When a novel sneakily reveals itself to be inspired by a music album rather than other books...

 In my previous post, "Most Novels Are In Conversation With Novels That Have Preceded Them", I talked about 5 books which either influenced or at least echoed my current novel "The Death Of The Author (In Triplicate)". But it wasn't just literature which influenced my book. The author character in the final part of my novel in increasing despair as he reviews the book he has just finished for a final time, wonders if it's merely a monograph to his favourite album, "Three Imaginary Boys" by The Cure which was released in 1978. 

Here are my thoughts on the album.

Remember the self-proclaimed lo-fi genre of the late 80s early 90s, bands such as Pavement and Sebadoh? Well Robert Smith and The Cure got there a decade earlier with their album "Three Imaginary Boys". 

What could be more callow than taking the set text from your recently completed school A-Level French syllabus and turning it into a song “Killing An Arab”? Or there you are stuck in the studio needing to come up with a new track, picking up the Tate And Lyle sugar pack as you’re drinking your cup of tea tea and reading the details on the back of the packet, of how to apply for a free icing tool and then setting that to music? The track was called “So What?”, and it didn't even even omit the exact closing date for applying which has stuck in my mind some 38 years later and is of course, an offer that is now 38 years out of date. Did someone say 'timeless art'? 

There’s a cover version of Hendrix’s “Foxy Lady” which is unrecognisable from the original as any good cover should be, principally down to Robert Smith’s deep South (England) drawling vowels. It ought to be pointed out that “Foxy Lady” was just a band soundchecking in the studio and never intended to be part of the album, but the record label put it on much to Smith’s chagrin. He was never to surrender artistic control again, which in light of the Cure’s future 'Goth' output was a pity. Apparently the front cover was not Smith’s choice either, which is amazing as it's my favourite album cover of all time. Props to whoever designed it.

The album is offbeat, charming and yes, lo-fi. That’s not to say it doesn’t have some excellent guitar playing, since Smith is a guitar whizz with oodles of reverb and echo, but held in check by a tight rhythm section. Unlike Gang of Four, the Fall or Public Image Limited, this record is readily accessible. It’s non-conformist musically, but it’s not abstruse.

But for me ultimately, it’s the strength of its individual tracks. It starts with “10:15 Saturday Night”, which was the B-Side to their debut single “Killing An Arab”. What band open their debut album with a B-side? And then don’t put the A-Side anywhere on the album at all? Then comes my favourite track “Accuracy”, a song about a couple failing to communicate, with the pleasingly lyric delivered almost pleadingly by Smith, ‘Kill you without trying/ That’s ac-cu-racy’. There is edge in some of Smith’s words, such as in the song “Meathook”, ‘He really stole my heart/ Hung me up on a meathook/ A real piece of/ Slaughterhouse Art’. Ugh and that’s an image that has stayed with me I can tell you. And to cap it off, a hidden bonus track in which The Cure sort of play themselves off stage with a coda. If you have never heard this album and are keen on tracking it down, try and get hold of a version that includes their superlative early singles such as “Killing An Arab”, “Boys Don’t Cry” and “Jumping Someone Else’ Train”.

How does it feature in my novel? 

In part 1 of the novel, the detective character's favourite music genre is Easy Listening, so that the author character in part 3 who created him, has had to subject himself to an unending play list of Easy Listening standards, from Dionne Warwick to Frank Sinatra. By the time he has completed the book, he is desperate to play his actual favourite songs which he has starved himself of for so long and to clean his palate of asinine Easy Listening. He weighs up which should be the first to celebrate the completion of the novel and is inundated by songs from the Cure album. 

Was that the situation I, as the actual author also found myself in, having had to listen to an interminable play list of Easy Listening while writing part 1 of the novel? That would be just be a touch too metafictional wouldn't it? 

The song "Object" with the inimitable lyric "You're just an object in my eyes" points up the eternal philosophical dilemma between mind and matter, which is central to the detective character in part one of my novel as he goes about a murder scene looking for evidence to unlock the identity and mind of the killer. The title of the song "So What" as described above, forms the final words of the novel as the author is in complete despair about his book and his profession. 

"The Death Of The Author (In Triplicate)" is directly available from the publishers Corona\Samizdat

For more content on the novel visit https://sulcicollective.blogspot.com/2023/02/the-death-of-author-in-triplicate.html

SlipMatt - Friday Flash

this is an 800 word extract from my new novel "Time After Time"

Even when not armed with a pictorial pocket guide to the urban archetype, you could still tell he was a DJ. He had one hand clamping a headphone can against his ear as if it were a conch shell and he was divining for an ocean of sound through it. He also had a pair of light-up rave glasses, which in his case was a double affectation. Seeing as he had an angle-poise lamp, well, poised over his shoulder. Plus that the battery in his specs had long expired, though he either hadn't noticed or just couldn't spare the time to change it over. In contrast to his changing the records on twin turntables in a blur of motion.

Though effaced behind the decks, console and transmitter rig in his bedroom, his T-Shirt was of a full-sized twin-tape reel and assorted dials, buttons and analogue gauges, picked out in metallic silver against a black background. It looked like the innards of a cyborg and more alarmingly perhaps, in the dull, spectral light of the room, that they formed part of his own actual anatomy. Around his neck was a bandana, while on his head squatted a baseball cap at an incline that defied gravity.

It was said by those who caught rare glimpses of him, that it must have been the static electricity that surrounded him all day which held the hat fastened in place. It bore the imperative 'No Requests'. However, since the cap was perched backwards on his head, in the unlikelihood someone did advance upon him armed with a musical request, the pre-emptive prohibition wouldn't be visible to them. Therefore the headwear's broadcast could only fail in its purpose. But then the whole rigmarole was perhaps somewhat redundant. By reason of there being no one else in his box room. And, that given its dimensions, nor was there likely to be. Any self-respecting turntablists had played clubs with bigger DJ booths than this room. But then it was questionable how much self-respect DJ SlipMatt possessed.

The wall mounted clock was in the shape of a record turntable, the numbers marked along its circumference. The clockface dial was what revolved, whereas its hand in the form of a tonearm stayed fixed in place. Armed with just this one pointer, the clock only counted off the hours. Which was somewhat odd for a DJ reliant on getting his split second timing right as he transferred from one deck to another, or mixed in a beat.

He adjusted the angle-poise lamp so that its glare didn't flood wash his bank of monitor screens. The hacked feed from all the CCTV cameras on the estate fed into here. He clicked the bulging eyeball sat in a bloodshot sclera that was his computer mouse, in order to change the selection of cameras on his screen. Instantaneously the grid filled with sixteen new images at different slants of projection, like a Cubist painting. SlipMatt silently pronounced himself content with what he witnessed and slotted the headphones over both ears, with the headband hanging down from the back of his neck like a yoke. He started bobbing his head to the private rhythms, as he scrabbled around on the desk in front of him for something.

The room itself was a garret beneath sloping eaves which ate into the habitable space. SlipMatt could only properly stand up in the very centre. Otherwise he had to hunch over. Which seldom presented any impediment, since his natural bearing was sat stooped over the electrical equipment on his desk, as if he were hoarding it into his chest. Every single square inch of flat space was submerged beneath some electrical kit or other. CDs, cassette tapes, Dictaphones, Discmans, Walkmans, mobile phones, pagers, mini-discs, cartridges, DAT tapes, spools of magnetic tape, hard drives, RAM memory, flash memory, microphones, microphone stands, cabling and a wide array of batteries of every shape and size. The embodied history of sound recording lay mummified yet uncatalogued here. If Noah's Ark had preserved the length and breadth of the animal kingdom on earth, this room was its audio equivalent. Only none of these voices were ever likely to re-emerge into the light of day, consigned to the depths by the obsolescence of their storage vessels. Some people retain their teddy bears or significant other soft toys as a link to their childhoods. Some of those teddy bears are so old they have their cotton stuffing leaking out. Electrical audio equipment were SlipMatt's cuddly toys, his transitional objects and many had their tape or other innards leaching out of them.

Amazon UK

Amazon US

For more on the novel: The Origins lie in "The Terminator" movies or 

"How Barbara Windsor played a part in this novel seeing the light of day"

The website for "Time After Time"