Entertain Us: The Rise of Nirvana

Gillian G. Gaar

It’s probably not surprising that some of the best books about Nirvana have come from writers in Seattle. Charles R. Cross’s book on Kurt Cobain was largely definitive, and even Dave Thompson’s quick biography of Cobain, released within a month of the suicide, was well-researched and written. However, probably no-one’s written more about then band than Gillian Gaar (in the interests of full disclosure, she and I both used to write for Seattle publication The Rocket, as did Thompson, and it was owned by Cross).

It’s a book that’s full of detail and minutae, not a primer for anyone wanting to know the band’s career arc. She takes the tack – quite rightly – that the early years are the most interesting, and the interviews and research she’s undertaken to put everything together is impressive to the point of being terrifying. This isn’t a job, it’s just as much a labour of love, and she’s such a good, clear writer, that everything is laid out like a road for the reader. There’s plenty of depth about the Chad Channing years, as the band was getting into gear, and the comparisons of different versions of songs comes with the real knowledge of the music journalist and the devotion of a fan.

Every show the band played is documented, as is every recording session, radio session, festival, TV appearance. All through the focus is on the music and how, if not always why, it turned out the way it did. For most fans, Nevermind was the album that brought them to the band. By then Gaar was already a longtime fan, seeing them through the Sub Pop years, and she’s someone who sees the first album, Bleach, as seminal. In many ways she’s right. The ripples didn’t spread as wide as they did later, but it was a vital recording that signalled a shift in music, coming as it did in the same period that Mudhoney, Soundgarden and others to herald what became called grunge. But, as Gaar shows, Nirvana stood apart, and, as she shows further, did so throughout their existence and even into their strange afterlife.

Today sees the release of my first audiobook, The Broken Token, done through the excellent people at Creative Content and spoken by the veteran actor Steven Pacey, who’s done similar work for authors like Susan Hill and Joanne Harris, both of whom are in my pantheon of greats, so I feel in esteemed company.

I received my copy last week, eight CDs of it. I’ll admit, I was full of trepidation when I put it in the CD player. At appearances I’ve read sections from the book numerous times. I know the language, the flow, the Leeds feel of it all. Above all, in my head I had the voices of the characters.

What I heard wasn’t those same voices; of course, it couldn’t be. As a wise woman told me, it’s an interpretation. But it’s an excellent one. His Amos Worthy seethes with menace, every bit as good as I could have hoped. Listening to it I’ve learned a great deal, most particularly that a book from someone else’s point of view will be different, but it can be just as good, if not even better, as those people come at it objectively.

So I’ve moved from trepidation to outright joy. More than that, to gratitude to the team and to Steven for putting so much into it, and finding things I’d never imagined. Go on, have a listen to an excerpt. You can do it here. I’ll guarantee that you won’t be disappointed. The audiobook has been released into the wild. May it soar high.

Dear Dave – you don’t mind if I call you Dave, do you, only that friendly diminutive of your name was what you wanted when you were leader of the opposition and courting every possible voter with your brand of compassionate Conservatism,

Well, you’ve got a bit of a problem with this Chief Whip of yours, don’t you? You have to show him some loyalty and accept his story, but in doing so you’re effectively saying the police lied, which is like being stuck between a rock and a hard place. To my count, the letter released tonight is the third attempt to ‘draw a line’ under the matter. But really, you can only do that when things add up. And they really don’t in this case, do they?

Now, I don’t know Andrew Mitchell – let’s call him Andy, shall we, and make it all friendly? – how could I? I didn’t go to public school, I didn’t have generations of MPs in my past, I’m not a rich banker. He may be the nicest chap in the world for all I know, although many accounts seem to doubt it. But one thing he seems unable to do is recall exactly what he did say. At first he didn’t swear, then he did. Now he’s clear on what he said, but he won’t tell us? That seems a wee bit odd to me, Dave. Aren’t we good enough to know? Or could it be that even coming out and saying the word ‘pleb’ is too, too dangerous? Even if he didn’t say it the damage has been done. Oops,eh?

I know these are trying times for you lot. You growing more unpopular and even parts of your own party keep threatening to knife you in the back (“Et tu, Brute?” See, you don’t need a posh upbringing to quote Shakespeare). The truth is, you’re just not very good in your choice of people, are you. There’s poor Andy Coulson. All you were doing was giving him a second chance. And let’s not forget Liam Fox, eh? What about Jeremy Hunt? And now old Andy. But you mostly stick by them. Well, it’s the public way, isn’t it, and someone has to show leadership. But I think it’s time to admit your people skills aren’t so hot. Dave.

Of course, you were just a PR flak. Probably you’re not the one who gets to makes the decision on who goes into what spot. You don’t pull the strings, you’re just a marionette who’ll end up making a lot of money after you leave office (maybe you can do better than Tony, eh?). I hate to say it, Dave, but you’re not even my Prime Minister. To me you’re a squatter in Downing Street (aren’t there laws against that now?). You were never elected to the job, you only got in on a technicality. You don’t have a government with a mandate from the people. But if it makes you feel better, go on believing that you do.

But right now you have a real problem. You’re damned whichever way you turn and all you can do is hope it’ll all go away very quickly. It’s never nice having to dump friends, is it? Still, if this doesn’t get swept under the rug (and I believe the rank and file police aren’t happy with you about those policing cuts) you’ll be able to give Ade a nice send off.

Signed,

A Pleb

A chance remark on Twitter left me thinking about the early days of water supply in Leeds. In my second novel set in the city, Cold Cruel Winter, I have a scene set in the pumping station by below Leeds Bridge (as it’s shown in the 1725 Cossens map).

Some houses in Leeds – the wealthier ones, obviously, received running water from the end of the 17th century. Engineers George Sorocold and Henry Gilbert undertook work todrawn water from the river Aire and pump it through a network of pipes to a reservoir on Wade Lane, above St. John’s church. From there pipes were laid to the houses of subscribers (there’s also mention of hydrants for fire engines; how true this is, I’m not sure). However, although they might have had running water, the ways of hot water on tap were still a long way off.

A water wheel, it would seem, was attached to the bridge (the third span, evidently), and, once lead pipe had been laid under the streets, a total of 2.5 kilometres, or a little over a mile, it reach the reservoir or cistern. Historian Ralph Thoresby recalled the pipe being laid under Kirkgate. The process began in 1694, with Sorocold, an engineer who’d work in Derby, among other places, evidently in charge of th4e project; certainly it’s his name that’s most associated with it.

The lead pipes for pushing the water, which was pumped by early steam engines through the system, were of lead, 75mm in diameter, and possibly some were bored trunks from elm trees, which were commonly used for pipes in the early days of water and sewage.

It’s perhaps surprising that the rich folk of Leeds had running water so early, one of the first cities in England to offer this. But it was a subscriber service, and likely not cheap. In a place with a population of between 6-7,000, only a few would have been able to afford it so it might well have been a while before there was a good return on investment. But within 60 years there was a need for a new pumping works, and a century after the system was built, three new cisterns were added, close to where Albion St. stands today – by then Leeds had around 17,000 residents and was, to some degree, fat off the wool trade.

The last few weeks have been stressful. It’s not just the holiday cover in the part-time job I do, more than doubling my hours and taking away from writing work (novels and unpaid), it’s the preparation for the launch of Come the Fear.

It went off very smoothly in the end, thanks to those who participated and Blackwell’s Leeds who arrived with copies of the book to sell. And great kudos to everyone at Arts@Trinity (the old Holy Trinity Church), who did a great, unruffled job most professionally and provided the perfect venue, a church built in 1727, right in the period of the books. As I reflect there, the real Richard Nottingham – and there was a real one, the Constable of Leeds – would have walked in that place, probably many times. I was in his footsteps, something that truly gave me pause.

But making sure everything was in place, at a distance of 80 miles, could be fraught at times. The phone calls and emails began in the summer, setting the date, letting people know, working with others, like the fabulous Leeds Book Club and Leeds Libraries in order to involve them (and thankfully they wanted to be part of it). It’s been an interesting and rewarding trip.

The night was all I’d hoped it would be, in its own ways quite magical. It took a good 48 hours to recover fully. The book had come out a fortnight before the launch party, but that saw it well and truly christened. But I will say that I’m not planning a launch for the next one (due in February). It’s not even the work involved. The question is – how do I top that?

The official UK publication date of my new book, Come the Fear, is August 30. Yet last week, even before I received my author copies of the novel from the publisher, a friend in America already has hers, ordered from Book Depository and sent airmail. Other people I know have received pre-ordered copies.

That’s fine. I’m grateful to anyone and everyone who spends their money on a copy, but it does create a small paradox. There are bloggers and reviewers who’ve timed their release of pieces around the publication date. But when copies are already being shipped, how relevant does that publication date become?

In the greater scheme of things, of course, this is nothing, not even a trifle. But it certainly leaves me wondering. Anyway, now’s the books been released to the wild, I hope some of you will read it and enjoy it. Remember, too, that if you’re in Leeds on September 14, the launch for the book will be at Arts@Trinity on Boar Lane at 7.30 pm.

It’s a time when good news seems to abound (and, aptly, it’s Yorkshire Day). The other week, up in Leeds, I was showing my son the interior of Holy Trinity Church, which dates from the times of my Leeds novels. It suddenly struck me that this would be the ideal place for the launch of the fourth in the series, Come the Fear. After a quick word with the venue director – it’s now called Trinity Arts – things were set in motion, and a week ago everything was confirmed. There will be readings from the book by young actors, storytelling from a couple of England’s top storytellers – Shonaleigh and Simon Heywood (who’ll celebrate their marriage just two weeks before) – along with music and artwork from young artists inspired by passages from the novel. Hopefully a great evening’s entertainment, and for anyone around Leeds on the evening of September 14, come on down.

And then, yesterday, my publisher made an offer, which I accepted, for the next book in the series, At the Dying of the Year, which will be published February 2013 in the UK (June in the US). I’m thrilled. It was a difficult book to write, very emotional and draining. I won’t say why, but I will let slip that it’s the fifth in the Leeds series. Whether Richard Nottingham himself is in it – my mouth’s zipped, and if you read Come the Fear you’ll know why.

On top of that, I’m working on the publisher’s edits for the first of my Seattle books,Emerald City, which will appear as a simultaneous ebook and audiobook in the next few months and waiting to hear the audiobook version of The Broken Token. I feel as if I’m beginning to make at least a little headway. It’s been a long, hard slog, but when I finish something and feel that it’s good, it’s all worthwhile.

A couple of years ago I was at an event called Bodies in the Bookshop at Heffers Bookshop in Cambridge. It’s a venerable institution, crammed with volumes, but the press of people and authors (about 30 of us) all signing books for people, wasn’t the best for preserving sanity.

This year they invited me back, and the setup has changed. It was on a Saturday, rather than a weekday evening, and consisted of eight different panels. I was on one concerning historical crime, along with Ros Barber, Robin Blake, Rory Clements and Peter Moore – with whom I had a great discussion, as we’ve both worked as music journalists. Well moderated, it was a joy, but perhaps the biggest thrill was that it took place in the debating chamber at Cambridge Union, where so many august people have spoken. That alone made it all worthwhile.

I’d love to say it offered a chance to mingle with other writers, but there was little of that. I had a brief walk around the town before the event (my son and I had done Cambridge properly two years back), then a quick trip to Fopp afterwards, where the Black Keys’Brothers and a 2-CD best of Bob Dylan for a fiver each really made the trip worthwhile, before heading back home.

But it was very enjoyable, a chance to talk and be directed, a contrast to a different event in Leeds earlier in the week at Oxfam Books. That, too, was a joy, hopefully helping them put a little money in their coffers and to show my son an area of Leeds where I spent a couple of years before moving to the US, and a visit to old stomping grounds.

CHAPTER ONE