New Kindle out now!

I've never been an Apple fan - no real need to. PC, Blackberry... I even started with a.n.other's MP3 player before getting an iPod.

But the purchase of an iPad did alter all that. The "app" is a real game-changer, and I am just waiting for iPhone 4.1 to come out in the autumn (we suspect) for the Apple wave to consume me further.

The other thing the iPad did for me was expose me to the electronic book. Whilst the iTunes book store is rumoured to be hugely successful, you can also run Amazon's Kindle software on the iPad, and have instant access to the USA Kindle bookstore. And THAT is bounteous and often inexpensive.

So, if reading books on a mchine is OK, acceptable, convenient, cheap, available, lightweight... the new Kindle at £109 is a complete no-brainer.

What I spent July reading

The Snowball: Warren Buffett and the Business of Life by Alice Schroeder


My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Buffett is a fascinating man - obviously very intelligent, but eccentric and socially inadequate. This huge, detailed book is an "authorised" biography which begins in childhood and brings us almost completely up to date. Not an investment guide, nor a hagiography, the book gives us a close insight into the life of the world's richest man. Overlong, but hugely enjoyable.

Paperback comes out next week.

It tells a story

Is she really going out with him?
   - Leader of the Pack, The Shangri-Las, 1964

Without getting all smoking-jacket literati about it, I’ve been thinking about the spoken word on records.

The excuse of a new, bigger iPod leads me to ripping some older CDs, and so I’ve been listening to Stevie Wonder, amongst others. In the middle of Living For The City, off of the Innervisions record, comes this spoken play-let – the young innocent from the sticks arrives in New York city, only to fall prey to naivety and racism. As he gets tossed into a jail cell, the cop calls him “nigger”; it’s pretty strong stuff in 2007, and very edgy in 1973, when it was edited out in radio airplay.

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.
   - Ernest Hemmingway

A full narrative - could you get much shorter? Hemmingway possibly wrote this short, short story for a wager, but also purports it to be his best work. Willy Vlautin, singer/songwriter of much-loved alt.country band Richmond Fontaine, peppers their brilliant Post to Wire record with a series of small, tight spoken-word vignettes called Postcards – messages from Walter to Pete, which in three pedal-steel backed tracks of less than a minute tell a detailed fall from grace story. Vlautin’s writing (he is also a novelist) has been compared to Raymond Carver, another author who is known for his sparse prose.

Which brings me to Charles Bukowski, not just because he is another exponent, but because he is the subject of a recent record by Tom Russell. Russell is a great songwriter (Johnny Cash, Nanci Griffith, Suzy Bogguss), albeit a mediocre singer himself. He is also exceptionally well connected, and can include Bukowski amongst his correspondents. Hotwalker: Charles Bukowski & A Ballad for Gone America is more of a radio show than a music record; with songs and spoken word it combines reportage and collage to describe the USA of Kerouac & Guthrie, poets & piss artists, circuses and shenanigans in a deservedly reverential way.


My son Tom has made friends with young Sheffield band, Weekend at Bukowski’s, of whom much are expected. Whilst preferring the name they first thought of (Breakfast at Bukowski’s – so much more irony), I hope they tell great stories.

The Devil's Right Hand

I almost met Steve Earle, once.

It was in the Acoustic Tent at Glastonbury in 2005 - he had wowed us Friday evening, headlining that same tent in solo mode, and earlier that day we had caught Allison Moorer's set. When she came on to duet with him, we learned that they were engaged, and she would become wife number six... or is it seven, it's not easy to recall, since he married one twice, and anyway, it mostly happened when he was inebriated, i.e. incessantly between the ages of 14 and 40.

Anyway, Sunday afternoon, the festival winding down and the mud depleting any remaining energy, I went to see Patty Griffin in the same Acoustic Tent. She was marvellous, but unusually poorly attended. It seemed like the crowd consisted of just me... and Steve and Allison. He was pretty rock n' roll, with shirtsleeves rolled up right over his biceps, and his wallet attached to his jeans with a long robust chain, enough to deter anyone from trying to pinch either. And they were standing right next to me.

As Patty finished her set, I brayed for an encore and was just about to give Steve a friendly nudge (I figured that he would agree with me that he, Allison and Patty were all pretty damn fine at this singer/songwriter stuff), when I turned to see them walking off hand-in-hand towards backstage. Missed my chance.

I just finished reading Hardcore Troubadour: The Life and Near Death of Steve Earle by Lauren St John, and that missed chance weighs more heavily.

If Steve Earle weren't a living, breathing person, he'd be a character in a blues song -- a raucous ballad about a gifted rebel who drank too much, lost most of his women in a blizzard of crack and cocaine addiction, and always came out on the wrong side of the law. Somewhere in the midst of all this, he also managed to weld rock to country, the Beatles to Springsteen, and bluegrass to punk, establishing himself among the most thoroughly original and politically astute musicians of his generation. Granted unrestricted access to Steve and his family and friends, Lauren St John has given us a sometimes shocking, often moving, and completely unvarnished biography of one of America's most talismanic sons.

You can tell that St John worked for The Sunday Times and also writes biographies of professional golfers - I'm not sure that amongst the wild and hoary epithets I have for Steve Earle's life, him being hit for six would figure. Nevertheless, she does a great job. Ironically, I now like Steve the person less, but respect his music more.

Which leads me to introduce the first of a series of Axiomatic Things I've Learned At Gigs (ATILAGs):

There is no live music set which cannot be improved by a guest appearance from Steve Earle.

viz. Sharon Shannon, Allison Moorer and The Waterboys at this summer's Cambridge Folk Festival, where a hirsute Steve made another Friday night for me.

A long long way

Yes, it surely was. But it would be worth it.

The occasional what have you read lately? opener would be met with an un-returnable passing shot. Knowing that a brief pre-adolescent fling with a Classics Illustrated comic would no longer sum up the experience.

Last year, I determined to read, for the first time, some Charles Dickens.

Unfathomably, I chose the longest, most concrete building block-like kilo-pager, Bleak House. I started it in almost ideal conditions, a short spring break in Barcelona - sadly, a mite too short to finish it, and it got abandoned when real life kicked in again. When it came time to pick it up once more in an effort to finish it before the year was out, I realised that the 400 pages I had already read six months before had completely vanished from memory. I read them again. So I did finish it, and it was good - box ticked.

Reading Bleak House sort of overwhelmed the rest of the year, not necessarily in literary quality, but certainly in shear bulk. There were other memorable moments, book-wise, but not many.

Luckily, just coming in under the wire was A Long Long Way, by Sebastian Barry. It is the story of a young Dubliner caught up with fighting with the British Army in WWI, at the same time dealing the Easter Uprising back home. Colm Toibin:

This is Sebastian Barry's song of innocence and experience composed with poetic grace and eye, both unflinching and tender, for savage detail and moments of pure beauty. It is also an astonishing display of Barry's gift for creating a memorable character, whom he has written, indelibly, back into a history which continues to haunt us.

Magnificently descriptive and brutal about war, it is also a brilliant evocation of an innocent trying to come to terms with the complicated politics of the Irish question. The book is powerfully sad - I kept hearing the anti-war songs of Eric Bogle whilst reading it.

Best book I read in 2006, by a long, long way.

At last, a jolly good read

After quite a few years where I could easily point to really great books for those "best of the year" lists (The Time Traveler's Wife, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, Vernon God Little), 2006 has been mostly barren. I suspect that the publishing world hasn't dropped the quality ball, slippery as it may be - I just haven't picked up the right tome.

This book is not the chosen one either, just a really good thriller, such as I have not read since, oh, The Long Firm.

Bangkok 8 - take the style of Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum novels, transport from New Jesey to Bangkok, make funnier, sexier and more gritty, and toss in some Buddhism. A gripping thriller, with wry views on the Thai character, sex industry and police corruption. Not a great ending, unfortunately, but enthralling all the same.