Tag Archives: The North

The Age Of Bowie


The Age Of Bowie –
How David Bowie Made A World Of Difference
By Paul Morley
Simon & Schuster – £9.99

The most honest way of writing about David Bowie and all the David Bowies he became in the 1970s as he turned his entire existence and his musical technique into a collage of impressions, memories and experiences is to create a collage in response, to exaggerate the exaggerations and the excess.

Paul Morley has always been a writer to be reckoned with.

Whenever it’s brought to our attention that he’s written a new book, one instinctively knows it’ll be very well written, thought provoking, idiosyncratically incisive, and will probably venture into subjective areas not entirely expected.

Such was the case with the most outstanding The North: (And Almost Everything In It) which I reviewed on this site upon publication. And totally unsurprisingly, such is also the case The Age Of Bowie – How David Bowie Made A World Of Difference. For not only is Morley a huge Bowie fan, the prospect of him writing about him, was always going to be a wholly satisfying, literary undertaking. Continue reading


The North (And Almost Everything In It)


The North

(And Almost Everything In It)

By Paul Morley

Bloomsbury Publishing – £20.00

I remember meeting Paul Morley at a magazine launch in London a number of years back, and even then, I always remember him as being extremely serious. The sort of person to whom laughter wasn’t second nature, who wouldn’t suffer fools gladly; whose high-octane, social observational antenna, sliced through the room; as if on a mission of some sort of sought after reprisal.

All of which I have to say, sometimes bubbles to the surface of this partially poignant, yet relentlessly powerful, and at times, perplexing book.

In truth, The North (And Almost Everything In It) is all things one has come to expect from Morley the cultural commentator, seasoned broadcaster and all-round, shimmering pop svangali.

For a start, it’s poignant because he writes of his childhood in such a way that on more than several occasions, reminds us of our own. For instance, in Part Two: ‘Through No Fault Of My Own,’ he writes: ”I did not have a fighting mentality, tended to be bullied rather than the bullier, and so never developed any strutting, threatening northern hard-man qualities and the sense that surviving in the world could be done through demonstrating toughness in the way you walked, talked, smoked, drank and, if necessary, hit someone. I was not cut out to be any sort of warrior or even any sort of niggly, annoying local hooligan, let alone an off-colour unblushing pub poet who did all his gruff rhyming, considering and slagging-off over a hard-earned pint.”

The slight juxtaposition between honesty and observation herein, hits the mark to such a nigh blatant degree, that it is no longer a juxtaposition. But rather, literary bed-partners, of the all confessional persuasion – that just happens to be one thread of contemplative thought throughout the entire book. As equally aligned with that of all confessional persuasion, is an astute journalistic portrayal of The North and (literally) almost everything in it.

To be sure, think of The North and everything that that conjures up, and you can bet your worst and most profound of pitiful of northern accents, that Morley will have mentioned it herein. From Eccles Cakes to Echo and The Bunneymen, the author has left absolutely no Mancunianesque stone unturned.

As already mentioned, these 559 pages are just as equally powerful as they are perhaps perplexing. Powerful, because the information laid forth is so dense, if not seemingly didactic. Perplexing, simply because of the colourful variance and the trajectory of the subject mattter.

Not to mention the varying twists and shouts thereof.

Said variance is somewhat substantiated in Part Three, ’13 June 1963,’ where Morley actually embarks upon a minor dissertation of the aforementioned Eccles Cake; which not only touches upon northern history, but the economic influence as well as the ideology behind its history: ”It is thought that the original Eccles cake recipe came from the remarkable and highly accomplished Doncaster-born Mrs Elizabeth Raffald’s (nee Whitaker) influential The experienced English housekeeper – for the use and ease of ladies, housekeepers and cooks, one of the most successful cookery books of the eighteenth century, published in 1769. Written in robust direct language that still seems clear and useful today, it included advice about how to spin sugar and thoughts about wine […]. She was a shrewd and enterprising living metaphor for how Manchester and surrounding districts accelerated into the nineteenth century and beyond, anticipating how there would be demand for new sorts of trades, services and financial exchanges, and how people with new money would crave novel tastes, pleasures, opportunities and venues. Business – and people being busy – would require new forms of finding, inventing and enjoying leisure pursuits […]. Elizabeth Raffald had incredible will power and the imagination and desire to inspire change. She was an early participant in and an inspiration to the spiritual, cultural and commercial transformation of northern life. It is fitting that something of her fortitude and vivacity has survived (a memorial plaque near Marks & Spencer in Manchester’s Shambles Square was destroyed in the IRA bomb attack of 1996) even if it is nothing more than a pastry that is often made so badly it might have been baked during her lifetime. A theatrical reverberation of her confidence, knowledge and power also lingers in the women of Coronation Street.”

From the overt saturation of the personal, to the journalistic/jingoistic clout of nigh every northern notion possible – be it George Formby, Fred Perry or football; Harold Wilson, Wigan Pier or workhouses; Crewe, Coronation Street or A Clockwork Orange; The Beatles, The Buzzcocks or Blackpool; Peter Sutcliffe, The Swinging Blue Jeans or The Smiths – The North (And Almost Everything In It) balances upon the poetic precipice betwixt that of northern induced eulogy and eccentricity.

It’s a terrific read and dare I say it, almost magical, if not momentous in execution.

David Marx