I’m re-reading a memoir (Boff Whalley’s Footnotes, if you really want to know) and I’m amazed, as I always am, at the way some people can look back and remember the details of so many specific instances in their lives. Some I recall with absolute clarity, like when my son, just over an hour old, wrapped his tiny fingers around my thumb and I just felt absolute love. But with so many things the colours of my memory are blurred around the edges.

What does stay in my mind is the way things made me feel. Driving up I-75 in Ohio, a sunny spring day, the window rolled down, my leather jacket thrown on the back seat, Springsteen on the radio, I felt as if I understood America for the first time, that it was under my skin and in my heart.

All this has left me thinking about the way we see our pasts. When we look back, how do we perceive it? For instance, I know exactly when and where I first really heard John Martyn’s music, an event that made me an instant fan, as I still am. I was 18, in the music room at my girlfriend’s house and we were sitting on a white shag rug. All the other details are gone. Was there a piano in there? A wall of sheet music? What did she look like? Once that music curled around me, it was as if nothing else in the moment mattered?

So, perhaps the question I’m really asking is: am I lacking something, not remembering everything? It’s perhaps a failing as a writer, although novelists do make stuff up (for all you know, the incidents I’ve described could be straight out of my imagination). But what about you? How do you remember things – and how far back do you remember them?

The second part of the interview with Constable Richard Nottingham, published in the Leeds Mercury in 1733 as the gentleman recovered from a grievous wound sustained in his service of the people.

Your own upbringing was, one might say, unusual. You experienced both wealth and poverty in your childhood.

I did. My father was a merchant here, as some might remember, and also a gambler and a rake, a man with little regard for his family or the fact that it was his wife who’d brought the money to their marriage, the money he was all too happy to spend at the tables and on drink and whores. From all I’ve been told, his business never fared well when he was running it. But we lived comfortably. I still pass the house where I grew up on Briggate every day. Sometime, perhaps, someone will tear it down; it’ll be no loss to memory.

And then, when you were eight…

My father discovered that what had been sauce for the gander was also sauce for the goose, is that your meaning? It was his excuse to stand on his philandering honour and throw his wife and son from the house without having to be called to account. After that he moved to London. But from there, you’re right, we knew poverty, my mother and I. She died when I was twelve and I learned about the other Leeds, the one its citizens don’t notice. The children who are invisible, who sleep wherever they can and hope they wake the next morning. The old who slowly fade away until they’re walking ghosts and the poor who shout out but must be silent because no one seems to hear them. Aye, I learnt about all that, right enough.

Yet you’re here now, and a man of account.

With gratitude to Mr. Arkwright, who was Constable before me. For…whatever reason, he took me on as a Constable’s man after I’d worked all manner of jobs and then made me deputy constable when he believed I was ready. Am I a man of account? I don’t believe so. I’m not like Ralph Thoreseby who wrote down the history of Leeds and the areas around it and made his house into a museum of items from the district. He was a man of account; I simply do the job I’m paid to do.

Many here feel you do that job very well.

What’s a man unless he tries his best in everything? My position is an honour and a trust and my debt’s to the people in Leeds. I owe them the best I can give and that’s what I try to do.

Will you be glad to be back at work?

Very. My men have been hard pressed these last few months and I feel I’ve been away too long. I’m close to full health again and I’ve regained the weight I lost after my injury. I can walk well enough now with the aid of a stick. Within four weeks I shall return, for better or worse.

How do you see Leeds in the future?

I was born here, I’ve lived here all my life and with God’s good grace I’ll die here. In my lifetime we’ve built the White Cloth Hall. Every Tuesday and Saturday thousands of pounds change hands at the cloth markets. It’s a trade that grows bigger each year. We’re already the centre of the woollen business in England and that will grow. Leeds will grow with it, the dyers and finishers, even the tanneries and shoemakers and the mercers and grocers. More people come here every month with their dreams. In another ten years, twenty, fifty, Leeds will occupy more land. We’ll push past Town End, out beyond Cavalier Hill and out to the West. If we come back as spirits in the future it will be a place beyond all recognition, except for the space that separates rich from poor. That will never change, I’m sure of that.

 And, to finish, a reminder that the next novel featuring Richard Nottingham, At the Dying of the Year, is published in hardback in the UK on February 28^th.

He hurried back up the ladder, falling on his knees at the top and gulping down the fresh air. His legs buckled at he tried to stand, and for a moment he was forced to hold on to someone’s arm. The man handed him the jug and he drank deep, swilling the ale around his mouth before spitting out the taste of the pit.

            ‘Bad,’ was the only thing the man said.

            Rob didn’t reply. He didn’t own the words for what he’d seen. ‘Send someone for Mr Brogden, the coroner,’ he said, his voice little more than a hoarse croak. ‘I’ll bring some men to take the bodies out.’

            He marched purposefully up Kirkgate, trying to clear the thoughts and images from his head. For all he knew there were more children down there, hidden by the darkness. He ran a hand through his hair, the stink of the dead clinging fast to his clothes.

 The Constable remembered the face of every dead child he’d seen since he’d begun the job. They were impossible to forget, each one clear and sharp in his head. Many had gone from hunger, little more than ghosts even before their hearts gave up the battle to keep beating, some from accidents, crushed by carts or lost to the river. Precious few had been murdered, and he thanked Christ for that, at least.

Some of the workmen were sitting on the grass when he arrived, others stood in a small group. He nodded and asked, ‘Has the coroner arrived yet?’

            ‘Gone down there with a candle,’ one of the men answered.

            When Brogden climbed back out there was dirt on his immaculate coat and he’d vomited on his shoes with their expensive silver buckles. He brought a flask from his waistcoat, fingers shaking so hard he could barely unscrew the top.  He took a long drink and saw the Constable.

            ‘What’s down there?’ Nottingham asked.

            The coroner shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d seen. He raised his eyes. ‘Three of them,’ he replied quietly. ‘Someone’s killed them. None of them look older than eight.’ Tears began to roll down his cheeks and he pawed at them angrily before walking away.

            The Constable ran a hand across his mouth. His thoughts raced away from him. Three? It seemed impossible. Unless they did belong to the dead man, how could so many children vanish without anyone noticing? For the love of God, why would anyone want to murder them and leave them that way? He was still standing there thinking when Lister returned with four others, a ragtaggle group who looked more like beggars than Constable’s men.

            ‘You’ll have to be my eyes down there,’ he told Rob. ‘I can’t use a ladder. Not yet.’

            ‘I’ll tell you what I see, boss.’

A new year is supposed to bring changes, isn’t it? That’s the way of the world, plenty of resolutions to keep or break. Turns out I have my own changes to ring for 2013, although they were quite unintended.

For more than a dozen years I’ve been writing for a music website that I’ll leave nameless, contributing reviews and biographies of artists. They’ve been good to work for, even after they obtained new corporate masters. I pitched stuff I wanted to cover, they said yes to some, I uploaded and they paid very promptly (and as any freelancer can tell you, that last one is very important).

Then, a month ago, I received an email telling me that as of the end of December they would no longer be requiring my services. Nothing to do with my writing at all; they needed to cut back on the freelancers they used. In this economy that happens, although I do suspect that the marginal areas of music that I mined – world, folk and weird – probably contributed. When things are tough, you focus on the core.

Time and money has taken its toll of the outlets that exist for the music I love. Even the wonderful Sing Out! looks as if it won’t exist much longer, so another one will bite the dust. The newspapers have their reviewers already, as do the mainstream music magazines.

So what’s a man to do? He starts a blog, of course. I already have two, one for random things and another covering Danish music. But the Fortnightly-ish review (http://fortnightlyish.blogspot.co.uk) will just be music. Every couple of weeks or so, one review of a new, or at least fairly new, album that’s grabbed me. Because I love writing about music, in case you wondered.

What not more often? Time, for one. And also I’m a lot harder to impress these days. That’s one advantage – or possibly disadvantage – of age. I began listening to music seriously in 1967, and I’ve learned a great deal in all those years since. It doesn’t mean I know everything, of course – I still don’t understand quite how Monk manages to do all that on the piano, for instance, or why Robert Wyatt’s voice could make a stone cry – but I’ve a reasonable knowledge.

Back when I began reviewing world music, as opposed to just rock/electronic/post rock/whatever, I wanted to write about it in terms that didn’t make it seem foreign to people, so it was just as accessible as rock. I think I wandered away from that path. It’s probably time to get back to it, but also to broaden my church. After all, like most people, my tastes are eclectic. I can find joy in some of Johnny Dowd’s work, next to Charley Patton or Nick Cave. They’re all saying something similar, and it’s all art, just as much as a Bach prelude, Spem In Alium or John Coltrane.

I want to communicate that, and probably include some ramblings, too. It’s a blog, you can do that. Whether anyone will care or not, I’ve no idea. Time will tell. But I’m going to be selective about the music in it. It’ll mean something, if only to me. You’re welcome along for the ride, if you like.

Coming in hardback at the end of February.

 

Richard Nottingham exhaled slowly as his boot heels clattered over Timble Bridge, feeling the wool of his breeches rasp against his thighs as he moved. Partway across he stopped to rest for a moment, leaning heavily on the silver-topped stick and listening to the birds singing for the dawn. His breath bloomed in the November air and he pulled the greatcoat collar higher.

            Five months had passed since he’d last walked this way to work. Five months since the knife sliced into his belly. For a week he’d drifted in and out of the world, living in a place made of furious heat and bitter chills, the pain always there, powerful enough to fill every thought, every moment. Few believed he’d survive.

            Finally the fever burned out of his system and he woke, the daylight so bright it hurt his eyes, his wife Mary sitting by the bed, holding his hand. He’d live, the apothecary announced after examining him, although the healing would take a long time.

            The summer of 1733 was warm, sticky, full of the drowsy scent of wildflowers in the fields as he began to walk again, shuffling like an old man. At first he could only manage a few yards before he was exhausted, forced to stop, frustrated by his body and its weakness. Strength returned gradually, at its own dismal pace. He went further, first to the bridge, then into the city, a little more distance each day.

            And now he was back to work.  Richard Nottingham was Constable of the City of Leeds once more.

 

                                                **********************

He was still looking for the place when he heard a shout and turned. A man was running quickly towards him, stripped to shirt and breeches, his face and hands covered in dirt, the bright light of fear in his eyes.

            ‘You the lad who works with the Constable?’ he asked. Rob nodded. ‘You’d better come, then. It’s the bell pits.’ The man jerked his thumb vaguely in the direction of the White Cloth Hall then moved away, his stride fast and jerky.

            Lister was pushed to keep pace with the man as they headed along Low Back Passage. ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What’s in the pit?’

            But the man just shook his head. ‘Tha’ll see soon enough.’

            Rob knew about the bell pits; everyone in Leeds did. They were holes that extended just a few feet into the ground, opening into chambers ten or twelve feet across and shaped liked the bells that gave them their names; places where folk gathered scraps of coal for their fires. They’d existed for generations, all over the city, for so long that no one really knew who’d first dug them. He’d never been in one, although the schoolboys often dared each other to go down into the dry warmth. Three of them lay close together, no more than twenty feet apart, each separate from the other, along the path that led from Kirkgate to the White Cloth Hall, mounds of dark earth next to each one. A group of workmen were passing a flagon of ale around, all of them silent, their faces serious.

            ‘Down there.’ The man pointed at one of the pits, where a ladder protruded above the lip. Rob glanced at him questioningly, but the man looked away, unwilling to meet his eyes. He gazed at the other men, but none of them would offer him more than a sad stare.

            Curious, he placed his boots on the wooden rungs, testing the weight, and began to climb down. He’d barely descended a yard before he stopped, swallowing hard as he smelled it. Something was dead down here, the thick, cloying smell of decay heavy in the heat all around him. He drew a breath through his mouth and went deeper into the pit.

            At the bottom, no more than ten feet below the surface, he felt the rough, dry earth under his soles. He was already sweating from the still heat. A thin tunnel of light came down the hole, spilling into a small circle on the ground, deep shadows and pitch darkness reaching beyond. He retched hard, unable to keep the bile down, pulled a handkerchief from his breeches and clamped it over his face and mouth.

            It didn’t help. He bent over, vomiting again and coughing until there was only a thin trickle of spittle trailing from his lips. The stench of death was so strong he felt he could touch it.

Just at the edge of the gloom he could make out the shape of feet. Six of them, bare, dirty soles showing, three different sizes. He moved two paces closer, his eyes watering. The legs were small, thin. They were children.

Coming in late March…just something to whet your appetite:

 

Seattle was like every city. It had those cool areas where people wanted to live. In 1988 it was Capitol Hill, Belltown, or lower Queen Anne – anywhere close enough to stagger home from downtown when the music ended and the bars closed.

But West Seattle definitely wasn’t cool. It was the kind of place where people went when they couldn’t afford anything better.

             

I was sitting out on the deck, drinking coffee, reading the newspaper and enjoying the morning sun, a rare surprise in May. Down below, Lake Union was sparkling in the light, and the towers of the downtown skyline glittered in the distance.

The building I lived in had been put up quickly for the World’s Fair back in 1962, and it looked like a cheap California motel, ugly pebble stucco and concrete, but the apartments were spacious and clean and it was affordable. It was just up the street from Tower Records, close enough to walk downtown. If I craned hard over the balcony I could even see the tip of the Space Needle.

It was a small item on page three. I’d have missed it if not for the name.

“Come and take a look at this,” I called to Steve.

            “What is it?” he asked as he came out, fresh from the shower and running a hand through his wet hair. He grabbed my coffee and took a sip.

            “Hey,” I said and took the cup back. “Have you seen this? Craig Adler’s dead.”

            “What? Are you serious, Laura?” His voice rose in astonishment.

            “Here.” I pushed the newspaper at him. He scanned the brief article, eyes widening.

            “Jesus.” He looked at me in amazement. “Heroin?”

            “That’s what it says. Seems weird to me. But…”

            “Yeah, me too.” He settled in the other chair and read it through again, puzzlement on his face. “And West Seattle?” He shook his head. “That’s strange. I figured he had a place on the Hill. I know he used to.”

2012 seems to have been the year of the legacy act. Or, for those who prefer plain English, old bands getting out on the road to add to their pension pots. The Stones and the Beach Boys celebrated 50 years, and God alone knows who else made it out of their gardens and back on to the stage – judging by my Facebook feed, plenty of them, including the Who (at least the two of them still around), the Rascals and more.

This is fine, in its own way, and good luck to them. But I didn’t stick my hand deep in my pocket to stump up for tickets to see them. Even if I could have afforded it, I wouldn’t have wanted to do that. Some highlights of the Beach Boys tour were on BBC 4 as part of a documentary and in so many ways it was a sad, rather than joyous, affair, not least because several of the original members were given the push once it was over. Not even because they’d released an album with the execrable That’s Why God Made The Radio on it, a eulogy to a past that’s so far gone it’s as nostalgic as they are. There was no huge pleasure in seeing them back by a veritable rock’n’roll orchestra to try and do note-for-note re-creations of their big hits (I felt much the same seeing Steely Dan play everything note perfectly in 1974, but for different reasons – good musicians can also improvise). I can hear them on record the way Brian really intended them to be.

They’re out there because an aging audience has a disposable income and we don’t want to admit we’re growing older. If these people are still making music, if they’re not too old, then we aren’t, either, and the merchandise stands can do land office business as we prove how hip we still are. It gives us the illusion, if only for a couple of hours at very inflated prices, of still being young. Still being vital. Still having that streak of rebellion.

And it’s all bullshit.

None of these acts have released a track of any significance in decades. It’s highly unlikely they ever will again. Yes, they have a body of work, but trotting it out every few years to play in major city stadia – is that why you really started in rock’n’roll, guys? Is that what you saw yourself doing? A run through the motions, a wiggle of the arse, a quick encore and back to the hotel? It’s just…pointless.

Also aired this year were some highlights from the Led Zeppelin reunion, a one-off that packed the O2 arena. I didn’t expect much. After all, old songs, old musicians. Maybe the difference is that Page and Jones have both stayed active, pushing themselves in different directions, and this coming together of the tribe was for the first time in 20 years, with a promise of it never being repeated, even for silly money. And they rocked. Bare stage, a projection behind, a kind of glorified light show, and they tore through the music like they meant it, sounding fresh and passionate. A glorious change. It wasn’t dinosaur music, a ‘70s jukebox with a quarter in the slot, it was living and breathing. And it won’t be back.

Maybe that’s the way it should be. One night only, caught on DVD while there’s some fire to it. Because, God only knows, otherwise it just ends up as one of Dante’s circles of hell.