Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Revenant by Tristan Hughes


Revenant really spooked me. I was unsettled by Tristan Hughes's modern-day ghost story, haunted by its imagery and the awful, binding secret at its heart. The plot is straightforward enough. A trio of childhood compatriots - Neil, Ricky and Steph - meet as adults to honour Del, their tomboy leader, who died when they were young. A death that they witnessed. They have returned to Ynys Mon to exorcise their ghosts and to find closure, but it isn't that simple.

This dark tale is told in three interwoven narratives which alternate between adulthood and childhood. As in any good ghost story suspense is built. We know that Del, bold and vivacious, will at some point perish and that her death will probably involve water. The clues are all there. But, until the novel's end, the exact circumstances of her demise remain - rather like her character - elusive and just out of reach.

Fans of Hughes will be familiar with the strong gothic undercurrent to his writing. The way that he makes the ordinary sinister. Old people, here, are shuffling zombies; seagulls with bloodied beaks, Hitchcockian; hands and fingers - a creepy leitmotif. There are mausolea: Steph's bedroom preserved exactly as it was when she fled the family home; and the gatehouse with its stuffed dead dog, clamping a stuffed dead pheasant in its jaws.

Hughes is sly - he makes you care for these misfit children, this motley collection of outsiders. Each is marked with the indelible print of trauma. Neil's mother died young and left him a diffident stutterer unable to act; Ricky, stigmatised and belittled for being a "pikey", is an insecure wanderer; and poor Steph will suffer at the salacious hands of the Candyman.

Hughes is good, too, on the dynamics of the group: the subtly shifting alliances, small treacheries, and rivalries. The relationship between the two girls, Del and Steph, is particularly fascinating. Steph, pretty and posh, is aware that in the adult world, she will usurp her plain tomboyish friend. And maybe Del knows it too - after all, it is she who abandons Steph to the clutches of the Candyman.

The landscape is a mixture of the natural, and the magical world of folk and fairytale. Here is a forest of monkey puzzle trees, an abandoned mansion, and the Candyman's house - pitched somewhere between Hansel and Gretel and Little Red Riding Hood. Their realm is inhabited by a dancing bear, a dragon, and ghosts. The adult Neil sees the sprightly image of Del everywhere. And, of course, these grown-ups are ghosts to each other - never quite sure if they are of corporeal form or not.

Violence lurks just beneath the taut surface of the narrative ready to erupt. Another classic gothic trait. And erupt it does: in a fire; the destruction of a classroom; a slapped face. And then there is the death of Del herself - as heartbreaking and quietly shocking a moment as you'll find. But I won't reveal any more on that front - it would be a shame to spoil the ending of a very fine ghost story.

Revenant by Tristan Hughes is published by Picador and is my book of the year. It would make an eerie but satisfying stocking filler.

Monday, December 15, 2008

Spencer McGarry Season


Spencer McGarry Season’s fine debut CD, Episode 1, kicks off with a couple of tone-setting tracks: Oh Leonard and Tell Me What’s Shaking (Except this Building). That tone being a pared-down, crisp, beat sound that wouldn’t have been out of place in the Scene Club circa 1965.

The mod momentum is continued through The Heat Was Hot (a number that helps fill the ‘good songs about wrestling’ void); and, To the Liars Take Me, which goes straight into my anthology of decent tunes about magazines that contain jaunty whistling.

Leader of the Chain Gang is an enjoyable sing-a-long that takes the traditional theme of work and applies to it the anxieties of modern office life. One of this CD’s many highlights. A Title Sparks Would Have Used, lyrically at least, goes all postmodern and seems to be about the creative process. It contains the memorable line: “fictional rain beats down about Swansea town”.

Things take a more metaphysical turn with The Reason Not the Meaning and Futsure which deal with ideas of ontology and predestination. I shit you not.

Recent single A Paler Shade of Wit is an absolute belter and more infectious than a severe dose of chicken pox. The same can be said for the XTC-esque The Un-Filmable Life and Life of Terry Gilliam. An homage to the left-field film director, which references several of his movies.

The CD ends strongly in upbeat toe-tapping mode. When Stupids Come to Town exudes the kind of hard-edged white boy funk that the Gang of Four would have been proud of. Whilst final track, We’re Going to Dance the Night Away, does exactly what it says on the tin.

Mentioned in despatches are Stephen Black (Sweet Baboo) and Avvon Chambers who provide a pulsating rhythm section that underpins McGarry’s sharp, inventive guitar work and idiosyncratic vocals. You can get hold of Episode 1 from Businessman Records or Spillers Records right now, or wait until after Xmas when it will arrive, as if by magic, in your local chain record store.

Highly recommended.

Friday, December 12, 2008

Patrick Jones: 2 Poetry Readings


The Christians were gathered opposite the Senedd in Cardiff Bay. About 200, I reckon. They sang O Come all Ye Faithful, Once in Royal David's City, Calon Lan. "Potty-mouthed poet" Patrick Jones and his supporters were condemned. Speeches denouncing blasphemy were made. People shouted out "hallelujah". A man waved a gold flag, another blew a horn. One fellow, bursting with religious zeal, declared that he used to be a drug addict. Now God was his fix.

Television camera crews rolled up. Like flies on a dungheap politicians materialised and provided the soundbites. Strategically positioned coppers looked like they'd rather be at Ninian Park. Office workers peered out of their windows. I bumped into poet Peter Finch - we were both taking snaps. He went inside to watch Patrick Jones; I remained outside and observed the Christians praying.

At 8pm I was having my bag searched at Borders bookshop. This was Patrick Jones's second poetry reading of the day. Security were afraid that fundamentalists might attempt to infiltrate the gathering. It was strictly invitation only. I assured them of my atheism and they allowed me to enter. Outside, Stephen Green, of Christian Voice was still going on about blasphemy. And homosexuality. And ASBOs. His 200 supporters from the Senedd had dwindled to a mere handful. Perhaps the others had gone Christmas shopping.

There's a certain frisson to being in an empty chain bookstore at night, especially at this time of year. I suppressed an urge to shoplift. We made our way upstairs to the instore Starbucks where the poetry reading was set to take place. The irony of one of Wales's most politicised writers doing his stuff in a Starbucks was not lost on any of us. Needs must, I suppose. We helped ourselves to free wine and nibbles. I said hello to Rachel Trezise.

Burly security guards scrutinised us - the audience - as Patrick Jones read aloud his work. It was surreal. But, to the disappointment of those hoping for a bit of conflict, nobody broke ranks and attempted to disrupt the event. Not even when he read from Hymn, the poem which had caused most of the 'blasphemy' controversy. Instead, we clapped politely at the end of each reading. Between poems Jones apologised for all the fuss. He didn't usually have this level of security, he said, not even when he read in Aberdare.

Afterwards I grabbed a quick word with Patrick. I told him that the Christians protesting at the Senedd had been concerned about his soul. He shrugged and signed my book. 'Create dangerously' it said.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Mandy Rice-Davies in Penarth


This photo, from 1965, is of Mandy Rice-Davies paddling in Penarth. She was appearing in cabaret at the Marina Club, there. To drum up a bit of publicity she put on her bathing costume and took to the waters.

This was just a couple of years after the Profumo affair. Trading on her notoriety she had taken up a singing career and even released a couple of records. Trouble was a moral minority were still upset at her role in the scandal. In fact, her Christmas tour in 1964 had to be cancelled because of protests by housewives and church leaders.

By the time she arrived in Penarth, however, things had cooled down considerably. She told reporters: "I do hope I'm not going to encounter good old Welsh hypocrisy this time." Well, she would know all about that - after all, Mandy was born into a Welsh family herself. The gig went ahead as planned and there was no trouble whatsoever from the liberal-minded folk of Penarth.

Friday, December 05, 2008

New Welsh Review: The Last Word


The latest edition of New Welsh Review is out now. It is the first under the stewardship of Kathryn Gray. You can read Kathryn's debut editorial here. The mag contains a couple of brand new features, including an opinion piece, The Last Word. Yours truly was given the dubious honour of writing the inaugural one.

An opinion piece should, I think, be a bit provocative, so I decided to have a little dig at Welsh literary criticism. In particular, I questioned why Welsh science-fiction, fantasy and horror are so often ignored by critics in favour of more 'authentic' authors like Dylan Thomas, RS Thomas etc. In my view putting authors into an officially-sanctioned top 10 and then writing about them ad nauseam is about a 100 years out of date. Anyway, I look forward to getting slaughtered in the next issue.

But listen, it's not all about me. There's plenty of other good stuff in the mag too. Welsh film director Justin Kerrigan talks about the making of his new film I Know You Know; Lloyd Robson raps about gonzo and Robert Mitchum; Terry Eagleton discusses Raymond Williams; there's a photo essay by John Briggs; new poetry by the sickeningly talented Joe Dunthorne, and much more.

You can get hold of New Welsh Review from your local bookshop or purchase a copy online, here. And remember, a magazine subscription makes a great Xmas present that lasts the whole year.

Thursday, December 04, 2008

Mia Lewis


Another forgotten Welsh pop singer from the mid-Sixties. A petite 5ft 1" tall, Mia Lewis had huge grey-green eyes. Between 1965-67 she cut five discs: Wish I Didn't Love Him (Decca); It's Goodbye Now (Decca); Nothing Lasts Forever (Parlophone); No Time For Lovin' (Parlophone); and Woman's Love (Parlophone).

Mia hailed from Abercraf, deep in the upper-Swansea valley. She came from a large family and was one of 8 siblings. Before becoming a professional singer, aged 18, she had worked as a telephonist at a local clock factory. Her wage was £6 per week. To supplement her income she sang regularly at the Embassy theatre in Swansea.

When Mia turned professional she left Wales to live in London. She lodged in South Hornsey with her uncle, Viv Morgan. She made many appearances on TV and toured the UK. She even had plans to visit the States where her debut single was getting decent reviews. Unfortunately, despite possessing dreamy looks and a strong voice, her records never made much of an impact on the charts, and her pop career sank without trace.

If you know what became of Mia, get in touch.

Sleeveface - the Book


In which section of my local bookstore, I wondered, would I find Sleeveface? Music? Photography? Art?

Sleevefacing, in case you didn't know, is the practice of placing a record sleeve in front of your face to create an optical illusion. Sleeveface, the book, is a compilation of the best examples sent to Cardiffians Carl Morris and John Rostron - originators of the craze. Here you'll find wannabe Elvises, Madonnas and even a couple of Kenny Rogers'.

But this phenomenon goes way beyond mere celebrity worship. It's more subtle than that. Flick through the pages of Sleeveface and you'll soon discover a host of ironic, even iconoclastic, images. There's Elvis Costello doing a spot of vacuuming; John Travolta wearing fishnet tights; Gil Scott-Heron sporting a fetching pair of pink socks. Before your very eyes pop stars change gender, even skin colour - Barbra Streisand mutates into a dog. Untouchable icons are comically dragged into the domestic: you'll find them in your humble bedsitting room, in the bathroom, on the loo. Context is everything to the serious sleevefacer.

Be warned, though, sleevefacing can seriously alter your record buying habits. No longer do vinyl vultures ransack charity shops seeking out overlooked musical masterpieces, but they are buying records for their sleevefacing potential too. Cool kids of otherwise impeccable taste are snapping up albums by Demis Roussos, Richard Clayderman and, gulp, Huey Lewis and the News.

No doubt the proliferation of the digital camera in recent years has boosted the phenomenon. Here is a perfect marriage of affordable new techology with that old school, lo-fi format: vinyl. And judging from the cosmopolitan variety of backgrounds on show, sleevefacing has become a global activity.

It's worth noting that this book is excellently produced. The quality and layout of the images, throughout, is first class. And weighing in at 192 pages, with well over 200 examples - at a pocket-fondling £8.99 - it represents great value for money.

Sleeveface by Carl Morris and John Rostron is a celebration of vinyl, pop culture, and being a bit cheeky. It's also great fun. Which is why my local bookstore classifies it under: humour. The book is published by Artisan and would make a perfect Xmas present. If you want a sneak preview have a peek at the official Sleeveface website.

Monday, December 01, 2008

Tawny Reed

In 1965 17-year-old Tawny Reed was signed up by Pye records. She was from Diamond Street, Adamsdown, Cardiff. She had been snapped up by songwriting and management team M/B (Myron and Byron) Enterprises. M/B had already discovered Tom Jones and firmly believed that Tawny, with her "aggressive" singing style, would be just as successful as The Boy From Nowhere.

Tawny had gigged extensively in local south Wales dance halls and clubs with her backing band the Flower Pot Men. However, when she went into a London studio to cut her first disc, session musicians were employed instead. Tony Hatch had already visited Cardiff and drawn up a list of possible material for her debut single. The song they eventually chose was Needle in a Haystack, a cover of a hit by Motown group the Velvelettes.

Despite falling off her stool during the recording session, her actual 45 turned out to be pretty impressive. She sounds like a Welsh Lulu rather than another Sandie Shaw which is, apparently, how Tony Hatch envisaged her. The single was also released in the States on the legendary Red Bird label (home of the Shangri-Las) - Tawny being the only girl from the UK to ever achieve this distinction.

Unfortunately the single didn't chart. Nor did her follow up, You Can't Take it Away, released the following year. She was dropped by Pye and, sadly, disappeared altogether from the '60s musical map. Here she is performing Needle in a Haystack on TV and throwing a few interesting shapes in the process.

Monday, November 24, 2008

Fluxus in Aberystwyth


As unlikely as it might sound a Fluxus concert took place at Aberystwyth in 1968. Artist Brian Lane along with a group of collaborators called First Dream Machine staged a three-day feast of Fluxus. There was a 12-hour concert of electronic music, which included a piece by Karlheinz Stockhausen; an international graphics exhibition; and a Total Theatre session. The focal point of the festival, though, was a concert in which, now classic, Fluxus scores by the likes of George Maciunas, Ben Vautier, George Brecht and Chieko Shiomi, were performed.

To mark the 40th anniversary of this seminal avant-garde happening, some of the events are to be re-staged in Aberystwyth. Local artists will perform their own interpretation of the original Fluxus scores on Saturday, November 29, 8-10pm, at the Castle Theatre. Just by being there you will instantly become one of the coolest people in west Wales - so don't miss it.

Admission is free. You can book tickets here.

Sunday, November 23, 2008

Ronald Lewis


Poor old Ronald Lewis. In 1982 they discovered his corpse in a cheap Pimlico boarding house. No longer a famous actor, his matinee idol looks gone forever, he had taken a fatal drug overdose. He was 54. The previous year he had appeared in a London bankruptcy court owing £21,188.

Lewis, like fellow thesps Burton and Hopkins, was from the Port Talbot area. After developing a taste for drama at school he went on to study at RADA. A successful career on the stage soon followed. Highlights included a starring role opposite Vivien Leigh in Noel Coward's South Sea Bubble; and a leading part in Mourning Becomes Electra directed by Peter Hall.

Being a handsome fellow, a move into the film industry was inevitable. His face became a familiar feature in flicks for Ealing, Alexander Korda's London Films, and later, Hammer. The best of his cinematic work included Helen of Troy (1956); A Hill in Korea (1956); Stop Me Before I Kill (1960); Scream of Fear (1961); and Billy Budd (1962). The early Sixties turned out to be his most fruitful period.

Things, however, started to go wrong in about 1965, when a summons was taken out by his wife Elizabeth, who alleged that he had assaulted her. Lewis failed to turn up at court. A warrant was issued for his arrest. At the time he was appearing in Peter Pan at the Scala Theatre, London.

From this moment on his career went into terminal decline. The movie roles dried up completely. Instead he had to make do with occasional television work. His last ever TV appearance was a bit part in an episode of Z Cars, in 1978. With his fame having evaporated, he killed himself on the 11th of January, 1982.

The above still shows Lewis (left) in fine hypodermic-toting form in Mr Sardonicus (1961), a decent horror film directed by William Castle.

Friday, November 21, 2008

Plop Plops


This EP, Plop Plops, by Welsh-language loons U thant was released in 1987. Amongst their ranks was Huw Bunford, latterly of the Super Furry Animals. I like the cover. It features probably the most famous toilet in the history of Welsh pop. But whose lavatory was it? If you know the answer, don't hesitate to share your scatological information with me.

In the meantime, you can see a YouTube of the band performing the song for a reunion gig at Clwb Ifor Bach, Cardiff, here.

Friday, November 14, 2008

Oh For Christ's Sake


Christmas has come early for Patrick Jones. I bet he can't believe his good fortune. When you are struggling trying to flog an obscure volume of poetry amidst the sackloads of mainstream drek put out at this time of year, publicity like this must be an absolute God-send.

The Christians and the poetry enthusiasts.... it's like the Sharks versus the Jets. Give them all flick-knives and let them get on with it. Seriously, though, I'm so curious as to what's upset the religious fundamentalists that I might actually buy the thing myself. So hats off to Patrick Jones for creating a media stir and organising a great marketing campaign.

You too can purchase Jones's, ahem, highly controversial Darkness is Where the Stars Are from a bookstore with more balls than Waterstones, near you, now. Or via Amazon. It costs £7.99 and is published by Cinnamon Press.

For the Christian Voice's take on the matter, click here.

Three Steps to Heaven


Just a few weeks before he died in a car crash (April 17, 1960), American rock'n'roll idol, Eddie Cochran, performed in Cardiff along with fellow legend Gene Vincent. Here is a great review of their show from a now defunct South Wales newspaper.

Teenagers - Your Theatre Manners are Shocking

After going along to Cardiff's Gaumont Theatre last Friday night to see the Gene Vincent/Eddie Cochran show, I came away feeling disgusted at the way in which teenagers welcomed certain acts on the programme. Despite the fact that newcomer Tony Sheridan gave one of the best performances of the night singing When You Walk Through a Storm, impatient teenagers waiting for Gene Vincent, could think of nothing better to do than throw lighted cigarette ends at him during his act. The least they could have done was to give him a chance to prove his worth. After all they weren't bound to remain in their seats whilst Tony was appearing, as there is always plenty of room in the foyer of the theatre.

I'm pleased to say that those teenagers were in the minority, as this fast-moving "Beat Show" descended on Cardiff with a frenzied swoop, evoking screams galore from the majority of the 2,000 strong audience. The pity was that both these artists could scarcely be heard against the instrumental backing and the audience shouting.

Both Gene and Eddie were making their first visit to Wales and welcomed the opportunity of personally meeting some of their Welsh fans. Between shows they recorded special messages for transmission on the Hospitals Request Hour show. Interviewer was Vic Dawe, who has had the pleasant task of interviewing leading names in the world of entertainment visiting Cardiff over the past six months. Through Hallelujah! Eddie in tartan shirt and leather jeans built up to an earlier hit C'Mon Everybody and soon had the customers in the beat mood.

Twenty-one-year-old Gene Vincent on the other hand, is a more flamboyant showman, almost cuddling his microphone, kneeling and crawling on the stage and generally leaping about like some leather-clad spaceman from another planet. This rock'n'roller built up to a frantic finale before all the artists joined on stage for a frenzied rock session. It was a pity however, that Gene didn't have The Bluecaps (his original group from the States) to back him. The Wildcats didn't appear to be strong enough. Making a return visit to Cardiff with the show was handsome six-foot-plus Vince Eager, star of television's Oh Boy and Six-Five Special shows.

Also paying another visit to Cardiff were The Viscounts, a vigorous all-male singing act laced with good comedy. The threesome are surely heading for bill-topping status soon. One of the group Gordon Mills - hails from Cardiff.

Remembering that Eddie Cochran has appeared in several films, I took the opportunity of asking him whether he preferred films, television or stage shows, in the seclusion of his dressing room after the show. He replied: "Give me stage shows every time. TV and films are fine, but I much prefer to work live. It's so much more exciting and I feel I can get closer to people. When an audience is enthusiastic I get something from them, and in return give a better performance. Audiences can be very stimulating."

On Saturday, both Gene Vincent and Eddie Cochran appeared on ITV's Boys Meet Girls.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

KKK by Bill Meilen


This fine piece of trash fiction by Bill Meilen, from Cardiff, came out in 1968. Pictured is the eye-popping cover of the American edition. Meilen always managed to sneak a Welsh hero into his novels, no matter how improbable the situation. Thus we find a sailor (and martial arts expert) from Cardiff sorting out some evil white supremacists in America's Deep South. Meilen even manages to mention Brains beer, the National Museum of Wales, and the Angel hotel, along the way. Below is part of Meilen's intro to the book:

The most significant thing about Klan influence to my mind is that at no time has there been a suggestion that the Ku Klux Klan (who stand most to gain) had any hand in the brutal slayings of President John F Kennedy, Doctor Martin Luther King, and senator Robert Kennedy. The Klan has not even been mentioned in hypothetical connection. I ask the reader to seriously think about such a possibility.

I am not a mystic...but to those interested in mysticism may I point out that from their point of view there is an even more significant factor. The three shining hopes of Democracy in the United States cut down just as they were becoming dangerous Kennedy, King, and Kennedy...their initials spell...KKK. I ask you to think about that, too, whether you are a mystic or otherwise.

My Favourite line: "Hogan wondered what he'd look like with a Welsh fist in his mouth."

Bill Meilen went on to become an actor and even appeared in Scooby Doo 2. He died in 2006.

Thursday, November 06, 2008

Jennifer Daniel in The Reptile


This is a nice still from The Reptile (1966), one of Hammer’s more inspired cinematic efforts. The horror flick starred Welsh actress Jennifer Daniel (left). She was from Pontypool. Here she is looking remarkably calm after discovering the latest victim of the snake woman. Horror aficionados will know that a bite from her causes the heart to stop, the face to blacken, and the mouth to froth. But not necessarily in that order.

As far as her career in horror films went, Jennifer specialised in looking vulnerable and walking innocently into situations where you just knew something terrible was about to happen. Also catch her in another decent Hammer outing, The Kiss of the Vampire (1963).

Wednesday, November 05, 2008

Nightmare on Clare Street


Words on buildings. Nothing unusual in that. From teenage tags sprayed on urban brickwork, to the officially-sanctioned graffito on the front of the Wales Millennium Centre: In These Stones Horizons Sing.

One of the more peculiar examples of architecture and the word, though, is this house on Clare Street, Cardiff. In 1984 its resident, Gerald Tobin, became embroiled in a bitter dispute with the council over grants. He began scrawling his grievances on boards and attaching them to the front of his house. He then barracaded himself inside.

Neighbours considered it an eyesore but I always thought his abode looked pretty cool. Like a giant artwork. As well as thousands of words he incorporated a cartoon of Edvard Munch's The Scream into his protest. The property became known, locally, as The Scream House. Adding further to the sense of horror, he wrote in big letters on his front wall: NIGHTMARE ON CLARE STREET. Many locals regarded him as a mad recluse.

I often used to take a detour to Riverside just to see if he had added any more words to his property. It was easy to forget that there was an old man actually living inside the building. And that he was going through his own, not very private, hell. In 2005 the council took out an injunction against him to remove his boards. When he refused, they did it by force. I took this photo about 6 years ago when his protest graffiti campaign was at its height.

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Sian Adey-Jones Agonistes


You might remember her as a beautiful Bond Girl (see pic). To the shadowy figures of Bohemian Grove, she was the supreme new world order pin-up. But, to me, Sian Adey-Jones will always be the ultimate Miss Wales gone bad. Yes, that's right, I'm talking about her conviction for assaulting a police officer at Colwyn Bay in 1976.

Sian was 19 at the time, and the reigning Miss Wales. She'd just attended a function (a 'Bavarian Evening') in Colwyn Bay and was being driven to her Rhos-on-Sea home by her boyfriend. Police stopped their car. According to the rozzers: Miss Adey-Jones took an object from her handbag and sprayed something into her boyfriend's mouth. When asked to reveal the contents of her bag she became aggressive. She kicked one officer between the legs. She was wearing cowboy-style boots. When an officer attempted to handcuff her, she spat in his face and said: "fuck off you pig." The policeman slapped her face.

The situation, according to the cops, deteriorated further at the station. Miss Adey-Jones grabbed the desk sergeant's pen and snapped it in half. As the arresting constable attempted to cart her off to the cells she, once again, kicked him in the testicles. Four officers had to forcibly remove her cowboy boots. It is alleged Miss Adey-Jones shouted: "I am a wildcat, you bastards!"

Sian's version of events was, unsurprisingly, much different. At Mold crown court she denied being drunk at all. She had only consumed 3 glasses of wine. The object in her handbag was merely a mint mouth spray, used to counteract the effects of the garlic sausage eaten at the Bavarian evening. She denied kicking the copper in the balls. She had only lost her rag at the station because the police refused to let her phone her mother. And because they were making sarcastic remarks, such as: "Look who we've got here, Miss Wales."

Sian Adey-Jones was found not guilty of assaulting a male police officer. However, she was fined £100 for assaulting a policewoman, ordered to pay £250 costs, and £25 in compensation to the female cop. As the judge read out the verdict Miss Wales burst into tears and collapsed into the arms of her boyfriend. She would later go on to become a page 3 model, and now lives in Ibiza.

Monday, October 27, 2008

The Richest Stones in Newport


This is Church House at 6 Portland Street, Newport, where the writer WH Davies was born. His was a fascinating life: Newport shoplifter; hobo in North America; London doss-house dweller; literary success. He is best known, of course, for his Autobiography of a Supertramp, which outlined his harsh but romantic life on the road.

The above picture dates from 1930, when he was still very much alive and happily married to former prostitute Helen Payne, in England. The building still stands today, although it is currently boarded up and looking a bit forlorn. Which is a shame because, Davies, in his poem The Richest Stones, said of his childhood abode:

My wandering days have run their course,
And Age is in my flesh and bones:
Of all the temples, domes, and towers,
Where have I found the richest stones?

The little house where I was born,
And where my early childhood lies,
Was built with solid blocks of gold,
And all its walls had diamond eyes.

Friday, October 24, 2008

Slade: Cymru am Byth


I've spoken before of the unfortunate fate that befell Noddy Holder's nose at a gig in Porthcawl in 1978. Here he is pictured in much happier times. It's Swansea in 1975 and, amazingly, Noddy is sporting a Cymru am Byth tee-shirt. His finger-pointing Slade bandmates look suitably shocked. Why, they wonder, has their lead singer forsaken the sartorial excesses of glam rock and gone native? Sadly, the answer to this enigma has been lost in the mists of time. Nice picture, though.

Friday, October 17, 2008

In Search of Richey Edwards


Today I checked out where Richey Edwards was living at the time of his disappearance. That meant digging out his old Cardiff dockside address. Straightforward enough, when you know where to look. The records show that he styled himself Richard J Edwards when filling in official forms.

I found myself trudging east along Bute Terrace, past the Big Sleep Hotel (part-owned by John Malkovich) towards the Vulcan pub. Foregoing the pleasures of that fine boozer, I took, instead, a hard right down Pellet Street and scaled the railway bridge. The parapets on either side, I noticed, have metal spikes to deter jumpers. The graffiti there is strangely scatological: 'Woppo Stinks of Shit'; 'Ed the Poo Head'. Down the steps, through the industrial estate, out on to Tyndall Street, and I'm almost there. Schooner Way. Atlantic Wharf.

Richey's block, a red brick number, is much like all the others in the area - soulless. As mundane as you could imagine. Two bedroom apartment, no pets, no kids, no DSS. One of those places. Back in '95 his apartment block would have been brand new, part of the ongoing gentrification of Cardiff Docks. I took a few snaps of the front of the building. No sign of any Richey graffiti; no dried up floral tributes marking significant dates in his life. You'd never guess he'd ever lived here. Then I caught sight of the mini tunnel which leads to the great expanse of deadwater that is the disused Atlantic Wharf. On the left wall - Richey's side of the building - the single word 'void', has been spray-painted in black (see pic). Appropriate.

It's always a shock coming across this body of water from the north. At the southern end you're more or less in the Docks, where you expect to see such things. Here, though, you are practically still in the city centre. It's eerie. Hidden. Enclosed. Plastic bottles bobbing on the surface. I take a few more photographs. Try to imagine Richey leaning on the handrail, peering out across the water. He lived here for about a year. After he checked out of the Embassy Hotel in Bayswater, it was to this address that he drove. When, after several days, there was no sign of him, his father had to break down the door of his flat. Richey was gone, of course.

Half-an-hour later and I'm sitting in the Vulcan. The landlord is telling me that the Manics sometimes drop in for a pint. Nice people, he says. Very quiet. Prefer not to be recognised.

Sunday, October 12, 2008

Welsh Art Now


Almost everyone I meet these days claims to be an artist of one sort or another. Seriously, you can't move for conceptual artists on my estate. So it's kind of strange, when you think about it, that Wales has never really had a decent contemporary art magazine. Until now, that is.

Martin Allman has just launched Welsh Art Now (WAN), a new art journal for Wales. It is aimed not only at practitioners but anyone with an interest in the subject. That's all of us, right? The mag is intended to be a platform for young artists and, hopefully, along the way it will engender a bit of debate on the Welsh arts scene.

Issue one features, amongst other things, work by pop artist Brian Jones; an article by Heike Roms; and there's even a piece on murderabilia by yours truly, where I suggest that the best way to get ahead in the Welsh art world is to go on a monumental killing spree.

Welsh Art Now will be available at various outlets, soon. But if you can't wait that long (and who could possibly blame you if you can't?) it is available for purchase, right now, via their website. Check it out.

Saturday, October 11, 2008

God Hates Cardiff


God Hates Cardiff. No, not a reference to the capital's soggy climate, but the debut EP by Box of Thumbs. On offer are eight great tunes in the alt-rock/indie tradition, with particular nods in the direction of Dinosaur Jnr and the Pixies. Highlights include the extreme urban paranoia of White City; the Fall-esque This is Cree; and the eponymous God Hates Cardiff, which contains the fatalistic lyric:

This city and all its streets
They all mean something to me
This city and all its streets
They all bleed for me
But God hates Cardiff
And God hates me
And that's the way
It's gonna be, yeah.


I couldn't have put it better myself. God Hates Cardiff by Box of Thumbs is out now on Monkey Grinder Records.

Thursday, October 02, 2008

Crass in Aberdare


In the summer of 1984 anarcho-punk band Crass played their last ever gig at - of all places - the Coliseum in Aberdare. It was a benefit concert for striking miners. Local paper the Aberdare Leader carried the story on their front page. The following week they did a double-page, picture special, on the event (see pic). Clearly, Crass were big news in Aberdare. I wonder if the band had ever before had such extensive and positive coverage from the regular press. Here's the newspaper's review of the concert:

Backstage, our photographer John Wright was given some sound advice: "Don't get too close or they'll gob all over you". Point taken.
Aberdare Coliseum had never seen anything like it.
Over the years the building has played host to all manner of musical and theatrical productions - but never a punk concert featuring one of Britain's best-known anti-system bands.
Billing the event as a 'rock and pop concert' was an understandable mistake made by the organsiers, who had little or no knowledge of the reputations and anarchist ideals of Crass and their support band, Flux of Pink Indians, when the bands offered their services to help swell the miners' strike fund.
Local police turned up in force when youths clad in studded leather and bondage gear, topped with colourful and elaborate punk hairdos, began to congregate in the town.
The police, too, had been expecting a small scale 'pop' concert. It certainly wasn't that.

Crass - one of the major bands to spring out of the mid-seventies revolt against 'glam rock' along with the likes of the Sex Pistols - have managed to maintain a healthy following and every live appearance attracts new recruits.
Their songs attacking the system and those in power have become the anthems of the unemployed and of would-be anarchists.
Relying more on sheer volume and energy than anything else to convey their message, the band have, like so many others, come in for a great deal of criticism from those who refuse to listen and instantly condemn them as riotmakers.
Onstage they stare blankly into space as if unaware of members of their audience scrambling on to the stage to join them.
Offstage they are a bunch of the most engaging conversationalists you could ever wish to meet, bursting with ideas and plans to put the world to rights.
Whether their largely teenage audience at the Coliseum fully understood why the band wanted so much to do something positive for the miners was hard to tell.

The sight of miners' agent Emlyn Jenkins onstage presenting a brass miner's lamp to Crass guitarist N. A. Palmer must have seemed a little odd to those who had turned up mainly to bash their heads against the amps.
The meaningful words of encouragement to the miners to continue their strike were soon lost amid the sea of catcalls and abuse.
The presentation over, 'normality' resumed. A barrier set up to separate the crowd from the stage was quickly rendered useless as the first band, Flux of Pink Indians, took to the stage.
They whipped up the frustrated concert-goers almost to their limit then left them ready and waiting for the headliners.
Two intervening punk poets did act as a sedative, however, calming the crowd temporarily with their weird and puzzling ranting, so much so that when Crass emerged the floodgates opened.
Accompanied for every number by almost a dozen intrepid members of the audience who forced themselves aloft to join the 'messiahs', the band blasted out their anti-establishment slogans with constant vocal support.
The lyrics of such numbers as Do They Owe Us A Living? rang out with conviction and gave many food for thought.
But the burly miners-cum-bouncers who had been on standby around the hall in case of trouble left with just a few battered eardrums.

The police, too, had a quiet night as the punks filed away peacefully at about 9pm.
More than a few heads had been turned by the unexpected mass pilgrimage made by punks of all shapes and sizes, but the general consensus of opinion was that it had all been worthwhile.

*Incidentally, the Crass concert in Aberdare is also covered by Ian Bone in his anarchist memoir Bash the Rich.

Wednesday, October 01, 2008

What's Welsh for Performance?


Is there a more ridiculed artistic practice than performance art? The emperor's new clothes are seldom more passionately invoked than when that reviled term is uttered. This is, of course, grossly unfair. To its credit performance (or time-based) art exists, largely, outside of the commercial art world. It can't be bought, hung on a wall, or exhibited in some snooty gallery in Bond St. It is comparatively egalitarian, transient, elusive.

This elusiveness is, I think, a crucial part of its mystique. Sometimes the only evidence that a performance ever happened is anecdotal. Audiences at such events become witnesses, their memories repositories of unique ephemeral experiences. Occasionally performances are photographed or filmed for posterity. Or perhaps a journalist is on hand to write up proceedings. If so, then these documentary artefacts take on a special significance - they become the performance art equivalent of the Zapruder film.

At What's Welsh for Performance? Heike Roms has been busy digging up and documenting Wales's forgotten performance art heritage. Archives have been ransacked; newspaper cuttings sifted through; participants and eye-witnesses tracked down. In the process she has discovered an avant-garde we never previously knew existed. Be sure to check out her brilliantly researched What's Welsh for Performance? archive. Beginning with happenings in the mid-Sixties, you'll also discover evidence of Kurt Kren's Eating, Drinking, Pissing, Shitting Film being shown in Swansea; Yoko Ono in Cardiff (sort of); Gustav Metzger; a Fluxus exhibition in Aberystwyth; George Brecht in Barry; Genesis P-Orridge and Cosey Fanni Tutti in Swansea; and much more. In short, all kinds of weird (and wonderful) shit.

But Wales has been more than just an arena for international stars of the avant-garde to do their thing. There has been plenty of indigenous Welsh performance art action, too. Ivor Davies, Paul Davies, Timothy Emlyn Jones, amongst others, turn out to be key players on the Welsh scene. Arguably the single most important Welsh performance art event took place at the Wrexham Eisteddfod in 1977. During a week of commissioned performances by the likes of Mario Merz and Jannis Kounellis, and even some Joseph Beuys-sanctioned work, local artist Paul Davies staged a dramatic and unofficial intervention. He appeared holding aloft a railway sleeper with the letters WN (for Welsh Not) burnt into the wood. For some this marks the inception of a self-conscious contemporary Welsh political art.

For me, it's the great Welsh art moment of the Twentieth century. This was no officially-sanctioned or subsidised performance, but an inspired off-the-cuff action as brilliantly conceived as anything done by those esteemed enfants terribles of the avant-garde, present that week in Wrexham. It truly was a milestone in Welsh art history. Thanks to Heike Roms, Wrexham 77, and other more obscure performance art events, are beginning to get the critical recognition they deserve.

*A book by Heike Roms entitled: What's Welsh for Performance? An Oral History of Performance Art in Wales (vol.1) is available through Amazon.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Young Marble Giants on Broadway


According to Mike Appelstein at his excellent Young Marble Giants resource, members of Wales's most cult band ever, used to reside at 48a Broadway, Cardiff. Doesn't look like the place has changed much since the late-Seventies judging by this photograph taken yesterday. I, too, once lived on Broadway, but further down the street above a caravanette shop. Living on Broadway was not as glamorous as it might sound. During my spell there (about 5 years later than the band) it was a cut-price, fairly dingy neighbourhood, with not a lot happening. There was Hank's garage where the bikers hung out; a couple of greasy spoons; a dodgy laundrette where my punk tee-shirts would go missing with monotonous regularity; and a clutch of takeaways. What little pavement action that did occur, was usually sparked by alcoholic residents from the homeless hostel; or by whizzed-up working girls from the massage parlour across the road (euphemistically called the Broadway Health Studio). What Broadway did have, though, was some great pubs: The Clifton, The Locomotive (now boarded up), The Bertram, The New Dock Tavern and the legendary Royal Oak. Solid working-class establishments that sold cheap beer where we punk/goth/weirdo types would occasionally venture, only to be stared at by the locals. But, to be honest, we kind of liked that.

Where this wholly unnecessary preamble is leading to, is the news that Young Marble Giants are to play a gig at the National Museum of Wales, Cardiff, as part of the upcoming Swn festival. Keep an eye on the Swn website for ticketing details.

Friday, September 19, 2008

Dig the Nu Breed


Are you a young writer under 30 years of age? Do you creep home every night, bolt yourself in your bedroom, and scribble brooding stories that Dostoyevsky would be proud of? Maybe you're the new Charles Bukowski? Or Julie Burchill? Is your God-given talent being overlooked by boring old farts who don't understand true literary genius when they see it!? Fear not, young person, because help is at hand.

Parthian books are currently putting together an anthology entitled Nu, which aims to foster and showcase undiscovered writing talent. This is a great opportunity for fresh-faced scribes to get their words into print and get themselves noticed. That means you, sunshine. Doesn't matter if it's a short story, poem, cultural essay, diatribe, whatever - it just has to be good and be brimming with youth and vitality.

A youthful Rachel Trezise began her writing career with a short story published by Parthian. Since then she has had three books published and won the inaugural Dylan Thomas Prize, worth a cool £60,000. She now lives in a golden palace at a secret location somewhere in the Valleys. That could be you - so get cracking. Who knows where it might all lead: "And the winner of this year's Nobel Prize For Literature is.... (insert your name here)."

For more information and submission details click here.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Welsh Apocalypse


Lately I've been researching Wales's secret science-fiction history, trying to discover why the genre has, largely, been ignored by Welsh literary critics. During my survey I've turned up a surprising amount of material, not just in literature but in pop culture too. There have even been a few notable examples of Welsh-language science-fiction, including this apocalyptic work by ex-nuclear scientist Owain Owain, entitled Y Dydd Olaf (1976) (The Last Day). I absolutely love the cover (see pic) which was designed by the author himself.

Talking of the end of the world - wouldn't it be amusing if it was ushered in by that bloke from Aberdare. Anyone else been checking Revelations for oblique anti-Christ references pertaining to the south Wales valleys?

Friday, September 12, 2008

Tafod y Ddraig


I was flicking recently through a few old editions of Tafod Y Ddraig (The Dragon's Tongue), the magazine of Cymdeithas yr Iaith Gymraeg (the Welsh Language Society). Some of the cover designs, and the quality of the political cartoons contained within, are excellent. My favourite examples come from 1969 - the year of Charles Windsor's investiture as Prince of Wales at Caernarfon castle. Anger at this colonial celebration of the subjugation of the Welsh, imbues every page. It's a shame these editions are not better known outside the Welsh-language community - even within Wales - if only as a reminder that there were some Welsh people in 1969 prepared to stand up and give a dissenting, two fingered salute, to the monarchy and the forces of colonialism.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Lorna Morgan


Lorna Morgan, originally from the Valleys, but now resident in Cardiff is a leading exponent of, um, big boob modelling. In fact, she is a busty model of world repute. Over the years Lorna has appeared in numerous publications which celebrate the generous mammarian proportions of the voluptuous woman (see pic - Score Feb, 2006). Apparently it's quite a popular niche market. If this is your, er, double D cup of erotica then visit Lorna's website (remember you must be over 18 years of age), where you are able to purchase videos, magazines, and bits of her underwear. Seriously.

Tuesday, September 09, 2008

Michael X: A Life in Black and White


John Williams has resurrected one of Britain’s forgotten bogeymen - 1960s black power leader Michael X. In his entertaining biography Michael X: A Life in Black and White, Williams charts his subject’s journey from a Port of Spain childhood, to his eventual hanging for murder in Trinidad’s Royal Gaol. A circular trajectory that takes in Tiger Bay, Notting Hill, and the Holloway Rd.

During this picaresque tale, Michael X encounters many of the major players of the 1960s: Colin MacInnes, Lennon and Ono, Alexander Trocchi, Leonard Cohen, Muhammad Ali, William Burroughs, Stokely Carmichael, Malcolm X, Allen Ginsberg, and Mick Jagger, to name but a few. Just as interesting, though, are the sundry characters he meets on the fringes of society - the conmen, junkies, pimps, and chancers.

Michael X turns out to be a natural chameleon. There are the name changes: Michael de Freitas, Michael X, Michael Abdul Malik. His different personae: hustler, poet, revolutionary. He is variously black, white, red, brown and, in a tight spot, even a jew. Whether writing articles for Oz; sorting out Pink Floyd’s security; or addressing Black Power meetings, he was equally comfortable.

As well as possessing chameleon-like qualities Michael X is shown to be a born networker. His access to prominent figures in both the counterculture movement and the political underground, ensured his presence at many of the big events of the era: the Notting Hill riots; the Wholly Communion; the Dialectics of Liberation Conference; and the setting up of the London Free School. He was pretty much ubiquitous.

Michael X is far from being a hagiographic work. Williams isn’t seeking to retrospectively exonerate his man, or portray him as an out and out victim. It quickly becomes evident, however, that British newspapers in the 1960s - with an eye on events across the Atlantic - were keen to raise the spectre of race-war here. Michael X’s demonic public persona was, therefore, essentially a press construct. That said, shameless self-promoter that he was, de Freitas was more than happy to step up to the plate and become their black bogeyman.

As well as being a thoroughly researched book, its author has a sharp eye for the absurd, and it’s worth pointing out that there are many comic moments in this biography. A trip to Timbuktu by Michael X, Alexander Trocchi and Nigel Samuel, to find a fabled African university is cut short when they discover that it closed down sometime in the Sixteenth century. The sudden appearance of the black revolutionary’s mother in Britain, wearing a bright red quilted bathrobe, is also memorable.

From a Welsh point of view there are interesting episodes. Britain’s original multi-ethnic community, Cardiff’s Tiger Bay, is eulogised by its one-time resident. The Commonwealth Arts Festival of 1965, also in Cardiff, is portrayed as an hilarious Dionysian romp. And Michael X’s spell in Swansea prison, peering out over the lime pit where hanged prisoners were buried, eerily foreshadows his own fate.

By the time of his own demise at the end of a hangman’s rope, Michael X had become oddly emblematic of the Sixties. Having fled London to set up a commune in rural Trinidad, the idyll ends horribly with murder, in an atmosphere of drug-aided paranoia. Whilst never on the scale of Manson’s Spahn Ranch nightmare, or Jim Jones’s, later, Guyanese religious massacre, there is still an air of Utopia turned sour, and of a leader with ever diminishing power, unable to deliver on his promises.

It’s telling that while a band of Michael X’s white liberal celeb friends were trying to free him from the death penalty, the Trinidadian public were keen to see him swing. During his incarceration calypsos were composed with titles like One to Hang and Hang Him. Thus Michael X’s life ends with a characteristic air of carnival, like those he had attended as a child, and the one he had been instrumental in setting up in Notting Hill.

Michael X: A Life in Black and White is an absolute belter of a biography. It’s published by Century and is on sale now.

Wednesday, September 03, 2008

Robert Lewis Interview


Robert Lewis is currently writing some of the darkest noir in crime fiction. In his novels The Last Llanelli Train and Swansea Terminal he has brilliantly charted the physical and spiritual decline of his cancer-ridden, alcoholic PI, Robin Llywelyn. And somehow, in the process, managed to transform his loser 'tec's bleak travails into the blackest of black comedy. Here, Lewis steps away from the precipice for a moment to answer a few of my questions.

Rob, why have you chosen to write crime fiction over other types of fiction?

You know, I’m not sure it was even a conscious decision. I really didn’t have to think about it. I started writing and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to have a man sitting alone in an office, a woman walks in, offers him a job, the job is not what it seems. Just about every writer in the world uses form, even the Booker boys and girls: mine was the crime genre. The particular aspect of crime fiction I was pulled towards, the dark noir stuff, that’s probably got a lot more to do with the sort of person I am. Although writing is such a lonely and futile act, for which you would be mad to expect any reward, I am amazed noir isn’t more popular. There is a natural resonance between what my view of a writer is and the noir Weltanschauung.

As its title suggests Swansea Terminal has a strong sense of place - what research did you do in preparation for this novel?

Oh man. I have to refer you again to the stuff I’ve just said about the writer and the hard-boiled worldview. I moved to Swansea and lived in a bedsit halfway up Mount Pleasant, on the top floor of a big old house, and started the first page on the day I arrived. I spent about four months there, alone, walking around and writing and drinking and listening to people. That kind of immersion is how I like to write. It’s not terribly practical, but I think there’s a pay-off for it in terms of the finished product. It amuses me sometimes - lots of things about writers amuse me - when they talk about how much hard work they put in researching their novel, like a novel is some kind of academic project. With the historical stuff it makes sense, of course, but with everything else I think you either really engage and commit to it or you don’t. Apart from that, obsessively reading Raymond Chandler et al for much of my life, and especially my formative adolesence, was doubtless a critical kind on unconscious preparation. And sometimes overtly conscious - I reread each of the six big Chandler books every year.

How much of Rob Lewis's character is in the character of Robin Llywelyn?

More than I’d like. I created him initially because he was the man I was frightened I would become. Haven’t quite got there yet. He’s not a direct lift, though - I have a little bit of fun with him occasionally.

What is your writing routine?

It’s either full-on or non-existent. Sometimes I slide into the romantic drunken author cliché, typing away in the middle of the night with a drink by my side. I certainly don’t do it all of the time, but it does seem to sometimes help. Sometimes.

Which other writers have influenced you?

Raymond Chandler kicks arse. He really does. I appreciate I’m hardly rescuing him from obscurity here, but he is fucking divine. There is a gem on every page, and most of the time it doesn’t look like he’s even trying. He’s far more readable at the level of the sentence than people think he is. The plots contribute, but nowhere near as much. Genre be damned, he bloody rules. Philip Marlowe could never exist, of course, that’s the only fundamental problem. He’d be one fucked up guy - not sociopathic, not violently dysfunctional, like Ellroy’s characters, but one seriously sad lonely person, and far less effectively moral. There’s a terrific sense of place in those books too, and of the time. It’s one thing to write a historical novel and capture the spirit of the time, that after all is the point of the historical novel, but to write a contemporary, commercially successful novel and get it all in there for posterity while you do it, without overstating it too much, that’s a marvel.

Otherwise Joseph Conrad is good at the spectre of redemption, Greene is okay here and there for guilt and shame. There are plenty of other writers who I admire, but none that have so directly affected the Llywelyn novels. And yes, I do like dead white male authors. I’m going to be one.

Where and what next for your detective Robin Llywelyn? Are you finally going to give the guy a break and allow some happiness into his life?

In each Llywelyn novel he has to fall a little further and a little harder. It makes things more difficult but it means things stay faithful. So the third one kicks off in a cancer hospice, and gets worse from there on in. It’s kind of an inversion of the classic country house murder mystery - everyone’s dying, and everybody knows why. If some happiness does creep in - and I don’t want to give too much way - it will come at a cost. Most likely the final book will be the darkest one of all. Laughter from the darkness - it’s the only real laughter there is, right?


* Swansea Terminal and The Last Llanelli Train are both published by Serpent's Tail

Tuesday, September 02, 2008

New Welsh Review


The latest edition of New Welsh Review is out now, and contains an article I've written on blogging culture. In the piece I outline my own, ahem, blogging philosophy and examine the phenomenon both in Wales and the world at large. Incidentally, this blog entry which is about an article I've written about this blog, is an example of meta-blogging.

On a more thrilling note, the latest edition of NWR is significant because it is the last under the editorship of Francesca Rhydderch. She did a great job in broadening its base and turning it into a proper cultural magazine. It looks pretty cool now, too, which should never be underestimated. The new editor is Kathryn Gray.

I notice that she has started a New Welsh Review blog. Welcome to the Twenty First century NWR. If you want to keep up to date with what's going on in the life of the mag, click here. In the comments box you can leave your messages of support; ideas; news; bitchy remarks; or, under an assumed name, your vitriolic outbursts. Happy blogging.

Sunday, August 31, 2008

RIP John Summers


Sadly Welsh writer John Summers died recently, aged 80. Back in 2004 he was kind enough to complete an interview with me for my website. Since then, we have corresponded occasionally via the post. John's letters were always welcome - they railed against various injustices in the world, but also contained wonderful anecdotes from his literary career. During his lifetime he had met the likes of Arthur Miller and Marilyn Monroe, and interviewed such luminaries as Anthony Powell, Robert Shaw, Ian Fleming, Angus Wilson, Evelyn Waugh and Rocky Marciano.

As well as being a journalist, he also wrote four works of fiction and three travel books. His best known novel, The Disaster, dramatised the Aberfan catastrophe and the subsequent battle for compensation. This was a fight which John had personally been involved in. In fact, it was he who had issued the High Court writ that eventually resulted in the restoration of missing money to the fund.

With The Disaster, Summers had to overcome a difficult challenge. He had to turn a still very raw tragedy into art - entertainment even, in order to draw attention to the compensation fiasco. This, for me, makes it a unique and culturally interesting piece of work. It was a novel written with a purpose way beyond its own aesthetic dimensions. John was more than happy for the populist New English Library to publish his book because it meant greater numbers of people would be made aware of a terrible injustice.

It was sad then, and ironic, to read that John spent his last years embroiled in a bitter battle with his local council over housing. Nevertheless, it is heartening to see that he was continuing his fight against unfeeling authority, and raging against the dying of the light. The good news is that Alwyn Turner, author of the excellent Trash Fiction enterprise, has set up an online tribute website dedicated to preserving John's name and promoting his work. Although only in the early stages of its development, you'll find information there on the Welsh author, examples of his writings, photographs, and other miscellany. So be sure to check it out.

You can read a Telegraph obituary of John Summers here.

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Dylan Thomas and Tom Waits


Today I was idly thumbing my way through Uncut magazine when I happened upon this advert for HMV. It brings together three components that are meant to denote coolness: singer Tom Waits; photographer Anton Corbijn; and Welsh writer Dylan Thomas.

Although the information that Tom Waits (of whom I'm a big fan) has been inspired by the writings of Dylan Thomas is interesting, at the end of the proverbial, HMV are just trying to flog me their products aren't they. Thus, the advert itself, is fundamentally uncool.

Much has been written in recent times concerning notions of coolness, and its co-option by corporate business. Rebel Sell by Joseph Heath and Andrew Potter is a notable example. Adbusters, the culture jamming magazine, has also been pondering whether cool can be reconquered and reconstituted after years of being hijacked by big business.

In Wales we recently had to contend with the completely alien, and rather patronising, concept of 'Cool Cymru'. Of course, as any sane Welsh person will tell you, we are an heroically uncool nation. You will, however, always find the odd exception that proves the rule.

Friday, August 22, 2008

Titbits May 1973


This is an advert for Titbits magazine which appeared in May 1973. Apparently they did a special on teenage prostitution in Cardiff. Quite interested to see how sleazy, lowlife, Cardiff, is presented in an early-Seventies, tabloid, aesthetic. So, if anyone has this particular edition, I'd love to have a gander at a copy.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Jerry Lewis's Flag Day


In 1975 there was much excitement in Usk at the prospect of a visit by zany Hollywood star Jerry Lewis, famed for his comedies with Dean Martin. Lewis was in London doing some cabaret shows and had agreed to perform for a week at the Helmaen International in Usk (see pic). Although the star was well past the peak of his fame, it was still quite a coup for the Gwent nightclub.

In early July Lewis's people contacted City Hall, Cardiff. They thought it would be good for Jerry to visit the city on Independence Day (July 4) for a bit of pre-publicity. What they had in mind was a flag-raising ceremony. Jerry would turn up, meet the Lord Mayor, and the stars and stripes would be run up a flag-pole above City Hall. A nice photo-op for the local press.

One problem - Cardiff's Lord Mayor at the time was staunch Tory, Sir Charles Stuart Hallinan. He refused, point-blank, to celebrate the anniversary of America's two-fingered salute to its then colonial master, Britain. Hallinan would, however, consent to allowing Lewis a courtesy visit to his parlour.

How did the Hollywood legend, and proud American, react? Not only did he decline the Lord Mayor's snooty offer but he instantly cancelled his week of shows in Usk too. If the Welsh weren't prepared to fly the American flag, then he wasn't going to come to Wales. And he didn't.

Monday, August 18, 2008

Henry Rollins in Spillers Records


Wow, what a wonderful photograph taken by Llinos Griffiths. It's a portrait of the great Henry Rollins inside Spillers Records in downtown Cardiff. The former Black Flag frontman and raconteur par excellence, is clasping an iconic Spillers tee-shirt to his bosom. Trust Henry to choose one of the black ones.

You can see more of Llinos Griffiths' excellent photographic work at her myspace site or over at flickr. Check it out.

Sunday, August 17, 2008

Submarine by Joe Dunthorne


Submarine is an impressive debut novel by Joe Dunthorne from Swansea. Reviewers have been falling over themselves to label it the new Catcher in the Rye. True, Submarine is a coming-of-age tale featuring a smart-ass 15-year-old kid but - to my mind - it is more like an ultra-funny, teenage Notes from Underground.

Central character, Oliver Tate, lives in Swansea but exists mostly inside his own head. He is a spy covertly analysing his parents' faltering marriage. He is also on a mission to lose his virginity before reaching the legal age of consent. To his decent, liberal, parents and the world at large he is just a mildly troublesome adolescent, but through his interior narrative and occasional diary-keeping we glimpse his true, warped, character.

Tate is inquisitive, intelligent, self-assured, casually malicious, but also naive. Early on we learn that he is a narrator not to be trusted. The neighbours he spies on with a telescope turn out to be somewhat different from what he has led us to believe: the pansexual (that's somebody who is sexually attracted to everything) is actually a physiotherapist; the knacker is a painter-decorator; and the Zoroastrians are just a normal muslim family.

Although the plot and setting might appear mundane, Submarine's brilliance is in its defamiliarisation. (Viktor Shklovsky would have loved this book). Seeing the world through Tate's eyes we discover, not just that adolesence is a peculiar state of mind, but that suburban, middle-class life, can be even weirder. The novel is full of great observations on the ordinary: just why is it the responsibility of the person whose birthday it is to take the cake into work?

Viewing the world from an alien perspective is a constant source of humour in Submarine, but there is a darker edge to the comedy. When Oliver learns that his girlfriend's mother has a life-threatening tumour, he decides to accustom her to grief by assassinating her pet dog. Emotional ignorance rather than evil motivates his actions - Dunthorne demonstrating that innocence doesn't necessarily equate to being angelic.

Submarine is about the getting of knowledge, both experiential and intellectual. With the help of a dictionary and the internet, Tate strives to make sense of his world. As well as being a novelist, Dunthorne is a poet, and his relish and fascination for language has, clearly, been transferred to his leading protagonist. Thus, such delicious and strange words as triskaidekaphobia, flagitious, autarky and napthene are given an airing and, thankfully, their meanings explained.

From a Welsh point of view it is refreshing to read a Swansea-set novel that doesn't mention Dylan Thomas. The city, and surrounding areas, are given proper topographical substance: "There are wild horses on the scrags of grass on Mayhill. Some young men use them as public transport." Port Talbot steelworks is like: "Mrs Griffiths contrusting the world's ugliest simultaneous equation on the blackboard - all numbers, dashes, scraping and chalk dust." Marvellous.

Submarine by Joe Dunthorne is intelligent, extremely funny, and it's on sale now.

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

Helen Morgan on a Rocking Horse


Look! It's Helen Morgan wearing traditional Welsh costume whilst riding on a rocking horse. The rocking horse had been manufactured at Tri-ang's Merthyr factory and was being promoted at the 1974 Welsh Toy Fair in Cardiff. This picture was taken just a few months before the Barry beauty was crowned Miss World. Sadly, as we all know, Helen was forced to abdicate a few days after her triumph when organisers discovered she was an unmarried mother. Surely alarm bells ought to have been ringing when they heard she was from Barry? Helen may have had the Miss World title cruelly snatched from her grasp, but she became an instant icon for single mothers across the land.

Little-known Miss World fact: keep it under your hat but one of the judges at the 1974 competition was Wales's own Shirley Bassey.