This was a frustrating read because Mascord had all the components of a really good memoir, but they are just so poorly assembled. I thought the book was about 100 pages too long, and at times it felt like Mascord was just writing to fill up “enough space”, rather than needing to have something to say.
He repeatedly refers to the death of journalism as he knows it (and his ability to make money from it), like a Blacksmith watching his craft disappear into modernity. Lack of money is a theme. Being “famous” does not necessarily mean being rich.
At times he writes in a touching and personal manner. A good editor would have had him expand on the personal and left a lot of the shit out of the book. I sense that Mascord knew he was keeping a lot of shit in the book, and this is implied in the chapter “Gibber”. I wonder why he did this?
Maybe he kept the shit because it gave a more authentic reflection of himself, and played into what I felt was an underlying theme of appreciating great art, created by flawed artists. If it was intentional, that was brave. Or maybe he was trying to monetise what he can from his reputation in journalism whilst he still can? He implies a desire to take his life in a new direction.
I have always enjoyed Mascord’s writing. He is on the verge of being brilliant, without quite crossing the line – like so many of the pub bands he describes. At least he maintains his authenticity – for what it is worth.
