Ending Up

I have read two memoirs this year - both by writers in their seventies, both of which conclude with the announcement that they have terminal cancer. One's uplifting, one isn't. J.G. Ballard's Miracles of Life is fabulous. He writes with such unrepressed joy about his years bringing up his children on his own after his wife died. He obviously did a pretty good job even if he, by his own admittance, drank as much whiskey for breakfast (and then stopped) as his friends did in the evening. The most amazing part of the book is his childhood in Shanghai before and during the war. His stories of his time in a prison camp with his parents outside Shanghai is amazing. The fact that, as a seven year old, he was allowed to cycle wherever he wanted all around Shanghai made one very jealous indeed. No wonder he is such an imaginative writer!
The other book - The Last Cigarette by Simon Gray - is less uplifting. He has written alot of these memoirs since his playwriting slowed down and I have enjoyed them all. He writes in a stream of consciousness that covers his day, his thoughts on life and his past with great humour. But he is clearly a man on his last round looking back rather than forward - and his early memoirs were much more of the moment - so one can't help feeling a little depressed by his situation.

Hong Kong Garden Takeaway

Quite often I switch into 'old bore' mode and talk about how accessible musicians were when I started to go to concerts in the mid- 70's. In the punk era groups took great pride in being with the fans. I remember being with Feargal Sharkey of The Undertones in the Civic Hall at Guildford after their concert and he happily sat there for an hour after the concert chatting and signing autographs. One of my favourite moments was when, bored with studying, I sat outside the stage door of the New Theatre in Oxford and listened to the Boomtown Rats in concert. Their manager came out and asked me what I was doing - just listening I said. He gave me a free pass - access all areas. The Rats were a great show despite what everyone says.

So, when one goes to the stadium gigs and sits obediently under the slow eyes of security, I often think back to those old days when stars were among us.

Three weeks ago I stopped off at the Shepherds Bush Empire as I knew Siouxsie was playing. I loved her in her pomp. I had no ticket and her set had already started. So I asked the security man on the door if I could come in. He said no but talk to their guy pointing to a large guy next to him - "He's her manager". The manager was a little sheepish and had to check with some head of security lady but then he said, "Come with me" and he took me up to the balcony on one of his free passes. He wouldn't take payment. So I got to see Siouxsie strutt her stuff in silver, skintight spandex and sing classics such as Spellbound and Israel.

People always thought at the timethat punk gave music back to the fans and, for a long time, I thought everyone had over-sentimentalised it. Had they?