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Showing posts from June, 2011

The Young Mod's Forgotten Story - Part 2

Pete Townshend coined the term power-pop back in 1967. He said it was what the Kinks, the Small Faces and the Who were playing. Meaty Beaty Big And Bouncy nails it. Fourteen singles spanning the years 1965-69. The Kids Are Alright; Anyway, Anyhow, Anywhere; I Can’t Explain;Substitute; Magic Bus – each one a worn thin groove on an old LP. And that album sleeve, the sepia toned Who circa 1971, bearded and long-haired, leering out the window at a bunch of scruffy kids on the steps of a derelict terrace. It says, ‘that’s who we were and this is who we are’. By 1978, the Jam have infused power pop with the anger and energy of punk. Weller writes songs of frustration, youth, lost love and broken promises. Rickenbacker poetry that speaks to suburban kids and pisses off Tony Blackburn on Radio One Round Table. But fire and skill’s not all the Jam cut and paste from the 100 Club days. There’s that get off your arse and do it yourself attitude. Summer 1981 and I’m trying to make up for a wrecke…

EVENT: Summer Murders in the Library

Another great initiative at Cleethorpes Library this summer. I'm taking the British gangster session 'From Brighton Rock to Lock Stock...' to the East Coast and running a crimewriting workshop afterwards. Be prepared for classic British crime in film and fiction and a smattering of Get Carter.
'Who's Brumby?' said Keith. 'Cliff Brumby?' I said. 'Ever been to Cleethorpes?' Keith nodded. 'Ever walked into an arcade a put a penny in a slot machine?' 'Yes,' said Keith. 'Well, ten to one the slot machine belongs to Brumby...'
from Get Carter by Ted Lewis.

For more information or to book a place, contact Cleethorpes Library (01472 323650).


Thanks to Paul D Brazill for publishing Nina, a new short story over at his place. To read:

The Young Mod's Forgotten Story - Part 1

It’s Saturday, a chill spring evening in a suburban high street. It’s a while ago, years in fact. The early 80s. Another of those ‘low, dishonest decades’ as it turned out. So far it is a time unshaped by the media and not yet written off with lazy montages of riot police, blooded miners, city traders, yuppies and ubiquitous breeze-block mobiles. We're creating our own images.
Between the parade of shops set back from the high street is a broad sweep of pavement. Vespas and Lambrettas are parked up in front of the Wimpy. Some are vintage, some custom paint jobs, a couple of DIY cut downs; others are more recent models, Vespa P-Ranges. None really subscribe to that ‘Chrome By Colin’ lights and mirrors shtick – way too slow and by now, a stereotype.
The lads, their mates and girlfriends hang around in small knots, smoking, chatting, taking the piss.  A few of us nip into in the Wimpy for a cuppa, others emerge from the graffiti covered alleyway by the Commodore – the fleapit. Standin…