Гитарист The Who Пит Тауншенд выпустил автобиографию

Пит Тауншенд, гитарист группы The Who выпустил автобиографию под названием «Who I Am», презентация которой состоялась в Нью-Йорке в одном из книжных магазинов сети Barnes And Noble. На встрече Пита Тауншенда с основателем RS Яном Веннером, музыкант пригласил Веннера стать ведущим этого мероприятия.

Гитарист группы The Who Пит Тауншенд издал давно задуманную автобиографию. Издание было представлено в центре Нью-Йорка в сети одного из книжных магазинов Barnes And Noble. Как рассказал музыкант на встрече:

«Я давно задумал эту книгу, - рассказал музыкант. - Я хотел рассказать всем, как жилось в послевоенной Англии, передать атмосферу, царившую в этой стране».

На прошлой неделе, 9 октября, по поводу презентации своей автобиографии Пит Тауншенд встретился с основателем RS Яном Веннером и пригласил его стать ведущим презентации его книги, которая получила название «Who I Am».

На встречу с читателями и поклонниками, Пит Тауншенд пришел с гитарой и исполнил для присутствующих песню «Won't Get Fooled Again».

https://www.beatles.ru/news/news.asp?news_id=8630

Судя по своим представлениям о Тауншенде, верю, что книга должна
быть очень интересной! Переведут?

Становлюсь в очередь за книжкой! Любопытно.

Хочу прочесть !

Наверняка будет толстая и у нас такую никто издавать не будет.

А у нас вообще много книг то про The Who вышло? Никому не надо ведь

как же я всегда вхожу в ступор от таких заголовков...
неужели нельзя просто написать вместо "Гитарист The Who" Пит Тауншенд??

2Roger Keith Barrett:

>А у нас вообще много книг то про The Who вышло?
>Никому не надо ведь

Ну у нас издатели иногда издают по непонятным факторам. Би Джиз, Прокол Харум, Патти Смит, "Белые велосипеды".

2Лена me mine:

>как же я всегда вхожу в ступор от таких заголовков...
>неужели нельзя просто написать вместо "Гитарист
>The Who" Пит Тауншенд??

Не факт, что все знают, кто это.

2илюха:

>Наверняка будет толстая и у нас такую никто издавать
>не будет.

hardcover, 544 страницы

У нас Гуральника про Элвиса в свое время ЭКСМО издало, сопоставимой толщины. Ну и, конечно, опять нельзя не отметить тех же Би Джиз Омнибусовское издание.

на AMAZON'е можно полистать начало книги включая оглавление и первые 3 главы
http://www.amazon.com/Who-I-Am-A-Memoir/dp/0062127241
Обложка с портретом - супер!

2илюха:
>Не факт, что все знают, кто это.
А все знают, что это за группа The Who?) :)
но, я смотрю, уже немного подправили :)

2Norwegian Voodoo:
>на AMAZON'е можно полистать начало книги включая
>оглавление и первые 3 главы
> http://www.amazon.com/Who-I-Am-A-Memoir/dp/0062127241

спасибо!

куплю

ТаунСХенд

вытащила с амазона первые 4 главы

WHO I AM

ACT ONE

WAR MUSIC

You didn’t hear it.
You didn’t see it.
You won’t say nothing to no one.
Never tell a soul
What you know is the truth

‘1921’ (1969)

Don’t cry
Don’t raise your eye
It’s only teenage wasteland

‘Baba O’Riley’ (1971)

And I’m sure – I’ll never know war

‘I’ve Known No War’ (1983)

1

I WAS THERE

It’s extraordinary, magical, surreal, watching them all dance to my feedback guitar solos; in the audience my art-school chums stand straight-backed among the slouching West and North London Mods, that army of teenagers who have arrived astride their fabulous scooters in short hair and good shoes, hopped up on pills. I can’t speak for what’s in the heads of my fellow bandmates, Roger Daltrey, Keith Moon or John Entwistle. Usually I’d be feeling like a loner, even in the middle of the band, but tonight, in June 1964, at The Who’s first show at the Railway Hotel in Harrow, West London, I am invincible.
We’re playing R&B: ‘Smokestack Lightning’, ‘I’m a Man’, ‘Road Runner’ and other heavy classics. I scrape the howling Rickenbacker guitar up and down my microphone stand, then flip the special switch I recently fitted so the guitar sputters and sprays the front row with bullets of sound. I violently thrust my guitar into the air – and feel a terrible shudder as the sound goes from a roar to a rattling growl; I look up to see my guitar’s broken head as I pull it away from the hole I’ve punched in the low ceiling.
It is at this moment that I make a split-second decision – and in a mad frenzy I thrust the damaged guitar up into the ceiling over and over again. What had been a clean break becomes a splintered mess. I hold the guitar up to the crowd triumphantly. I haven’t smashed it: I’ve sculpted it for them. I throw the shattered guitar carelessly to the ground, pick up my brand-new Rickenbacker twelve-string and continue the show.
That Tuesday night I stumbled upon something more powerful than words, far more emotive than my white-boy attempts to play the blues. And in response I received the full-throated salute of the crowd. A week or so later, at the same venue, I ran out of guitars and toppled the stack of Marshall amplifiers. Not one to be upstaged, our drummer Keith Moon joined in by kicking over his drumkit. Roger started to scrape his microphone on Keith’s cracked cymbals. Some people viewed the destruction as a gimmick, but I knew the world was changing, and a message was being conveyed. The old, conventional way of making music would never be the same.
I had no idea what the first smashing of my guitar would lead to, but I had a good idea where it all came from. As the son of a clarinettist and saxophonist in the Squadronaires, the prototypical British Swing band, I had been nourished by my love for that music, a love I would betray for a new passion: rock ’n’ roll, the music that came to destroy it.
I am British. I am a Londoner. I was born in West London just as the devastating Second World War came to a close. As a working artist I have been significantly shaped by these three facts, just as the lives of my grandparents and parents were shaped by the darkness of war. I was brought up in a period when war still cast shadows, though in my life the weather changed so rapidly it was impossible to know what was in store. War had been a real threat or a fact for three generations of my family.
In 1945 popular music had a serious purpose: to defy postwar depression and revitalise the romantic and hopeful aspirations of an exhausted people. My infancy was steeped in awareness of the mystery and romance of my father’s music, which was so important to him and Mum that it seemed the centre of the universe. There was laughter and optimism; the war was over. The music Dad played was called Swing. It was what people wanted to hear. I was there.

2

IT’S A BOY!

I have just been born, war is over, but not completely.
‘It’s a boy!’ someone shouts from the footlights. But my father keeps on playing.
I am a war baby though I have never known war, born into a family of musicians on 19 May 1945, two weeks after VE Day and four months before VJ Day bring the Second World War to an end. Yet war and its syncopated echoes – the klaxons and saxophones, the big bands and bomb shelters, V2s and violins, clarinets and Messerschmitts, mood-indigo lullabies and satin-doll serenades, the wails, strafes, sirens, booms and blasts – carouse, waltz and unsettle me while I am still in my mother’s womb.
Two memories linger for ever like dreams that, once remembered, are never forgotten.
I am two years old, riding on the top deck of an old tram that Mum and I have boarded at the top of Acton Hill in West London. The tram trundles past my future: the electrical shop where Dad’s first record will go on sale in 1955; the police station where I’ll go to retrieve my stolen bike; the hardware store that mesmerises me with its thousands of perfectly labelled drawers; the Odeon where I will attend riotous Saturday movie matinees with my pals; St Mary’s Church where years from now I sing Anglican hymns in the choir and watch hundreds of people take communion, but never do so myself; the White Hart pub where I first get properly drunk in 1962 after playing a regular weekly gig with a school rock band called The Detours, that will one day evolve into The Who.
I am a little older now, my second birthday three months past. It’s the summer of 1947 and I’m on a beach in bright sunshine. I’m still too young to run around, but I sit up on the blanket enjoying the smells and sounds: sea air, sand, a light wind, waves murmuring against the shore. My parents ride up like Arabs on horseback, spraying sand everywhere, wave happily, and then ride off again. They are young, glamorous, beautiful, and their disappearance is like the challenge of an elusive grail.
Dad’s father, Horace Townshend (known as Horry), was prematurely bald at thirty, but still striking with his aquiline profile and thick-rimmed glasses. Horry, a semi-professional musician/composer, wrote songs and performed in summer entertainments at seasides, parks and music halls during the 1920s. A trained flautist, he could read and write music, but he liked the easy life and never made much money.
Horry met Grandma Dorothy in 1908. They worked together as entertainers and married two years later, when Dot was eight months pregnant with their first child, Jack. As an infant, Uncle Jack remembered his parents busking on Brighton Pier while little Jack watched nearby. A grand lady walked up, admired their efforts and threw a shilling into their hat. ‘For which good cause are you collecting?’ she asked.
‘For ourselves,’ Dot said.
Dot was striking and elegant. A singer and dancer who could read music, she performed at concert parties, sometimes alongside her husband, and later contributed to Horry’s songwriting. She was cheerful and positive, though rather vain and a bit of a snob. Between performances Horry and Dot conceived my father, Clifford Blandford Townshend, who was born in 1917, a companion for his older brother Jack.
Mum’s parents, Denny and Maurice, lived in Paddington during Mum’s early childhood. Though obsessive about cleanliness, Denny was not a careful guardian. Mum remembers hanging out the upstairs window with her baby brother, Maurice, Jr, waving at her father driving past on his milk float. The little boy nearly slipped out.
Granddad Maurice was a sweet man who was cruelly jilted when Denny – after eleven years of marriage – abruptly ran off with a wealthy man, who kept her as his mistress. On that day Mum came home from school to an empty house. Denny had taken all the furniture except for a bed, leaving only a note with no address. It took Maurice several years to track the wayward woman down, but they were never reconciled.
Maurice and the two children moved in with his mother, Ellen. Mum, just ten, contributed to running the house, and fell directly under her Irish grandmother’s influence. Mum was ashamed of the mother who had abandoned her, but proud of her grandmother Ellen, who taught her to modulate her speaking voice to round out the Irish in it. Mum became adept at mimicking various accents, and showed an early aptitude for music.
Eventually, as a teenager, Mum moved in with her maternal Aunt Rose in North London. I remember Rose as an extraordinary woman, self-assured, intelligent, well read; she was a lesbian, living quietly but openly with her partner.
Like me, Dad was a teenage rebel. Before the war he and his best friend were members of Oswald Mosley’s fascist Blackshirts. He was ashamed of this later, of course, but forgave himself – they were young, and the uniforms were glamorous. Instead of staying with Prokofiev’s clarinet studies, through which he’d brilliantly stormed for two hours every morning, Dad at sixteen chose to play at bottle parties, an English variant on the speakeasy. The musicianship required of him at these gigs demanded little of his skill. Throughout his life he was over-qualified, technically, for the music he played.

Within a few years Dad was performing around London with Billy Wiltshire and his Piccadilly Band, playing music for dancing or lounging at bars – ‘bar-stooling’, as it was known. In the interval between two world wars, sophistication, glamour and light-heartedness obscured an underlying fear of extinction. The big issues were hidden in clouds of cigarette smoke and innovative popular music. Sex was, as ever, the ingredient that would calm the anxious heart. Yet in the music of my father’s era, sexual energy was implied rather than displayed, hidden behind the cultivated elegance of men and women in evening dress.
War and music brought my parents together. Dad enlisted in the RAF in 1940 and played saxophone and clarinet in small bands to entertain his colleagues as part of his duties. By 1945 he was playing in the RAF Dance Orchestra, one of the largest in any of the services. Recruited from enlisted men who had been members of well-known bands and directed by Sergeant Leslie Douglas, it has been described as the greatest dance orchestra Britain ever produced. It was, in its own way, revolutionary. Its secret weapon was Swing, still not generally acceptable to society at large, but the common people loved it. Dad had secured the job because Vera Lynn’s husband, saxophonist Harry Lewis, although in the RAF, was afraid of flying and didn’t want to fly to Germany. And in fact when the motorcycle messenger shouted out the news of my birth from the footlights, Dad was away in Germany, playing saxophone for the troops.
Mum falsified her age to enlist in 1941. A gifted singer, she became a vocalist in Dad’s band. A concert programme for 18 June 1944 at Colston Hall, Bristol, lists her singing ‘Star Eyes’, ‘All My Life’ (a duet with the handsome Sergeant Douglas) and ‘Do I Worry’. Dad is featured as the soloist on ‘Clarinet Rhapsody’ and ‘Hot and Anxious’. According to a sleeve note, the RAF Dance Orchestra directed the ear of the public. ‘From slush to music with a beat, the rhythm had flexibility, the soloist more room for expression.’
When the war ended the band chose to go by its popular name: the Squadronaires.
According to Mum, the early years of her marriage were lonely. ‘I never saw Dad. He was never there. And when he was, he was over the road in the bloody White Lion or up at the Granville.’ Cheerful, good-looking and quick to buy a round at the bar, Dad was popular in the local pubs, where his musical success made him a bit of a celebrity.
Mum’s loneliness may help explain why she was so angry with my father for being absent at my birth. Mum, who had been living with Dad’s parents, showed her resentment by moving out. She knew a Jewish couple, Sammy and Leah Sharp, musicians from Australia, who lived with their son in one big room, and Mum and I moved in with them. Leah took me over. I don’t remember her, but Mum described her as ‘one of these people who loved to do all the bathing and pram-pushing and all that lark’. Mum, less interested in ‘all that lark’ – and still working as a singer – was grateful for the help.
In 1946 my parents reconciled, and the three of us moved to a house in Whitehall Gardens, Acton. Our next-door neighbours included the great blind jazz pianist George Shearing and the cartoonist Alex Graham, whose studio, with its adjustable draughting board, huge sheets of paper, inks and complicated pens, fascinated me, and planted the seeds that later inspired me to go to art college.
We shared our house with the Cass family, who lived upstairs and, like many of my parents’ closest friends, were Jewish. I remember noisy, joyous Passovers with a lot of Gefilte fish, chopped liver and the aroma of slow-roasting brisket. Each family had three rooms, a kitchen and a bathroom, but no inside toilet. Ours was in the back yard, and our toilet paper was a few squares of newspaper hung on a nail. Between the cold and the spiders, my trips there never lasted long.
I slept in the dining room. My parents seemed to have little sense of the need to provide me with a place of my own, where I could leave my toys or drawings out without feeling I was encroaching on adult territory. I had no sense of privacy, or even any awareness that I deserved it.
Mum gave up singing and later regretted it, but she always worked. She helped run the Squadronaires from their office in Piccadilly Circus, and often took me on the tour bus, where I basked in the easygoing attitude of the band and looked after the empty beer bottles. Our road trips always ended at a small seaside hotel, a holiday camp or an ornate theatre full of secret stairways and underground corridors.
Charlie, who managed the road crew, was the butt of numerous practical jokes, but the Squadronaires clearly loved him. The impact of Mum and Dad’s daily influence on me waned a little in the presence of the band, which was like a travelling boys’ club. Mum was the singing doll in residence, and Dad’s musicianship gave him a special status among his peers. Dad always worked for at least an hour on scales and arpeggios, and his morning practice seemed magical in its complexity. In rock today we use simpler language: he was fast.
The holiday camp was a peculiarly British institution – a working-class destination for a summer week of revelry that often included entertainment in the form of a band like the Squadronaires. The one-family-per-hut layout of the camps didn’t seem ideally suited to illicit sexual liaisons. But if, instead of a family in one of these huts, you imagine a small group of young men in one, and young women in another, you begin to understand the possibilities.

There was an egalitarian feeling about holiday camps, but I always felt a little superior to the ordinary folk rotating through. After all, I was with the band, and I was there for the whole summer, sometimes as long as sixteen weeks. From behind the stage curtain I discovered the magic of capturing the campers’ attention. I grew up with a feel for what entertains people, and saw the price this sometimes demanded. As a stunt to amuse the camping plebs, each afternoon at two o’clock Dad was pushed from the highest board into the swimming pool below, fully dressed in his band uniform. Emerging from the water still playing his old clarinet, he pretended to be sad, defeated. As a child I felt this rather too deeply. My shining Dad is humiliated, I used to think, so you camping plebs can get a laugh.
I learned to set myself apart from those ordinary folk, the customers who indirectly paid for our keep. To this day when I go to a concert in which I’m not performing I always feel a little lost. And I always think of my dad.
In September 1949, aged four, I attended Silverdale Nursery in Birch Grove, Acton, which probably appealed to Mum because she thought I looked cute in the school uniform, a red blazer and hat. Mum herself was naturally glamorous, and when clothes rationing ended after the war Mum outfitted herself like a Hollywood film star. Her in-laws disapproved. Why was she spending Dad’s hard-earned money on clothes and sending me to private school when she should have been pushing a pram?
I was happy, though. Whitehall Gardens was one of a series of streets overrun with little boys my own age. Our gang was led by my best friend who we all called Jimpy, after a character with a similar quiff in a popular Daily Mirror cartoon. Like all kids, we played football, cricket, hide-and-seek and cowboys and Indians – our favourite game. War games were limited to toy soldiers or model vehicles: the real thing was still too raw a memory.
Our fantasies were inspired by films we saw on Saturday matinees: Roy Rogers, Hopalong Cassidy, Flash Gordon, The Three Stooges, Charlie Chaplin, Laurel and Hardy, Looney Tunes, Disney cartoons and the rest. Laurel and Hardy were the funniest people on the planet. Chaplin seemed out of date to me, but then practically all the films we saw had been made before the war.
Once we got out of the house we could do pretty much what we liked. We sneaked under fences, onto railway sidings, scrumped apples from trees in people’s gardens, threw stones at ducks, opened any garage door left unlocked (cars were a great curiosity), and followed the milkman and his horse-drawn cart all the way to Gunnersbury Park, a round trip of about ten miles.
Jimpy and I both had tricycles, and one day, still only four, we both rode mine to the park to attempt a new downhill duo speed record on the steep path in front of the manor house. I stood on the back axle and Jimpy steered. The bike became uncontrollable at high velocity so we could only go straight ahead – crashing right into a raised brick planter at the foot of the hill. We ended up with our faces in the soil, shocked and bloody. The bike was so badly bent we couldn’t ride it back home. My nosebleed lasted two days.

***

In 1950, when I turned five, I didn’t go to the local free state junior school with my pals. Mum, still thinking I looked cute in uniform, sent me to the private Beacon House School, two-thirds of a mile from our home. I knew none of the children there, remember no one I met there and hated almost every minute of it.
The school occupied a single-family house, and assembly was held in a small back room into which we marched each morning singing ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ like a bunch of brainwashed Chinese Communists. After an inedible lunch we were expected to nap at our desks for fifteen minutes. If we moved a muscle we were scolded; further fidgeting could lead to ruler slaps, or worse. I was caned several times, and whacked with the teacher’s rubber-soled slipper.
On one occasion I was so hurt and humiliated that I complained to my parents. They spoke to the headmistress at the school, who responded by singling me out for especially cruel treatment. Now I wasn’t even allowed to go to the toilet during the day, and I sometimes helplessly soiled myself on the long walk home from school. Afraid of even worse retribution from the school, I didn’t say another word about it to my parents. I went to Jimpy’s and received the sympathy – and fresh underpants – that I couldn’t find at home.
Around this time Mum started taking me to ballet lessons. I walked into a room and saw twenty toe-twinkling girls in tutus, giggling at me. I was one of only a few boys in the group. One day, after I misbehaved, the teacher pulled down my tights, bent me over a bathtub and spanked me while the girls gathered excitedly around the bathroom door.
Perhaps perversely, I enjoyed ballet classes. I am almost a dancer today because of them. Although even now, in my sixties, I am prone to slouching like an adolescent – indeed a photograph of me as a young man is used in a book about the Alexander Technique as an example of ‘post-adolescent collapse’ – I can move well on my feet, and a lot of my stagecraft is rooted in what I learned in those first few ballet classes. But Dad voiced his uneasiness at Mum taking me, so she stopped.
Towards the end of the Squadronaires’ summer touring season, the band’s busiest period, Mum got a phone call from Rosie Bradley, a good friend of my grandmother Denny’s brother, my Great Uncle Tom. She lived in Birchington, on the corner opposite Denny’s bungalow, and had been passing increasingly troubling news of Denny on to Mum.
During the summer of 1951 Denny was acting in a bizarre way and Rosie couldn’t tell how much of it was due to menopause. Mr Buss, Denny’s wealthy lover, had responded by sending money. Rosie thought Mum should go down and see to her. Rosie described a recent delivery Denny had received, prompting her to call over the road, ‘Rosie, Rosie! Come and have a look at this!’ In the boxes were four evening dresses and two fur coats, yet Denny was still walking around the streets in a dressing gown in the middle of the night. Rosie described Mum’s mother’s behaviour as ‘quite bonkers’.
After contacting my parents, Rosie persuaded Mr Buss to rent a two-bedroom flat for Denny above a stationer’s shop in Station Road, Westgate. Still, Mum worried. ‘Cliff,’ she said to Dad, ‘I think she’s going batty. Do you think perhaps Pete could go down there? He could go to that little school, St Saviours. That might sort it all out.’ And this, strange as it may seem, is how I got sent to live with my grandmother in Westgate, and descended into the darkest part of my life.
Denny’s domestic notions were downright Victorian. She ordered her own day, and mine, with military precision. We woke up before six and had breakfast, toast for her and cornflakes and tea for me – unless I’d done something wrong; her favourite punishment was denying me food. She granted me affection only when I was silent, perfectly behaved, utterly compliant and freshly washed – which is to say, never. She was a perfect wicked witch, even occasionally threatening me with gypsy curses. What had been in my parents’ minds when they chose to send me to live with her?
When I began at St Saviours at age six I came bottom of the class for reading and writing. By the time I finished I was on the top desk. That, I suppose, was the good part of going to live with Denny. I wrote a letter to Aunt Rose, Denny’s older sister, who returned my letter covered with red spelling and grammatical corrections. I was hurt by this, but Aunt Rose also told Denny that I was too old to be unable to read and write properly, and suggested Denny read me half of a suspenseful book, then stop and give it to me to finish. Denny read me Black Beauty by Anna Sewell, and the ploy worked. Caught up not just in the story but also in the unfamiliar comfort of being read to, I immediately picked up the book and finished it off.

I don’t remember any other books from my time with Denny. One of my few amusements was playing with the knobs on a chest of drawers, pretending they were the controls of a submarine. I also listened to Children’s Hour on the radio; the ‘Toytown’ adventures with Larry the Lamb and Dennis the Dachshund were pretty good.
Opposite our flat was the bus station. Denny would call out the window and invite the drivers to come up for a cup of tea. Sometimes she’d take tea over to them, or send me. Denny saw nothing unusual about going out into the street in her nightdress under a dressing gown, and I didn’t mind crossing the street in my pyjamas to give a cup of tea to a bus driver, but I was upset when she asked me to go further, to the local newsagent or grocer, where I would come upon grown-ups on their way to work, looking at me oddly.
Denny would get me up at five in the morning and she’d pack various items of food prepared the night before, including sponge cakes in baking tins. We’d march to various prearranged assignations, usually with American Air Force officers. There were brief exchanges, Denny passing over a sandwich or a tin, but what she received in return I don’t know. I remember large flashy cars with half-opened windows. I also vaguely remember a man I had to call ‘uncle’, who was deaf in one ear, staying the night a few times. He had a little Hitler moustache.
The whole affair left me angry and resentful. I’ve spent years of psychotherapy trying to understand it. In 1982 my therapist urged me to try to push through to some clearer level of recall by writing about these morning exchanges. I started to write, and as I began describing a meeting – the Air Force officer winding down his window, Denny leaning in – I suddenly remembered for the first time the back door of the car opening. I began to shake uncontrollably and couldn’t write any more, or remember anything else. My memory just shut down.
Our flat opened onto the first-floor landing, and my room was never locked; the key was kept on the outside. When I was afraid at night I’d run to Denny’s room. If her door was unlocked, she shooed me away; if it was locked, she’d feign sleep and wouldn’t respond. To this day I still wake up terrified, sweating with fear, shaking with rage at the fact that my door to the landing was always kept unlocked at night. I was a tiny child, just six years old, and every night I went to sleep feeling incredibly exposed, alone and unprotected.
In addition to the buses, we also had a view of the train station. I loved to look at the magnificent steam engines, fantasising about sharing the moment with a friend, brother, sister – someone. My last thoughts before sleep often focused on longing for physical affection. Denny didn’t touch me apart from slapping me, brutally scrubbing my body in the bath or ducking my head under the water to wash off the soap. One night, when Denny lost her temper, she held my head under for a long time.
At St Saviours there were a few children from the nearby American air base. One tall, lanky boy came to school wearing a jaunty seersucker suit – still de rigueur in certain parts of the USA. His parents were oblivious to any ridicule this might provoke. That is, until Rosie Bradley’s son Robert and I taunted him to the point of tears while his hapless mother walked him home. The fact that I took part in this bullying shames me to this day.
The school’s fat, balding, insincerely jolly headmaster was Mr Matthews. The window in Mr Matthews’s study faced the playground, and his favourite ritual was to cane children at his desk with an audience of jeering children gathered outside. I ended up at his desk one day, I can’t remember what for. I bent over the desk, facing the window full of eager, greedy faces ready to feed on my pain, but to their great disappointment Mr Matthews let me off.
When Mum paid the occasional visit to Denny and me at Westgate, she gave off an aura of London glamour and of being in a hurry, but also of being unreliable. Meanwhile Denny was running after bus drivers and airmen, and I was miserable. I had lost my beautiful young parents to a life of Spartan discipline with a pathetic woman desperately watching her youth slip away. Denny’s feelings for me seemed vengeful, as did Mum’s abandonment. The deaths or disappearances of the beloved men in my life – my absent father and the recently departed George VI – seemed vengeful too. At the age of seven, love and leadership both felt bankrupt.
During this time Mum became romantically involved with another man. I remember sitting in the back seat of a Volkswagen Beetle, waiting at an intersection on Gunnersbury Avenue. Mum is introducing me to the driver, Dennis Bowman; she says he means a great deal to her – in fact, he’s going to be my new father.
‘I like you better than my other dad,’ I say to Mr Bowman. ‘You’ve got a car.’
The car is light green; the traffic lights change to green and I’m giving Mr Bowman the green light.

3

YOU DIDN’T SEE IT

The memory of Mr Bowman came back to me when Mum told me about him years later. Rosie Bradley had kept Mum informed about Denny’s worsening state of mind, and in the end Mum asked Dad to go down there with her. Shocked at Denny’s erratic behaviour, Dad announced: ‘This is ridiculous – he can’t stay with her there – she’s completely round the twist.’ They decided instead that Denny had to come and live with us, until she got better. I sometimes think that if it weren’t for Denny’s obvious madness I might never have returned home from Westgate.
In July 1952 Mum came to collect me from Westgate on the train – not with Dad, but with Dennis Bowman and Jimpy, whom I was delighted to see. On the way back on the train, though, it was clear my mother hadn’t prepared herself for having me back. My fidgeting irritated her, and so did my runny nose. Nothing I did seemed right. Dennis Bowman said quietly to her, ‘That’s a really dear little boy you’ve got there. Why don’t you leave him alone?’
While I’d been away the kids my age in Acton had fallen into two gangs. Jimpy was leader of the larger group, his authority renewed by a weekly running race he always won. On the day I returned, by some miracle I nearly beat him, and was instantly promoted to Jimpy’s second-in-command. After the race I went over to the playground climbing frame, which was occupied by a menacing-looking boy who sneered at me. ‘You’re not getting on here, mate.’
Normally I would have turned tail, but a new courage compelled me to challenge him. I climbed up, and when the boy pushed me I pushed back so hard that he fell. As he dusted off his trousers I could see he was considering teaching me a lesson, but someone whispered in his ear. He skulked away, almost certainly having been told I was a friend of Jimpy. Even then I felt happy and safe in a gang of boys, protected by a dominant male.
Just as my childhood status was improving, the ground under me shifted again. It seemed I was going to lose one of my beloved parents. I didn’t get the details until years later.
‘Dad had agreed to let me go, and to let me take you with me. Then Dennis got a new job in the Middle East,’ Mum explained. ‘Dennis was an ex-RAF officer with qualifications abroad, very presentable, and because of the mess he got me into here he put his name down for a job outside the country. He finally got a position in Aden. Big money.’
But then Dad had a change of heart.
‘As soon as Cliff knew it was Aden I was taking you to, he came back and said, “Sit down, I want to tell you something.” I had our tickets, yours and mine. Cliff said, “I’ve changed my mind; you’re not taking Peter. It’s too far away. Think about it, do you still want to go?” So I thought about it, and in the end I decided to give things one more try with your father.’
I wondered what Mum meant by ‘the mess’ Dennis Bowman had got her into? Had she become pregnant? ‘Yes. I was in very bad shape in that respect.’ She hesitated. ‘I’d had some miscarriages.’ She paused for a long moment. ‘Self-inflicted miscarriages.’ After having one back-street abortion Mum had decided that from then on she would end her pregnancies herself. ‘I did it five times.’
I was seven, and happy to be home again, back in the noisy flat with a toilet in the back yard and the delicious aroma of Jewish cooking from upstairs. It was all very reassuring. Jerry Cass still played his radio – the BBC Third Programme, classical music, mainly orchestral – incredibly loudly for fifteen minutes every morning as he shaved. (I still like to wake up to Radio 3, as it’s now called.) As I settled back into my old routine, life seemed full of promise. Dad was still often away on tour or at one-night-performances, but Mum was always around, sometimes distracted, but no longer willing to rely on Denny to look after me.
In 1952 the Squadronaires began a regular summer engagement at the Palace Ballroom in Douglas, on the Isle of Man, that would continue for ten years. That first season we rented a flat for the entire holiday, and Mum, still extricating herself from her love affair, got a secret box number at the post office where she would collect Dennis Bowman’s daily letter.
The one-bedroom holiday flat we stayed in was on the lower-ground floor of a large block. My bed was in the living room, an upgrade from the dining room. I would wake occasionally to Dad creeping about in bare feet, coming in late from a night in the bar, or trying to slip out.
I loved Jimpy like a brother. He and I played fantastical and elaborate games. We were also great explorers. In Douglas, the capital of the Isle of Man, where Jimpy was staying with us, we discovered a crumbling old mansion surrounded by high walls that we climbed to steal apples. The house seemed abandoned. We managed to get into an outside room and, peering through a keyhole, could see an old vintage car. Through another keyhole we saw a table covered in what appeared to be treasure – old watches, tools, chains. We tried to force the doors, but they were absolutely secure.
Being explorers was fun, but the biggest treat of all was watching the Squadronaires. This meant dressing up smartly and getting a few shillings from Mum for crisps and milk-shakes. Before the dances began we’d stand in the middle of the huge empty floor and bounce gently up and down – the entire floor was on springs. Then we were free to wander, listen to the music and watch the bouncing hemlines of the teenage girls dancing. Sometimes we’d practise dance steps of our own at the edge of the oak dance floor.

On Sundays there were concerts at the Palace Theatre next to the ballroom, where the Squadronaires would accompany visiting artists, some quite special: Shirley Bassey, Lita Roza, Eartha Kitt, Frankie Vaughan, the Morton Fraser Harmonica Gang, and a string of comedians – even, I think, George Formby plunking away at his silly little banjo. I remember a novelty guitar player who strummed an electric guitar while playing a tiny harmonica in his mouth. He looked ridiculous, and the harmonica was so high-pitched it sounded like a squeaking mouse trapped between his teeth. However, he became a regular at these concerts, so it obviously went down well with the crowd.
Seeing this, I became keen on learning the harmonica, and began playing Dad’s quite seriously.
There were wonderful times on the Isle of Man that year. I fell in love with the younger blonde girl who lived next door. One day, while playing at ‘Mums and Dads’, I had her wrapped in my arms in a play-tent and felt for a moment like a real adult. I remember her mother telling me later that the little girl would be a ‘heartbreaker’ when she grew up. I had no idea what she meant, despite my own rapidly beating heart.
Near the end of this first Isle of Man holiday, Mum brought Denny over and left me in her care while she returned to London to end her affair with Dennis Bowman. Mum and Dad began to put their love life back together that autumn. They tried hard to have a second child to stabilise the family and provide me with a sibling. I know now that the reason it took so long – my brother Paul wasn’t born until five years later – was Mum’s battered reproductive system. She might not have put herself through all that abuse had she been clearer about which man she was going to settle on.
It must have been difficult for my proud father to take Mum back after Dennis Bowman. I don’t believe he knew about her abortions, but if he had, or even suspected anything, it might help explain his drinking and his absences. It could also explain why, after they reconciled, he seemed most at ease with his wife and family when he was tipsy; only then could he express words of love.
In September 1952 I started at Berrymede Junior School. I remember coming home to Denny’s face peeping out through the french windows like a strange, trapped animal. Mum and Dad had given her their bedroom, which she’d filled with the sad booty of her years as Mr Buss’s mistress – sterling silver hairbrushes, manicure sets and Ronson table-lighters. I wish I could say I felt sorry for her, but I don’t believe I did.
Around this time I became a fire-starter. I went door-to-door borrowing matches from neighbours, claiming Mum’s oven had gone out. I didn’t set light to any houses, just to piles of rubble on bomb sites, or old cars. One day I misjudged things: I created a city with building blocks underneath a refrigerated van I took to be abandoned, then stuffed the city with paper and set it alight. The van’s occupant came out screaming: ‘Petrol! Petrol! You’ll kill us all!’
On another destruction-minded day Jimpy and I laid a huge piece of steel across the railway tracks under the bridge and stood back. As the train approached we ran away, waiting to hear the sound of a terrible train crash. This could have not only injured or killed a lot of people, but led us into a very different life, in the penal system. Thank God the train passed without derailing.
At home our chief entertainment was radio. Television had arrived on the scene in 1952, but our family, like millions of others, waited until 1953 and the Queen’s Coronation before buying a TV set. I also read a lot of comics and enjoyed Enid Blyton’s Noddy books, which first appeared in 1949 and were still pretty new. Dad made a model sailing boat that we sometimes took to the Round Pond in Hyde Park on Sunday. He also took me greyhound racing, which I found magical, especially at White City Stadium. And he always gave me far too much pocket money.
Berrymede was in a poor neighbourhood of South Acton, and one day in my first term at school I told a boy in the playground that Dad earned ?30 per week. He called me a liar – the average wage was less than a third of that – but I stuck to my guns because I knew it was true. We nearly came to blows over it before a teacher intervened, warning me to stop telling lies: ‘No one earns that much money. Don’t be stupid!’
Dad may have been well paid, but there was little sign of it in our lifestyle (beyond Mum’s clothes). I wore grubby grey shorts and a Fair Isle pullover, with long grey woollen socks drooping around my ankles, muddy shoes and a white shirt that was never quite white. We had no car, lived in a rented flat and rarely went on holiday or travelled unless it was part of Dad’s work; we had a gramophone but listened to the same twenty records throughout my entire childhood, until I started buying new ones myself.
One of the only children’s records available was ‘The Teddy Bear’s Picnic’, backed with ‘Hush, Hush, Hush! Here Comes the Bogeyman’ by Henry Hall with the BBC Dance Orchestra. I played it a lot, but even then I preferred the sound of the modern big bands, including the orchestras of Ted Heath, Joe Loss and Sidney Torch, with whom Mum was guest vocalist for a time before her marriage. My life with Denny in Westgate had left me disliking Broadway musical tunes: every day I was there the eerie strains of ‘Bali Hai’ from South Pacific had crackled from Denny’s big radiogram, a gift from Mr Buss. There was only one South Pacific song I liked at the time – ‘I’m Gonna Wash that Man Right out of My Hair’ – but thanks to Denny’s bathroom brutality, even that had sinister overtones.
1953 was turning out to be one of the happiest years of my life – but then Jimpy moved away. Until then, even though we were no longer going to school together, he had still been the centre of my existence. Now he was gone. My parents decided to replace him with a Springer Spaniel puppy. I remember waking up sleepily on my birthday and being introduced to this adorable, snoozing puppy curled up in an armchair. We called him Bruce.
Bruce became my great joy, although he was shamelessly disloyal. If someone in my gang of friends or a neighbour down the street called Bruce, the disgraceful creature would immediately run to him; no matter what I did he would refuse to return to me. It never occurred to anyone in my family to attempt to train the dog, and as a result Bruce spent a lot of time running around the neighbourhood, barking.

One summer day a local photographer took a photo, reproduced in the Acton Gazette, of my Jimpy substitute and me in the afternoon sunshine, leaning against a wall, almost dozing. In those days the pavement was a long, limitless bench to sit on. Like apprentice winos, wherever we sat in our neighbourhood, we appeared to preside over and size up all who passed.
We were getting more adventurous as a gang and as we got older we used to sit under West Acton bridge on the GWR fast main line to the West. The Twyford Avenue gate there was left open, and under the bridge, out of the rain, we could wait for the West Country and Welsh expresses from Paddington to thunder by as they approached at full speed. As one train approached, I absent-mindedly threw a stick across the tracks. Bruce – ever the instinctive retriever – leapt after it, the thundering locomotive ran over him, and I felt sure he must be dead. Suddenly, with the stick in his teeth, he appeared between the large driving wheels, his head going up and down with the driving shaft, and somehow managed to jump through without getting hurt, dropping the stick at the feet of Peter S, a favourite neighbour of his, while I looked on amazed at both his impregnability and his disloyalty.
One day I came home to find Bruce was gone. He’d been returned to his kennel of origin – or so Mum said. I knew deep down he’d been destroyed, but I went along with the pretence so that Mum wouldn’t be upset that I was upset. I tried consoling myself with the thought that if Mum hadn’t had him destroyed he would probably have died in any case.
Bruce was more than a companion. When he was suddenly gone I was heartbroken – not just over the dog, but for what he was supposed to have replaced. When Jimpy had been around we’d felt like a proper family.
In June 1953 we watched the Coronation at Westminster Abbey live on our brand-new, nine-inch television set, the images barely visible unless all the lights were out and our curtains drawn. Until then my parents had to take me with them if they wanted to go to the pub, or hire a babysitter. Now, with TV to entertain me, they could let me stay home alone.
On my own, terrified, I watched the scary science-fiction serial The Quatermass Experiment. Returning to Earth, the sole survivor of a space mission, ‘infected’ by aliens, gradually and horrifyingly turned into a monstrous vegetable. Although the ‘special effects’ were primitive, their psychological impact was genuinely disturbing and realistic and I began having terrible nightmares. Perhaps in a subconscious effort to make my parents come home, I’d fiddle with the electric fire, folding up slivers of newspaper and lighting them on the red-hot bars. Luckily I never set the house alight.
My parents were still trying to rebuild their marriage, I expect, and the pub and the circle of friends they shared there were vital in this process. It was more normal in those days to leave children alone, but I won’t pretend that I liked it, or that it felt normal. The truth is, though, that my experience of feeling alone, different, alien, was much more ‘normal’ than I realised.
I have always been a dreamer. My new teacher, Miss Caitling, noticed this and helped me. She caught me out once or twice telling lies and let me know she knew, but never made a great deal out of it. The way this clever woman handled me denied me the option of blaming someone in authority for my sense of shame over making things up; I had no choice but to see it as self-inflicted.
Miss Caitling wasn’t conventionally beautiful or pretty. She was stocky with short, dark hair, a little mannish, and wore sensible shoes. But her dark eyes were full of warmth and understanding. She was a champion of the underdog, a perfect teacher for the run-down neighbourhood South Acton had become by then. She was neither an unreliable vamp (like Mum) nor a wicked witch (like Denny); she was an altogether new kind of woman.
As far as girls my own age went, I relied entirely on my peers for guidance. They knew less than I did. Even Dad wasn’t much help. Drunk one night, Dad told me the facts of life. ‘The man does a kind of pee into the woman,’ he said. The rest of the details were explicit, so I don’t know why he fudged the critical bit. I remember passing the facts, as I understood them, to a young friend of mine, and his astonishment that we should all have been synthesised from urine.
On 8 May 1955 Dad was playing at Green’s Playhouse in Glasgow when he was sent a telegram from Norrie Paramor of Parlophone Records, part of EMI, offering him a solo record deal. Dad’s record, ‘Unchained Melody’, was released on 31 July 1956. His handsome face was plastered all over the local record shops. Although it was never a hit, ‘Unchained Melody’ was covered by at least five other artists, three of whom I think charted simultaneously. My father, the pop star! I wanted to be like him.
That summer we all went as usual to the Isle of Man. On one occasion while the band played at the Palace Ballroom, two teenage girls sat either side of me and began to tease me. They were dressed in the full skirts and petticoats of the day, with pretty shoes and low-cut bodices. I felt very much the little boy, my eyes darting back and forth between their heaving cleavages as they discussed which member of the Squadronaires they fancied. One girl immediately claimed the drummer. The other took her time and eventually selected the sax player.
‘That’s my dad!’ I shouted. Her disappointment at this confused me.

The incident served to do two things: it set my heart on becoming a performing musician, and prejudiced me for ever against drummers with their fast-pedalling sex appeal.
In 1956 popular music did not yet mean rock ’n’ roll. But The Goon Show, which Dad and I listened to, featuring Peter Sellers, Spike Milligan and Harry Secombe, did include some early BBC broadcasts of rock performances. One of the show’s resident musicians was Ray Ellington, a young English drummer–vocalist and cabaret artist. With his quartet he sang songs like ‘Rockin’ and Rollin’ Man’, which he composed specially, and rather hastily I think, for the show. I thought it some kind of hybrid jazz: swing music with stupid lyrics. But it felt youthful and rebellious, like The Goon Show itself.
I was regarded by my parents as having little musical talent other than a thin, nasal, soprano voice. I was forbidden to touch Dad’s clarinets or saxophones, only my harmonica.
On my first Isle of Man fishing trip, I had a fiasco with a huge trout and was consoling myself by playing harmonica in the rain. I got lost in the sound of the mouth organ, and then had the most extraordinary, life-changing experience. Suddenly I was hearing music within the music – rich, complex harmonic beauty that had been locked in the sounds I’d been making. The next day I went fly fishing, and this time the murmuring sound of the river opened up a wellspring of music so enormous that I fell in and out of a trance. It was the beginning of my lifelong connection to rivers and the sea – and to what might be described as the music of the spheres.
I was always drawn to the water. A friend at school was a Sea Scout, and at the age of eleven I was impressed by his smart uniform and badges. He took me to meet the troop leader, and I was immediately signed up for a ‘bunkhouse weekend’ in order to acquaint myself with the camp. Dad interviewed one of the leader’s assistants and was very suspicious. He told me the fellow didn’t know which way to fly the Union Flag, and doubted he could ever have been any part of the Navy. When I pressed Dad he said he thought the man was ‘bent’, an expression I didn’t understand.
Dad eventually agreed to let me go for the weekend. The troop’s headquarters were on the River Thames, where a large shed was laid out as a dormitory, and a large rowing boat was moored – an old ship’s lifeboat in which the boys were taken for trips. We arrived on Saturday and spent the afternoon trying to tie nautical knots from a chart, which the two adults present couldn’t manage. After a fry-up lunch the light began to fade and we were hurried to the boat for a short trip on the river.
The tide was high and it wasn’t safe to row, so the men fitted an ancient outboard motor to the stern and fired it up. As we swept past the Old Boathouse at Isleworth once again I began to hear the most extraordinary music, sparked by the whine of the outboard motor and the burbling sound of water against the hull. I heard violins, cellos, horns, harps and voices, which increased in number until I could hear countless threads of an angelic choir; it was a sublime experience. I have never heard such music since, and my personal musical ambition has always been to rediscover that sound and relive its effect on me.
At the very height of my euphoric trance the boat ran up against the muddy shore at the troop’s hut. As it stopped, so did the music. Bereft, I quietly began to weep. One of the men put his coat around me and led me up to the camp, where I was settled by the stove to warm up. I kept asking the other boys if they had heard the angels singing, but none of them even responded.
A few moments later I was standing naked in a cold shower set up behind the bunkhouse. It was almost dark; there was a stark light bulb behind the two men who stood watching me shiver as the freezing water sprayed over me. ‘Now you’re a real Sea Scout,’ they said. ‘This is our initiation ceremony.’ The only thing ceremonial about it was the wanking these two chaps were doing through their trouser pockets. I was freezing, but they wouldn’t let me leave the shower until they had each achieved their surreptitious climax. I felt disgusted, but also annoyed because I knew I could never go back: I would never get my sailor’s uniform.
I remember only one truly terrible row between my parents, and sat terrified in the dining room as cups were smashed in the kitchen; I believe Mum flourished a knife. I intervened, weeping like a child actor, only to be told off by Dad who hated the melodrama to which I was contributing. There were also parties, and Dad invited musicians sometimes; their playing kept me awake and I annoyed and embarrassed Dad by bursting in on them and crying, telling him off in front of his friends for the disturbance; Dad told me off in return, but it was terribly exciting. The smell of cigarettes, beer and scotch floated down the hall.
Maybe to compensate for being kept awake at night by wild parties, I was given a small black bike which I hired every day to my friend David for his paper round. He paid me sixpence a week, but I caught him one day bumping it against a curb violently and ended the arrangement.
Once I had a bike I gave full vent to my local wanderlust; there was hardly a street or alley I didn’t explore in an area over two or three square miles. But I was one of the few boys in the gang with a bike, and my solo excursions deepened my solitary feelings. I often went into a trance-like state when cycling. I was nearly killed by a dustmen’s lorry at the top of my street as I swerved in its path, my head full of angelic voices.
I laboriously learned the tricky harmonica theme of Dixon of Dock Green, played by Tommy Reilly, on my own first chromatic instrument. No one was even slightly impressed by my achievement and I realised I was playing the wrong instrument if I wanted superstardom.
Like many of my peers I spent long, boring hours outside various pubs, a packet of crisps and fizzy drink in my hand, wondering why I was permitted such luxuries only when my parents were getting drunk. I was caught shoplifting once. I had gone into a bookshop for some Observer books I was then collecting. I paid for two, and tried to walk out with six. What’s strange is that I knew I’d be caught. The police were called, and I was questioned before being released.
Dad said nothing about the incident. It was the not unkind warning of the police officer I remember: ‘This is the first time, son. Make it the last – it’s a terrible road you’ve set out on.’ A terrible road? He was a good copper, but I thought it was obvious that I was simply filling the time, bored, up to no good. I began to collect things to settle myself down: model trains, Dinky cars, comics, postage stamps.

I was determinedly non-academic, although I wrote stories constantly and drew hundreds of pictures, mainly of military battles. I became obsessed with drawing plans for a fantasy fleet of huge, double-decked touring buses. My fleet of buses contained schoolrooms, playrooms with electric train sets, swimming pools, cinemas, music rooms, and – as I approached puberty – I added a large vehicle that contained a nudist colony with a cuddling room.
For a few years I attended Sunday school, regularly singing in a church choir. As I fell asleep at night I sang my prayers into the mouth of my hot-water bottle, which I held like a microphone. My parents still resisted the idea that I had any musical talent. No matter, I was already a visionary. A mobile nudist colony with a cuddling room? I’ll bet even Arthur C. Clarke hadn’t come up with that at my age!
Whenever we made a family visit to Horry and Dot’s, I got to see not only my beloved grandparents, but also Aunt Trilby, Dot’s sister. Trilby was single when I met her, and kept a piano in her flat. It was the only one I had a chance to play. Tril read music, and played light classics and popular songs, but never tried to teach me much. Instead she entertained me with palm-readings and interpretations of the tarot, all of which indicated I would be a great success in every way – or at least enjoy a ‘large’ life.
Aunt Trilby provided me with drawing paper and complimented my rapid sketches. After a while I would drift to the piano and, after checking to see that she was engrossed in her knitting or a book, begin to play. The instrument was never quite in tune, but I explored the keyboard until I found whatever combination I was after.
One day I found some chords that made me lightheaded. As I played them my body buzzed all over, and my head filled with the most complex, disturbing orchestral music. The music soared higher and higher until I finally stopped playing, and came back to the everyday world.
‘That was beautiful,’ said Tril, looking up from whatever she was doing. ‘You are a real musician.’
Because of Tril’s faith in me, I became a bit of a mystic like her. I prayed to God, and at Sunday school I came to genuinely love and admire Jesus. In heaven, where he lived, the strange music I sometimes heard was completely normal.
Miss Caitling continued to encourage me to link my fantasies with the real world through creative writing and art. She began inviting me to tell serial stories to the class, which I made up as I went along. Looking back, I understand that my classmates were as gripped by the thrill of seeing how I would escape my tangled plots as they were by the stories themselves. Sometimes, if I got in too deep, I simply dropped a nuclear bomb on my characters and started all over.
I felt natural standing in front of an audience. I also discovered that I could think quickly on my feet. If I didn’t know something, I could often bluff my way around it. In my last year at Berrymede I told anyone who asked about my ambitions to be a journalist.
In summer 1957 on the Isle of Man, Jimpy came for another visit. We had a great time together, and Dad took us to the cinema to see a musical film. I asked Dad what he thought of the music. He said he thought it had some swing, and anything that had swing was OK.
For me it was more than just OK. After seeing Rock Around the Clock with Bill Haley, nothing would ever be quite the same.

4

A TEENAGE KIND OF VENGEANCE

I was still playing the harmonica, and getting good at it, but it was clear that the guitar was the instrument that mattered. Jimpy and I had been mesmerised by Rock Around the Clock, and Haley’s band only had a single sax player. They marked their Country & Western heritage with a pedal-steel guitar, and the swing was jaunty and extremely cheerful, bordering on manic. The words were often nonsensical. Today almost every early rock lyric has been interpreted as having some secret meaning to do with sex, but if they did I never noticed.
I only liked Bill Haley for a few months, but Jimpy was totally hooked and bought several Haley and Elvis records. While Jimpy was still with me on the Isle of Man, he and a pretty girl named Elaine – with whom we had both fallen in love – started singing Elvis songs together. They lost me there. To my ear Elvis sounded corny, a drawling dope singing about dogs. I just didn’t get it. Unfortunately I had missed his first masterful releases like ‘That’s Alright Mama’ and ‘Heartbreak Hotel’, and had come in directly on ‘Hound Dog’ and ‘Love Me Tender’, a song that made me want to vomit, especially when Jimpy and Elaine crooned it at one another. In his movies (apart from Jailhouse Rock) Elvis confirmed my view of him as a chump.
After the holidays I started my second year at Acton County Grammar School. To my parents’ enormous joy, my mother finally got pregnant, and my brother Paul was born. Mum and Dad made plans to move to a bigger flat, and found one on the same street where Dad’s parents still lived on Uxbridge Road. It seemed good karma all round. In the new flat, on Woodgrange Avenue, I sat on a ladder in the empty dining room, playing my harmonica. I knew this was going to be a lucky place. I had my own room with a door, and Paul was the sibling I’d always wanted.
That autumn Dad got tickets for Jimpy and me to see Bill Haley live at the old Regal cinema at Marble Arch. I went along mostly for Jimpy’s sake. We had seats in the highest gallery, the very back row, where we were surrounded by rowdy older teenagers. The cinema had been structurally weakened by bombs, so when the audience bounced enthusiastically to the beat the gallery literally shook. (The building was demolished a few months later.)
Several boys at school had got the rock ’n’ roll bug, but their interest seemed confined to whistling whatever record was number one at the time. Jimpy got his father to make him a guitar. He stood in front of the mirror, wiggling like Elvis, strumming at the tuneless piano wire with which Fred had strung the homemade instrument. One day I grabbed the wooden box and, not quite knowing what I was doing, picked out a tune. Jimpy was gobsmacked. He ran into the other room where both our dads sat drinking, and brought them in to hear me. Dad didn’t say much, but Fred Beard said, ‘If he can play that thing, he could do really well with a proper guitar.’
Dad wasn’t convinced. I badgered him, but because I’d never followed his advice and learned to read music he wouldn’t take my aspiration seriously. (Without a piano in the house I’m not sure how he thought I would be able to learn.)
Ironically, it was Denny who stepped in. She bought me a guitar that she saw hanging from the wall of a restaurant, whose owner was a friend of hers. It was an awful instrument, almost harder to play than the one Fred had made for Jimpy, but I was delighted. After I got it correctly strung, I started learning a few chords. Within minutes three strings had broken and the neck of the guitar started to bend, but I just reduced the tension and made do with the three remaining strings.

На "озоне" отличились и обозвали книжку Eho I Am)).

По прочтении первых 5 глав уже создалось некое впечатление... Фактически можно дать книге подзаголовок "Воспоминания прирождённого одиночки"-практически в каждом моменте проглядывается некоторая невписываемость Пита в окружающую обстановку. И действительно, автор не боится впускать нас в свою голову, делясь самыми важными моментами своего формирования и не боясь выглядеть порой нелепо и смешно, и не скрывая достаточно тёмных моментов, как, например, своё посвящение в "морские разведчики", тут же сочетая это с фантастической картиной музыкальной гармонии внутри и вне себя. Отдельное слово хочется сказать про очень "вкусный" язык, боюсь, что при переводе многое будет потеряно (если он вообще состоится).

Пит написал проникновенный блог о сегодняшнем урагане и о уходящих друзьях...
http://thewho.com/blog/story/storms-and-people-passing/

2Гуляющий в парке:

>По прочтении первых 5 глав уже создалось некое
>впечатление... Фактически можно дать книге подзаголовок
>"Воспоминания прирождённого одиночки"-практически
>в каждом моменте проглядывается некоторая невписываемость
>Пита в окружающую обстановку. И действительно,
>автор не боится впускать нас в свою голову, делясь
>самыми важными моментами своего формирования и
>не боясь выглядеть порой нелепо и смешно, и не
>скрывая достаточно тёмных моментов, как, например,
>своё посвящение в "морские разведчики", тут же
>сочетая это с фантастической картиной музыкальной
>гармонии внутри и вне себя. Отдельное слово хочется
>сказать про очень "вкусный" язык, боюсь, что при
>переводе многое будет потеряно (если он вообще состоится).

Написано простым доступным языком, так что адекватно перевести, не вопрос. Это же не древнее руководство по группе Joy Division "An Ideal For Living" (кто читал, поймет тяжесть проблемы :) ).

Насчет невписываемости, подмечено точно - это Питова основная проблема по жизни :) неудивительно, что бритиши заражены эпидемией гомосексуализма, все от невписываемости идет :)

Про перевод на русский что-нибудь слышно?

2Корнелий:

>Про перевод на русский что-нибудь слышно?

Думаю,нет и не предвидится. Быстрее выучить английский.

2zand:

>Думаю,нет и не предвидится. Быстрее выучить английский.

Так и я думал. Печально...