Bibliography 15

 “Diary of a Bookseller” – Shaun Bythell

It seems I’ve read a ton of autobiographies this summer: Elton John’s Me, Tina Turner’s My Love Story, Stewart Copeland’s Strange Things Happen. I also read a bio of Freddie Mercury and Chris Heath’s fly-on-the-wall account of life with Robbie Williams. If you see a theme here, you’re right on the mark—the rock stars who have provided the soundtrack to my life are telling their stories and I’m devouring them. Each of the aforementioned is a worthy read. As laugh out loud funny as Copeland’s brash American POV is, Dame Elton’s voice is particularly enjoyable for its honesty and humour; the British tendency toward self-deprecation is as hilarious as it is harrowing ... which leads me to the subject of this post.

Shaun Bythell is a fellow from Scotland who returned to his hometown in 2001 and somehow ended up buying a used bookshop. At one point, given the daily dramas encountered with quirky staff and regular customers, not to mention the antics of rogue patrons as observed from behind the counter, he decided to keep a diary, the end result of which was first published in 2017 as Diary of a Bookseller.

It may be a keeper. The copy I read was loaned to me by a friend and I’m unsure if I will purchase my own, though after reading Shaun’s experience with online selling and the insatiable monster that is Amazon, I feel somewhat compelled to support the bookselling industry by amassing as many hard copies as possible, even if I don’t have room for more than a hundred volumes in my reduced living space. That’s one reason why I have a Kindle—I’ve been seduced into the space-saving advantage of e-books even though the original hype of “books at lower cost” is no longer true. These days a new release download costs the same as the paperback edition; the primary bonus to the buyer is the convenience of an entire library contained on a device the size of a drugstore pocket book. Only thinner.

I digress.

This is a great book for those moments “in between”: when waiting for tea to steep, my hair to dry, or Ter to get her shoes on. If I had a half-hour to spare, I’d pick it up and read a few entries. Some are longer than others, as is the way of diaries. Some days are busier than others. If nothing else, the overall glimpse into the world of used bookselling, particularly in a small town, gave me a greater appreciation for the stalwart souls determined to endure in a world of on demand print, cutthroat competition and online conglomerates. Or impossible customers, come to that. I try to be pleasant with store clerks, recognizing that dealing with random members of the public is hard work. Not everyone shares my perspective. The beauty of this book is that the author, who could easily swing from objective to objectionable, simply notes the customer’s tone and general mien during any exchange. Rarely does he descend to disparaging criticism of any individual, no matter how appalling the individual’s attitude. The echo of his inside voice is tempered by diplomacy for the PG-13 audience while being, in my opinion, completely justified. Oh, some incidents are hysterical.

The funniest observations, however, are of his staff, particularly his regular (opposed to seasonal) employee, who gives as good as she gets both to her boss and to the customers. It’s a slice-of-life-in-a-small-town story as much as a view from behind the counter. My overall impression is that bookselling is not to be undertaken lightly. It takes a special breed to take up the profession ... but if you’re not worried about making ends meet and have the people skills to manage characters too colourful to be invented, then selling used books might be the job for you.

The Heavy Entertainer

I’ve just read Chris Heath’s Reveal, a fly-on-the-wall biography of singer Robbie Williams during the years between 2011 and 2016. The author is clearly a friend of the artist, entrusted with access to friends, family and colleagues, yet expected to be truthful in the recounting and honest with his own opinions regarding whatever is happening at the time.

It’s a fascinating read, really well-written, though it helps that I’ve been a huge RW fan for years. The man is a complicated set of individuals for sure, but he is also uncannily self-aware. This makes him alternately brilliant, frustrating, scattered, single-minded, hilarious, enraged, thoughtful, reckless, remorseful, insecure, and astonishingly adept at channelling his inner neuroses into charismatic swagger on stage. He’s quick with a story (sometimes unwisely), but he is unfailingly honest. And people don’t know how to react when a public figure is so relentlessly, well, public. So you either love him or you hate him; it seems there’s no middle ground, and the man himself seems prone to one or the other extreme on any given day.

I don’t remember where I first heard of him; I think it was when his single Millenium was released in the 1990s. Back when MuchMusic actually played music videos, his clip for Feel appeared in the Daily Top 10 for weeks. What a wonderful, powerful song. When something so magical hits me, I tend to get obsessive about the artist. I loved it then and I love it now, though he has released countless tunes in its wake that are equally compelling in a variety of ways.

The guy can sing anything. His two swing albums are maybe my favourites, but there are no throwaways on The Heavy Entertainment Show—I guess you can call it a pop album, but there’s rock and soul on it as well. It’s loaded with irony, sarcasm, sincerity, love, hope, humour, catchy riffs, rhythmic hooks, and asks the question: why should he go away? A lot of people really dislike him, and yes, he’s courted animosity in the past, but really, is it fair to decry a talent so epic in scope? Only if one envies it, methinks.

It’s remarkable to me, reading this book and listening to these albums, that the man at the forefront is so different from the man behind the music. I recognize humility in so much of what he does, yet there are moments during his show when he struts as cockily as they come. And that’s the other remarkable thing: he hasn’t cracked America. He lives in LA, but I don’t think he’s toured the States. Truly, I haven’t investigated that far, but Chris Heath also wrote a book in 2004 called Feel which allegedly chronicles RW’s pursuit of fame in the promised land and it is most definitely next on my reading list.

One final note. The UK press seem to loathe him for being consistently successful (we can’t count Rudebox, and he doesn’t, either), as if pop stars are by law restricted to a limited shelf life. I am less inclined to consider Robbie Williams a pop star than he is an entertainer of the old school variety. He gives it everything he’s got and takes nothing for granted.

Good on you, Rob. And thank you.

Mercury in Retrograde

Though I am a Queen fan, I don’t consider myself to be a Queen fan. Not truly; not like someone who has followed the band from the beginning and has every album they ever made. Nope, I’m what’s known as a casual fan. Queen is featured on my life’s soundtrack, but not the way Duran Duran or Def Leppard are. Queen were red hot when I was a pre-teen, so of course I knew of them. I just didn’t know about them.

My older sister introduced me to them simply by asking one night in 1973 if I’d heard the song with the opera chops on our Top 40 radio station. I hadn’t, but since I shared a room with both sisters and my elder tended to switch on the radio when she came to bed after the wee ʼun and me, it was inevitable that I would hear “Bohemian Rhapsody”.

It took me years to figure out that the band responsible for those opera chops was the same band who’d done “Killer Queen” (which I actually liked better), and whose name was—huh?—Queen. They were strange and wonderful and Elton John was my favourite artist at the time, so while I couldn’t help but be aware of Queen, I owned none of their albums and bought none of their singles. I just liked it when I heard them on the radio.

“Somebody to Love”

“You’re My Best Friend”

“Bicycle Race”

Freddie Mercury’s voice was captivating in that one-in-a-million manner; you knew it when you heard it, and the things he did with it were remarkable. I had no idea what he or his colleagues looked like because rock videos as we know them didn’t exist in the 1970s. I only knew their sound. Since I was a kid who collected Elton and America albums, over-overdubbed Queen was apparently not going to win space in my record collection.

Which was okay. I had to mature before I could fully appreciate the intricacies and nuances of both the music and the vocals. Maybe they had to strip their sound, too, because the first Queen album I bought was The Game, featuring lots of bass and Freddie’s off the cuff delivery of “Another One Bites the Dust”. Then, the 80s happened. I became a young adult as Queen’s star began its descent, due in part (so legend has it) to the video for “I Want to Break Free” but probably more because they were an older band and the new wave was happening.

That’s why I didn’t take particular notice of their iconic Live Aid performance on July 13, 1985: I was waiting to see Duran Duran. When I heard a few years later that Freddie was ill, I was saddened by the prospect of the world losing such a charismatic talent. Freddie was more than a rock singer. He was a rock star.

When he died in 1991, I fell in line with industry marketing and bought up the collections. Classic Queen I, Classic Queen II, Queen’s Greatest Hits – and the utterly fabulous, my hands-down favourite, Innuendo. I guess when he learned his time was limited, Fred threw himself into recording as many tracks as he could, and he didn’t hold back. His work on that album is wrenching. Powerful. Tender. Funny. Courageous. Wistful.

Magical.

It seems timely to say all this now, after the much-hyped movie’s success and the Academy Award going to the actor who portrayed him in it. I may not have been present in Queen’s heyday, but I’m grateful for the technological marvels that enable me to catch up on what I missed the first, and even the second, time around. Thanks to Bohemian Rhapsody and Rami Malek’s stunning performance, Queen and Freddie Mercury have come around again.

Long—live—Queen.

“Alfie the Christmas Tree”

This year I wanted to write a meaningful piece for Christmas Eve; something wondrous and magical that reflects the spirit of the season. Alas, nothing original came—but I remembered a poem that was written by the late John Denver and performed on a TV special with the Muppets many years ago (John Denver and the Muppets: A Christmas Together). I’m unsure that it’s as powerful in writing as it was when he read it aloud, but the sentiment speaks to my wish for the holiday this year, so I thought I’d share.

Merry Christmas, with love.

* * *

Did you ever hear the story of the Christmas tree that didn’t want to change the show?

He liked living in the wood, he liked icicles and snow.

He liked wolves and eagles and grizzly bears, and critters and creatures that crawl.

Why, bugs were some of his very best friends, spiders and ants and all.

Now that’s not to say that he ever looked down on twinkle lights

Or mirrored bubbles and peppermint canes and a thousand other delights,

And he often had dreams of tiny reindeer and a jolly old man in a sleigh

Full of toys and presents and wonderful things, and the story of Christmas Day.

Oh, Alfie believed in Christmas, all right. He was full of Christmas cheer

All of each and every day, all throughout the year.

To him it was more than a special time, much more than a special day.

It was more than a beautiful story; it was a special kind of way.

You see, some folks have never heard a jingle bell ring and they’ve never heard of Santa Claus.

They’ve never heard the story of the Son of God, and that made Alfie pause:

Did that mean that they’d never know of peace on earth or the brotherhood of man,

Or how to love or know how to give? If they can’t, no one can.

You see, life is a very special kind of thing, not just for a chosen few,

But for each and every living breathing thing, not just me and you.

So in your Christmas prayers this year, Alfie asked me if I’d ask you

To say a prayer for the wind and the water and the wood—and those who live there too.

A Creative Life

I am eternally curious about the lives of entertainers. Rock stars, film stars, artists, writers and architects, if there’s a biography on film, I am likely to watch it. Documentaries are fine, but the best ones are those compiled from the artist’s own words, from interviews and articles and performance clips. Naturally, someone whose work I admire is a draw, but I am equally intrigued by the life of someone whose career played in my periphery—David Bowie, for example. “The Last Five Years” of his life was utterly absorbing. I came away with a strong sense of his individuality and his determination to preserve that individuality by reinventing himself with every project. He was brilliant. Not at all tragic, just brilliant.

Mind you, he lived to a fairly ripe old age before cancer took him out. The ones who die young seem to be more tragic, probably because we tend to lament the work they might have done even as we celebrate the work they did. Often, those young ones lived hard, deeply troubled lives and checked out early (either deliberately or accidentally) because celebrity only amplifies what already exists. People like Amy Winehouse and Kurt Cobain were doomed before they started. Fame made it worse for them. Then there were Prince and Michael Jackson, twin geniuses in crippling physical pain, who succumbed in one form or another to the drugs prescribed to alleviate it. Even Chris Cornell’s lifelong struggle with depression must have hastened his end.

Then there was Heath Ledger. Young, strong, successful, talented—and dead at twenty-eight. Surely a tragedy lurked somewhere in his life, right?

Wrong.

I sat down to watch the documentary “I Am Heath Ledger” with the expectation of a common thread that would link him to other famous figures whose lives were cut too short. A dysfunctional family, substance abuse, or maybe some childhood trauma that he never got over; surely something pushed him beyond the brink. But, no. He was a happy kid, a good brother, a loyal friend, a determined actor, a gifted director (he shot music videos for friends in the biz), and was making plans far into the future when his light went out.

And what a light it was. His buddies reminisced about his energy, one even wondered aloud how he could sustain so bright a burn. Another mentioned how strangely aware of mortality he was, how he kept saying he had so much to do and limited time in which to do it. He had known from the start that he would be an actor, and he worked steadily toward it, but he remembered his friends and family along the way. He was warm and generous and loving, and asked nothing in return. It seemed to me that this intense and inherently good soul was operating on a level the majority of us never reach.

The one thing that pinged was his trouble sleeping. When I heard that, I thought of Michael Jackson—there was the common thread. A bright, intense white light, snuffed before the rest of us were ready by prescription drugs and a flu bug that got in the way. A truly tragic accidental death.

Celebrity death is traumatic because our icons are supposed to be immortal. Truth is, they are immortal. Look at the legacy of everyone mentioned in this post. None of them is truly gone when the spirit in their work lives on. I was not so big a fan of Heath Ledger that I followed every move or saw every film he made—but “A Knight’s Tale” is one of my favourites and without him, it wouldn’t be.

Idle Thoughts

One week off is not enough.

Hands up, everyone who’s surprised.

I doubted this would be news.

Truly, I am grateful to have had the time to be Ru. Though I didn’t get everything done that I wanted, everything I did I wanted to do.

I went back to Castasia. I finished the story about Lucius’s twin sister—I started it months ago, so it was good to wrap it up at last—and began another one about his youth, this one from his foster father’s POV and why he (Lucius) went into exile. Geez, this character is a goldmine; I could write Lucius stories forever and never run out of episodes. His influence is so powerful that he even owns the ones that aren’t about him!

I also embarked on a refresh of Orphan Black so I’m primed for season four (expected for my birthday)—no time for a marathon, but I got in a few episodes of season three. I remain an ardent fan of the series. It gets better and better.

And I finally watched the documentary about the late Amy Winehouse that won an Oscar last spring. I could have been a fan if she had been allowed to follow her bliss rather than her path—I had not known she started as a jazz singer before her career went supernova and she went the tragic way of many a broken child whose solace became her undoing. Her story, unfortunately, was the same as too many others—Billie Holliday, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain to name a few—but in a way it was worse for her because of the relentless media exposure. She wasn’t free to conquer her demons in private. She was forced to do it publicly, because that’s what the public demanded though her battle was deeply personal. As in “none of our business”, yet it became big business for the media. And how quickly the applause turned to derision! Get famous enough in this world and you’re doomed no matter how talented you are.

Her version of “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow” is sublime.

Enjoy.

Sinatra Style

Ter and I once lived above a guy who loved Frank. On Sunday afternoons, he would crank up the stereo and we would hear Ol’ Blue Eyes crooning “Strangers in the Night” beneath our feet:

“Do bee do bee do, de doobee da da …”

Drove us crazy at the time. Now it’s hilarious.

At work, I often stream the “Sinatra Style” channel at jazzradio.com. Aside from lovin’ the groove, these classic tunes provide fodder for my imagination and thus for Diva excerpts while I’m coding invoices or cleaning up my files. Frank isn’t the only vocalist on this channel, but he pops up quite frequently. Who knew that his catalogue was so extensive? I rarely hear the same track twice!

Last week, for the first time in my reckoning, “Strangers in the Night” was played. Uh oh, I thought, get out of the office before he forgets the lyrics. I speedily hit “print” on a dozen documents and made my escape while the words still made sense.

Victory!

Except that some fluky recall function had me spending the rest of the day looping “do bee do bee do, de doobee da da” until I thought I would lose my mind. Drove me crazy.

Someday, it’ll be hilarious.

LeBon Homie

With John Taylor’s birthday as an excuse, I pulled out a couple of Duran Duran albums to play over the weekend. I could have gone, like, totally retro and played Rio, Seven and the Ragged Tiger, or even the jazz/funk Notorious and been happy, but I chose Astronaut—otherwise known as “The Original Five Reunion Album”. For one thing, any of JT’s killer basslines sound fa-boo-lus on the Tiguan’s kickass stereo, and for another, well, the twisted wordsmith in me has always loved Simon LeBon’s way with a lyric and he wrote a couple of dandies when O5 got back together in 2005.

I’ve always considered him to be a poet rather than a lyricist, and while I admit that his distinctive vocal style (some call it “whiny”) can be annoying, he’s a master at using his voice to convey the mood of the song. He once said that his job as a poet is to knock holes in the wall between the conscious and the subconscious without breaching said wall. That way, the darker aspects of human nature are allowed to leak into the light and be dispelled in relative safety. He can write hit radio candy, but from the beginning of the band’s career, his lyrics often took the typical “boy wants girl” theme to a deeper, more contemplative place. As he progressed, his scope naturally widened to reflect social issues and a more mature attitude to romance, but he never lost his ability to have fun.

I can’t pick a favourite track from Astronaut—there are too many goodies in the bag—but I truly love “Bedroom Toys”. It’s a weird, warped lyric in keeping with DD’s renowned love of “artistic smut”, and SLB sings it with a genuinely playful humour. I laughed out loud when I first heard it and even now, ten years later, it’s worth cranking up and singing along.

DD is and has been my all time feel good band; I cannot be depressed when listening to them, for which I am eternally grateful. Paper Gods, their 14^th studio album, is due for release in September—too late to be a birthday present, alas—and as devoted as I am to the bass player, I am eagerly anticipating what SLB brings to this party.

I Want to be Evil

Many Christmases ago, a couple of friends and I lip-synced to Eartha Kitt singing “Santa Baby” at a church talent show. This bit of innocent fun was rewarded with a typhoon of a scandal when the elders in the audience mistook us for high-priced call girls—we were actually pretending to be greedy little rich girls, but it’s in the mind of the beholder.

If we could stir up a bee’s nest with a silly Christmas song, imagine the damage we could have done if we’d known about this one! We’d have surely been labeled Satanists and immediately enrolled in exorcism therapy.

Ter said later that we might have avoided the uproar if we had dressed as hobos. Was I sorry? Heck, no. But I lost a lot of respect for the men who saw something that wasn’t in the sketch …