was still enthusiastic about his music.
Well, my phone rang yesterday and when I answered it there was the voice of Stuart Pearce, he told me that he had read my letter explaining that I had written a book about The Lurkers, being an 'outsider' and of my view of things around punk. Stuart told me that he would read the book and wished me the best of luck; which I told him the same. Pleasant person; it's nice when you bump into people who have a regard for people and things when they have achieved a status that many in the same position wouldn't bother with if it didn't gain them anything. Still, there you have it, best to all out there in 'blogland.'
Well, my phone rang yesterday and when I answered it there was the voice of Stuart Pearce, he told me that he had read my letter explaining that I had written a book about The Lurkers, being an 'outsider' and of my view of things around punk. Stuart told me that he would read the book and wished me the best of luck; which I told him the same. Pleasant person; it's nice when you bump into people who have a regard for people and things when they have achieved a status that many in the same position wouldn't bother with if it didn't gain them anything. Still, there you have it, best to all out there in 'blogland.'
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