Many of you reading this have suddenly encountered far more information about Vancouver than you’ve previously had available, and have heard all sorts of things that never cropped up here (due to my somewhat ‘unique’ viewpoint and particular passions shaping the contents thereof). The Winter Olympics have opened officially last night, proving once and for all that Canada has more than Mounties and Inuit making up the cultural mosaic.

Yes, we have fiddlers with wild tatto’oing and kids who can fly over fields of grain… but we have no snow, at least not here in Vancouver, which is why the Men’s Alpine Ski Competition has been postponed (they’re shipping snow from 150 miles away to several venues using dump trucks… no, honestly, they literally are doing that very thing).

Anyway, I may feel that building a transit corridor, re-building a highway, and constructing a convention centre collectively costing well over three billion dollars (for those of you in the UK, that’s $3,000 million, not $3 million million; the Canadian dollar hasn’t fallen that badly), yet the government responsible refusing to count the work required for the bid to be accepted as an Olympic Expense – all the while slashing arts, health, education, and community works funding, claiming “there’s no money” when asked for justification – is not only absurd but inhumane. I may resent the current PM, BC Premier, and a host of other politicians using the Olympic Games as photo opportunities for their ‘non-campaign’ for re-election (the party at both levels of power was different when the games were sought and awarded), and the fact that the PM has dissolved parliament at a time when it was politically wise to not be questioned in a public parliamentary forum about his every decision (and he refuses to engage in Q&A through press ‘scrums’). I resent a great deal of this nation’s attention, efforts, and volunteer labour being focused on a bunch of under-paid athletes doing something truly amazing that is held under the auspices of what amounts to a Multi-National Entertainment Corporation which claims to be altruistic about ‘the celebration of the pure sporting achievements’. Given the insane amount of cash that gets shovelled through the IOC from people like IBM, M^CDonalds, VISA, Omega, RBC-Dominion, NBC, Coca-Cola, and the rest, I’ve no idea how the IOC recently acquired an Observers Chair at the United Nations; especially given the UN’s stated policy that they do not engage with, represent the interests of, or liaise between corporations.

Anyway… beyond all that…

The Opening Ceremonies here in  town brought tears to my eyes more than once, and it was stunning (pity about only three of the legs for the cauldron working, though).

Meanwhile, outside…

Well, frankly, SmuttySteff covers the whole local protest issue far better than could be even imagined within my capabilities, frankly. For as start, I’d probably be more sweary. Read her take on the matter right here. Honesty do it: you’ll be glad you did.

So, this year seemed to have been bound and determined to close things off in the same way it carried things out the whole damned year, only in microcosm. Keep in mind the following all took place in the past 24 hours, and I’m not making anything up.

This afternoon I went to an office on Granville Island where a book awaits being picked up by me. It’s about new business marketing models taking into account the New Economy, yet is based on good, old-fashioned common sense. Sadly, they’re closed until January 5. Damn. Entirely my fault that I drove all the way across town without calling them first to make sure they were open, as was the lack of parking in the area (odd, considering this ought to be the ‘slack time’ for shopping there…), so there we are. I didn’t get a parking ticket for the expired parking meter, so that’s something.

On the way home, I stop in to check my lottery ticket, with unsuccessful results. Typical; the odds are against me, after all.

BANG! Right into the Mother Corp’s brand-new building!

Arrive home to discover that a parcel was delivered! But, it was while I’m out, so it’s not there and I’ll have to get it at the local post office depot tomorrow, after 13:00. Damn.

I try to match the bathroom tile – as part of the on-going project – at _____ Plumbing & Drainage, which seems a reasonable conclusion, given its name. The response therein was surprisingly blunt: “We’re a plumbing outfit!” Yes, well, this is bathroom tile, so… “First I’ve heard of that. We sell toilets!” The tiles are from a bathroom wall, which is the same room, so… “Bah!” Sorry to have wasted my your time.

Off to ____ Tile at the other end of my little town of Burnaby. The reaction from the girl behind the counter (and, trust me, this was a 20-year-old girl): “Wow this seems really old… did you buy that more than two years ago?” Attempting to control my hysterical laughter at the idea tile more than two-years-old could be considered “really old”, I merely reply “yes,” and don’t further explain to her that the socks and shorts I’m wearing are more than two years old. The chances are good that this tile is actually so old that her parents were not yet in puberty at the time it was purchased. Turns out that there will be a replacement available in plain, un-patterned, glossy, tile roughly matching the colour of the tiles we have now. Good, although not ideal. Fine, really, and certainly far easier than cleaning all the grout and mortar off the existing tiles without breaking them.

Driving around accomplishing all these tasks, however, was a bit of a task itself: the roads all a mess of directionless confusion. Why; especially as it’s the Tuesday between Christmas & New Year’s? Not a bloody clue! Getting to the second place about tile was a bit of a pain if you missed it initially, as you can only get into their parking lot from the one direction; once you’ve passed it, you enter the land of ‘you can’t get there from here’ road design. Mostly the roads were empty, except when attempting to go north through Willingdon and Canada Way, which was just as backed up past BCIT as it usually is. “Why am I doing this?” was a frequent refrain in the vehicle through most of this.

The radio is on, providing some tidbits of insanity:

• yesterday’s mystery metal box, found in a residential refrigerator by the home-owner was blown-up by the  Vancouver Police yesterday and they haven’t yet announced what was inside it;
  • ADDED LATER: apparently it was a box containing explosive material because it’s traditional to leave stuff that blows up in your mother’s fridge at Holiday Time, and police are seeking the house owner’s son;
• this morning a street guy stole a BMW following a verbal altercation with the driver, two people are dragged hanging on to the vehicle’s doors, as he reverses up one of Vancouver’s busiest streets and smashes it into the side of the CBC building which is so new it hasn’t even had that corner studio used yet (more details here, and also some photos here);
• the traffic report includes word of a police incident in Port Coquitlam where a plane had to make an emergency landing in the middle of Reeves Street near Gate’s Park
  • ADDED LATER: the emergency landing was in a soccer field, it was caused by fuel line problems; no-one was hurt but someone did have to move out of his way; and
• anyone deciding to travel to the USA aren’t allowed to bring anything with them into the aircraft cabin other than the clothes they’re standing-up in, because we’re all presumed to be guilty of consorting with terrorists (and yesterday the entire computer system at the airport was down for most of the day)

So… “2009: the year of WTF?!?!” in microcosm. What shall 2010 bring?

I’m terrified at the prospect, frankly.

For countless years (merely because I don’t have the courage to know how many are involved) the music of The Who has enveloped me. Hours have been wasted willingly devoted to listening to the arrangements and lyrical structures of the group’s songs, most of which were the creative output of the leader of the band: Pete Townshend.

Much of the need of discussion of the group’s ‘final tour’, followed startlingly quickly by a ‘re-union tour’, and then recently by simply ‘a tour’ followed by ‘another tour’ has been handled by many people before – including a lyrical jab by Joe Jackson in his song “Nineteen Forever”; he was one of the supporting acts on the ‘farewell tour’ – so permit me to speak specifically to the pair of remaining members regarding matters of their continuance of creative efforts.

Stop. Please, for the sake of yourselves and any respect I have for you, just stop.

When news of the album Endless Wire reached me, the thought that occurred was ‘it may be the first original album since 1982’s It’s Hard, but Pete’s always been the creative driving force for the band and he’s been hard at it in the intermediate period. You never know…’

In fact, the album is pretty good. Perhaps not perfect – there’s only so much recorded perfection people in their 60s can attain when in the middle of a cross-continental performing tour (most of the mixing was done during the day by Pete Townshend on the 2006 – 2007 tour) – and at least they were willing to ‘give it a go’. Somehow, something was lacking, however…

Something like 50% of the band, actually.

In 1978, Keith Moon, the band’s drummer, was found dead. Then in 2002, John Entwistle, who played bass, was found dead by the stripper who had shared cocaine and his bed during the preceding night. In effect, the four-man group is now half-dead, with only the original singer, Roger Daltrey, and guitarist / songwriter / leader, Mr. Townshend,  making up the surviving 50% of the original line-up.

Oddly, this is the same amount of surviving members of The Beatles, and we don’t see Ringo and The Big Macca touring and recording… but I digress…

My point here is that the excitement and original joi de vivre of the band isn’t there anymore. The whole of The Who was greater by far than the sum of its parts. As excellent as the drumming of Zak Starkey is, as well as the playing of bass guitar by Pino Palladino (the man tours with Jeff Beck, for Pete’s sake!), there was a certain energy created between the original members which cannot be matched with simple attention to timing and faithful reproduction of original recordings.

I’ve often thought that what needed to be done was the retiring of the name “The Who” when applied to Pete and Rog’. Perhaps they could call themselves “The Survivors”, or possibly “The Wholigans”, or even return to their original earlier name “The High Numbers” as a way of ‘starting afresh’. Sadly, I think even this is more than ought to be done.

Along with the CD of Endless Wire, you see, came a DVD of a portion of the group’s concert at Lyon, France. I’d not bothered to listen to it until a week or so ago.

Now I wish I hadn’t.

Oh. My. God.

Daltrey’s voice has never been one which has been described as being ‘too smooth’, or of having a bel canto delivery style; rough, raw, angry singing is his, reflecting the vox populi which was in short supply in popular music at the start of the 1960s. He has, however, been able to deliver both accurate notes and a full tone which has distinguished songs by The Who above others’ efforts in my list of “music what I does love, I does”.

Until now.

His voice on this recording is thin, scratchy, hesitant with entry notes, and at times is down-right out of tune. The demands of the road may be to blame – he’s in his mid-60s, and I can’t imagine my Father keeping up Daltrey’s schedule with any ease – but that’s no excuse for releasing the material.

So… here’s my plea to the two remaining boys in that very nice Rock & Roll band from Shepherd’s Bush: please stop touring, and please stop calling yourselves ‘The Who’. the work you’ve both already done is admirable for a career. Tremendous music has been recorded (and re-mastered for superior sound, thankfully), and you’ve shared it with us; we all thank you sincerely for it.

If albums are created in the studio under the moniker “Peter & Rodger’s Music Project”, they’ll be bought by many people, myself included. If you want to do a special evening of songs in an intimate setting – much like Pete’s Live > Sadler’s Wells 2000 event – then people will buy tickets to the event and copies of the recording; again, I’ll be there if possible, and will slap on the headphones when the CD is available. Pete’s writing and guitar-playing sits as the finest part of my vast musical collection, and Roger’s voice – until recently – only enhances the emotion of the songs.

But please, limit yourselves to the studio and ‘one-off gigs’. You’re starting to be put in the same category as the Rolling Stones: “when are they going to call it quits once and for all?”

All of the above is delivered with the utmost of respect for the musical body of work crafted over nearly a half-century.

It’s not often that a review appears here, but as this book seems unlikely to appear in a North American edition, or any other, in the foreseeable future, let’s have give it the exposure and analysis it deserves, for the sake of “The Future Generations” if nothing else.

While not entirely linear, Paperboy follows Christopher Fowler through his formative years, beginning with mid-1960 to less than a decade later when he moved into his own flat, at the insistence of his Mother. The years between then and the present are concertina-ed into a few pages mostly focusing on Mr. Fowler’s development as a writer of tales, a self-described “mid-lister” – entirely skipping over his efforts as pop-singer/song-writer, cinema promoter, James Bond stand-in, and artist’s model for a Batman villain – as well as interaction with the Father whose emotional turmoil caused those he loved so very much grief; emotional turmoil which was itself caused by the inevitable conflict between human nature’s need for expression and a societal repression of those same expressions.

Bill Fowler, the author’s father, is chief among those within the pages whom one can view incorrectly as ‘uncaring’ or even ‘destructive’ toward those around him. One must remember that Bill was part of the last group of people for whom instincts were something to be not just ignored, but repressed and eliminated. This was the only option provided by ‘Civilized Society’ as behaviour deemed acceptable. Trouble was something to be avoided, rather than viewed as a challenge to overcome or deal with. ‘Have a scotch, sit by the fire, and keep your mouth shut’ was the nearest thing to therapy available at that time (which would have been fine had the individual not been sitting by the fire alone). Were things particularly bad, you were declared ‘too far gone’ and then sent to Bedlam until you died, probably more of shame than any other malady.

During the 1960s, people ‘did the best they could’ to get though their day with whatever financial or occupational position they had; and mutual support was far more prevalent, likely due to understanding that if everyone helped each other get through a rough patch, things were better for everyone. Something which is important to remember is that ‘community’ was something more highly valued then than it is now. Dinner with relatives on holidays, constant contact with one’s neighbours, each day brought news and fellowship with people and was more therapeutic than any number of appointments with either a doctor or priest. This difference in society, and the way that individuals interacted,  is best expressed by the author:

Everyone tries the best they can, some people don’t fit together, but generally it gets sorted out in the end – I’m always amazed by people who need a third party (therapists) to sort out their lives for them. It never really happened in England. Everyone just went to the pub or had a cup of tea to forget about their problems. There’s a very good support system here in the sense that people like to get involved – although I think it’s getting less as I get older (friends dropping off one by one).

It is altogether simple to read about Mr. Fowler’s paternal grandmother and dismiss her as “a crotchety, old, perfectionist, control freak” and entirely miss the fact that not only was she able to raise children through a depression, then a devastating war, and then the equally devastating post-war condition of at least a decade of rationing on all but a few items. To do this at all is considerable. To do so successfully requires the skills of an accountant who is both infinitely patient and in full command of ESP. Certainly, her approach to social interaction left a bit to be desired by her relatives, but no one can really understand what influences others’ behaviour patterns, even if they happen to have grown-up at the same time in the same street. That said, the extreme behaviour of individuals such as Mr. Fowler’s Grandmother is bound to both affect and effect those with whom she came in contact, and the spreading of hatred – hatred of others or selves – is forgiveable only after time and distance; usually accompanied with an appreciation of their gifts, however small or infrequent they might have been experienced.

Many of those under fifty have had similar experiences to Mr. Fowler’s as they grew-up, especially those of WASP origin: conversation and references to anyone ‘different’ were filled with euphemisms. I recall someone in a local restaurant suffering from severe autism being referred to as ‘in a bad way’; even after Prime Minister Trudeau declared that “the Government has no place in the bedrooms of the nation”, certain males were described as ‘a confirmed bachelor’; and mental health wasn’t at all discussed, beyond some occasionally being termed ‘withdrawn’ instead of ‘living with depression’, or a very shame-filled declaration that someone had “suffered a Nervous Breakdown”. This attitude toward any personal state, or mental health in general, thankfully improved over the most recent three decades as self-awareness, medication, therapeutic techniques, and realistic approaches to life and love’s many forms became better understood. Those of us who have benefited greatest from these advances can only guess at what life might be like had their individual character traits been either un-treated, not respected or blasted out of existence by ‘cultural re-programming’. The path taken through life by anyone of an artistic nature is difficult enough without adding ‘shame’, isolation, or intolerance to the matter.

As incomprehensible as it seems to us now, people hugging their children – never mind telling them that they were loved — was not something which was done. It’s no wonder then, than when concern for one’s offspring turned to worry, then to fretting, then frustration, that the logical conclusion would be violence as a manifestation of that original interest in the well-being of others. It’s this predicament that Mr. Fowler witnessed, not just in the behaviour of his father, but also the effect it had upon himself, his Mother, and his Brother. All of the family – Bill Fowler included – coped admirably using nothing more than their own mental resources.

The book is not filled with tear-stained examples of ‘this is why we don’t act like that any more’, however; as helpful as that illustrative material is when taken as such. When in the midst of it, no child will think to themselves ‘goodness, if only we had socialised mental health programmes, my parents would be so much better!’ Well, granted, the teen-agers of the 1990s probably did…

Right from the outset, the reader is immersed in wonderfully humour-filled descriptions of a life filled with Hancock’s Half-Hour (wherein the GLBT community was given the stereotypical voice of “I’m Julian and this is ‘my friend’ Sandy”), the importance of comic book heroes being true to their character forms, an improving sense of others his own age accepting and supporting others no matter who they happened to be, the sensuous frisson of fear delivered by the horror films of Hammer Productions, the increasingly racially desegregated populace, a number of musical influences, and the author’s joyful discover of libraries (the first of which surely formed the base for one appearing late-on in the “Bryant & May” series of mysteries). All of this contributes directly to the inevitable conclusion of selecting ‘writing’ as the last to which Mr. Fowler has chained himself to so successfully. We know it must end this way — his vast output as an author makes this abundantly clear – but the manner in which he arrived at his ultimate destination is none the less fascinating in the examination of it.

Yet, more than anything, one acquires an understanding of what it takes to create a writer from whole cloth. Simply to say ‘it’s hard work’ or ‘you just feel the need to write’ is hardly enough to put the matter into words, albeit entirely correct. Page 295 of Paperboy finds the following explanation of how the drive to be a writer – a really good writer – creates a yearning in someone in order to accomplish it; whatever the cost may be:

The author, as photographed by Mr. Martin Butterworth

Novels, I was told by one publisher who had rejected my work, were commodities sold like tins of biscuits, and the sweeter the taste, the more you could sell. But to me, the most important thing was that they had to contain fresh ingredients, not recycled ideas from other people. I realized now that my mother had been trying to tell me this for years; I had simply not been listening to her.¹

Still, I had delayed. I had been afraid to try, and risk failure. I remembered my father angrily snapping off the volume dial on his transistor radio while listening to Movie-Go-Round because an actor had said that performing required an act of courage. Courage, said Bill, was still working on the roads at sixty-five, spreading tar even though you knew it was giving you lung cancer, as his own father had done. Courage wasn’t mincing about on a stage or fiddling with a pen.

But in a way that Bill could never understand, it was. For years I was sure that if I failed as a writer, there would be nothing else left for me. If I could not achieve the one thing in life I tried hardest to do, it would be tough living with the loss of my dreams. How many people set out to change their worlds, only to find themselves in a state of perpetual downward revision and disappointment?

The events told in this book ring all the right bells to provide both an entertaining read, as well as a view of the life of a gifted writer. One reads about the encountering of an obstacle with a feeling of sorrow for the boy, and then a resultant triumphal cheer as the same obstacle is overcome. To not only be interested by an autobiography, but to care about its events and those experiencing them, is something altogether too rarely seen. While avoiding the easy choice of only including the happy sort of ‘and then I read…’ events, this memoir stands as both a microcosm of London in the last century both holy and profane, as well as a damned good way to have the reader appreciate just what ‘being a writer’ is all about.

It is unreservedly that Paperboy is set upon the shelf with both reverence and an intention to re-read it at some point soon. Equally unreservedly I shall state that this book was well-written, readable, and very enjoyable. You’ll do well to locate a copy in the library, or perhaps order a copy directly from an English book dealer.

Paperboy (A Memoir) by Christopher Fowler; PP 304, ISBN: 978−0−385615−5−70; published in 2009 by Doubleday, a imprint of Transworld Publishers, London, W5; a Random House Group Company.

Oddly, this week’s post didn’t happen as I didn’t feel up to anything.

One says ‘oddly’ because the amount of typing I’ve done in the comments section of this post over on Raincoaster’s blog is far and away more work than a post here would have been. That said, one had far more fun there than my post here would have been.

Pop over and watch the fun.