A couple of weeks ago I finished reading this - Luke Haines (Auteurs main-man) memoir from the early 90s up to Dianas funeral in 1997 (second volume is forthcoming apparently).
Apart from the interesting Pulp mentions (on tour with them in France, the little chart wars he remembers between Auteurs and Pulp singles released on the same day - Lenny Valentino v Lipgloss, Chinese Bakery v Do You Remember The First Time?), its a caustic, bitter and very funny read about anyone remotely involved in what became forever branded Britpop. Pulp actually fare well in his ruminations compared to most of his other contemporaries. He loved Razzmatazz (explaining his cover I suppose) though wasnt so keen on Lipgloss.
It works because he arguably saves the best insults and denigration for himself and how his beligerence helped to mess-up his own commercial career.
Highly recommended - there's probably a few Auteurs fans here, Will and alphi (?) I think at least...but even if you're not too familiar with Luke Haines, it's very readable (and too short really) for any Pulp fan.
Anyway, below is an extract Ive typed-up. Its the summer of 1992 and Haines is in a panic over a certain independent record label owner having the rights to his music in a long-term (seeing as its Fire make that life-long) contract.
The below is a dream sequence where Luke fears he will be at the behest of Solomon forever until someone who understands his situation only too well, appears and saves the day...
In the one hand I have a torch and in the other a Stanley knife. Im feeling good , like Stanley Caper in a caper movie. A highly moral English robber. Im standing in the basement of Clive Solomons townhouse, which he has turned into an aquarium. An aquarium filled with thousands of tiny angelfish. Nobody saw me break in, only a hissing tomcat. When I told the cat what I was doing he didnt seem that bothered. He just shrugged his shoulders and said Do what youve got to do. Solomons a right cunt. I have come here to find my contract and to kill Clive Solomon. I shall enjoy killing him, for revenge and for fun. Cut the fucker up like Sharon Tate. Helter fucking skelter. A thousand dune buggies descending on Stoke Newington, murder madness Charlie Manson style. A light goes on upstairs - that bastard tom cat must have squealed on me, the fucker. There are so many fish tanks I cant decide which one to hide behind. I can hear footsteps getting closer. I stand stock still amid the fish, facing the huge velvet theatre curtains, I try and control my breathing, gripping hard on the Stanley knife and running my finger along the blade so that I draw blood. The curtains fly back and there in a golden dressing gown stands Clive Solomon, looking like the ghost of every awful Christmas rolled into one.
What the fuck do you thing you are doing? screams Solomon. Do you really think you would get away with it? continues the furious Svengali before adding sinisterly, My cat is a quisling - he tells all - and youll do time for this, lots of it, and when youre finally released youll still be mine. Before I can respond, a diabolical primeval roar issues forth from above. A youngish man dressed in only a loincloth leaps from the rafters and lands in a squatting position before Solomon. Its an astonishing athletic feat. Whats more, I recognise the young man smeared in war-paint. Hes the lead singer of Pulp, Jarvis Cocker. Pulp have been on Solomons label for years.
Hold my glasses says Jarvis, as he thrusts his bins towards me. I am now about to give you a given signal continues the Pulp main man as if there are more people in the room. Jarvis gives a blood-curdling scream - my God, its terrifying, and on cue, pale skinny young men appear from behind the fish tanks. Oh Christ, Ive walked into an indie uprising, I think to myself as I survey this army of embittered rockers, more used to wielding Gretsch guitars than the arsenal of homemade weaponry they are now in charge of.
I am now about to give you another signal, says warrior Jarvis in what will become his characteristically dry style, before issuing the signal, another blood-curdling scream. Now kill the cunt! roars the Pulp man, as he expertly hurls a home-made spear into the petrified Solomons throat. They must have history, I muse as half a dozen indie rockers leap upon the record company mogul, smashing him over the bonce with broken bottles. Within seconds the fucker is dead. I walk over to the lifeless body and give it a kick in the side. An ancient parchment contract falls out of the corpses dressing-gown pocket. Man this night is really turning out swell. Not only have I got my contract, but the wicked witch is also a goner. I turn to say something to Jarvis, but hes busy.
We must bleed him dry says man-of-the-people Jarvis to his followers. Come, lets commune says Pulps front man as he greedily guzzles a wine-glass full of Solomons blood. Some people really do hate you, I think, as I climb over Clive Solomons remains, which are now smoking and slowly dissolving. I let myself out the front door and see the treacherous cat looking sorry for himself. Lets forgive and forget I say. You were only doing your job. The physically dismantled tomcat has a tear in his eye. Come on catty, lunch is on me. I pick up the remorseful beast and sit him on my shoulder. Off we wander, home through a forest, to have lunch.
The self-hating Britpop artist schtick is getting really old. It must be so hard being a successful recording artist with a book deal and worldwide fans.
He writes articulately, is honest, to the point and very funny. I can see you liking it Fuss Free.
You're right, Eamonn, I probably would like it. I'm a sucker for this sort of thing. I also like The Auteurs and I occasionally like Black Box Recorder.
Regardless, I still think the endless litany of Britpop bashing, especially from those who benefitted most from it, is getting to be a bit annoying. All this indie-schmindie masochism seems so juvenile.
If you ask me, Britpop was the last time authentic indie music crossed over into the commercial mainstream in a big way. With mp3 and the death of the record industry, I doubt anything like it is ever going to happen again. I understand that there were some lapses of good judgement and some terrible mistakes made along the way, but that's all part of being young and idealistic and artistic and being caught up in the heat of the moment. It's time the bands that were lucky enough to benefit from it, and the fans who were there to enjoy it, should celebrate the memories instead endlessly trashing them.
Speaking personally, Britpop is inextricably tied to my youth, which is fading fast. I would like to believe that my youthful energy was applied to something worthwhile.
