We
are legion – those who, for whatever reason, have a handy
compendium of easily digestible chapters on or adjacent to our coffee
table, night stand or nightsoil disposal unit. The Meaning of Liff,
Does Anything Eat Wasps, All These Little Pieces,
any number of amusing anthologies of readers’ letters (until you
realise that Telegraph readers aren’t doing it in a sense of irony
or mildly-detached whimsy, they really are
that bonkers) and/or Dear Mr. Kershaw, a collection of notes sent to
musicians purportedly from a Mr. Derek Philpott questioning the logic
and syntax of various lyrics. Julianne Regan, I recall was a
particularly good sport regarding the perceived inconsistencies
contained within Martha’s
Harbour
and Mr. Fish-out-of-Marillion even hosted his reply on his own
Facebook page for a while. These are wrought, as one respondent
writes, “...in the style of a neighbour’s particularly strident
objection to a routine owner-builder development application before
the local council”.
This
term we receive the difficult second album, more of the same but
flavoured ever so slightly with the feel that most, if not all, of
the correspondents are now in on the joke* – not least as there is
a dedication thanking the various roadies, relatives, personal
connections and fans who got responses through ‘the back door of
the industry’ at the start of the book. “Oh, it’s you again”
begins Saxon’s Graham Oliver’s note. Nevertheless, unresponded
entreaties litter the volume, some little more than the sort of
clever-clever Tweets that pop stars routinely ignore and some,
beautifully flighted deliveries which invite you on to the front foot
before fizzing away past the off-stump leaving you batting at air.
Christopher Cross and Eddy Grant – and thereby we - are spun
particularly delicious leg breaks, for example.
The
emphasis here, then, is on the writers themselves – or more
frequently their drummers, bass players and retired guitarists – to
expand and explain according to their wit, sense of collusion and
degree of detachment which some master better than others. Chip out
of The Tremeloes deals with tremendous dignity in being addressed in
a superb muso in-joke as one of ‘The Whammy Bars’, Henry
Priestman overdoes the puns, Dennis Locorriere throws himself
heartily into character and Chris Difford reflects acerbically on
being hailed at airports as “Glenn”. Although
there’s nothing quite so epic as Bruce Thomas’s lengthy exegesis
on Oliver’s Army as contained in the first volume, Stan
Cullimore’s letter wends at length with the sort of wry observation
that got Alan Bennett two series of Talking Heads.
In
the midst of all this there are some genuinely intriguing (and
presumably) shaggy dog stories which I imagine we’ll all be seeing
on Wikipedia before too long. One might well believe that The Big
Figure once borrowed Will Birch’s floor tom-tom for an appearance
on The Old Grey Whistle Test, but what to make of Roland Orzabal’s
fond reminisce of an anonymous Scandinavian weather girl, or Verden
Allen’s definitive Google fact check-inspiring commentary on All
The Young Dudes?
In
the end, there are countless hours of amusement to be had dipping in
to this fun-filled compendium dotted, as it is, with occasionally
inspired philosophical tenets. Who can deny Francis Dunnery’s
almost Nietzschean “You can debate with your quick wit and your
sharp mind, you can create intellectual pitfalls for us Northerners
to fall into, you can outsmart, outwit, out flank and out manouevre
all of us at the same time, but at the end of the day, all of your
studies and countless hours spent in books and debate will prove
themselves useless. Because no matter what you say, we’ll just kick
your ****in’ teeth in anyway”?
‘How
much more bleak could it be?’ you think to yourself.
None.
None more bleak.
*They,
it has been confirmed, most certainly are.
Thank
you to The Philpotts for inviting me to be part of their Blog Tour,
and hello to all my new visitors. Welcome aboard, do have a browse
through the back catalogue. Here are some suggestions to get you
started. 'Moby Dave' always seems to go down well at parties.
