Why I Write Horror

There are a lot of ways to approach this question. The obvious answer would be ‘Because I want to.’ But that would be overly simplistic. Looking at it, it also comes across as belligerent as hell and gives the reader nothing. An alternative would be ‘Because it’s what I read.’ But that’s only slightly less belligerent, and again gives the reader nothing. So I opted to tackle the question from a different angle.

The more I thought about it, the more complex the answer, and the question, became. I realised that at some point in my life there had to be a defining moment. Some event that set me off on this dark path, rather than an alternative path lined with glitter, rainbows, dancing bunnies and jolly unicorns.

Maybe it was the time I sneaked into my older sister’s room to look for her diary, which I planned to use for extortion purposes, and found instead her collection of battered horror paperbacks. I was too young to appreciate the literary merits of said collection, and instead pored over the covers, one of which memorably portrayed a man with an axe buried in his head.

Or was it watching An American Werewolf in London for the first time? On repeated viewings, I began to appreciate the humour more. But back then, it was just horror. Pure, primal, pulse-quickening horror. Two scenes in particular stuck with me, and still do; the Nazi demon home invasion sequence and the chase through the London Underground. Coincidentally, when I moved to London to work for a magazine years later, that very underground station (Tottenham Court Road) was on my daily commute, and it was a very disconcerting experience interchanging there late at night. The place hasn’t changed much.

Another trigger for my love of horror might have been listening to my ex-coal miner grandfather’s stories of the ghostly bwca he and his mates swore they heard deep in the bowels of the earth. Years later, I found that these stories were not unique to Welsh mines. Stephen King wrote about the same phenomena in The Tommyknockers. In fact, people hear the same phantom tapping and knocking noises underground all over the world and always have, yet nobody knows what causes them. I explored this concept further in my recent novella Silent Mine.

Then again, perhaps growing up in a house which may or may not have had a resident poltergeist sparked my interest in horror and the paranormal. I’ve made my peace with that, and haven’t completely ruled out the theory that any perceived activity was a manifestation of my own pubescent telekinetic energy, as per one of the main theories behind the poltergeist phenomenon.

On the other hand, my obsession with horror, the paranormal, and all aspects of the unexplained might be down to a strange encounter involving a huge wooden wardrobe in the back bedroom. That certainly happened before any of those other things, and may well have influenced my thought process for evermore. Maybe if the Wardrobe Incident had never happened, none of those other things would have happened.

So what happened, exactly?

To this day, I don’t even know.

But I know something did.

(Not the actual wardrobe)

One of my earliest memories is having some kind of bad experience with that damned wardrobe and being too young to run away. I remember sitting on the floor, the wardrobe towering over me, overcome with a mixture of helplessness and profound terror. The next thing I know I am at the top of the stairs, too little to tackle them by myself, yelling for my mother. When she finally came, I was too traumatised to even articulate what had happened. All I could do was point.

It might have been something innocuous; a sudden breeze opening the door, gravity making something fall inside and make a noise. Heck, I might just have caught a fleeting glimpse of a rogue dormouse or something.

Or it could have been something so utterly terrifying that I refused to enter that room again, suffered from insomnia for years, and checked myself in to a kind of mental emergency room where my fractured mind still seeks to paper over the cracks. That part of my memory is now hidden from view, obscured. Maybe it will come back one day, maybe it won’t. 

Maybe I don’t want it to.

And maybe that’s why I write horror.

An alternative version of this post first appeared on the website Kendal Reviews

Manic Street Preachers – Critical Thinking (review)

The Manic Street Preachers are one of those bands whose music may resonate more at some times than others, but have remained one of the few constants in my life. They started strong back in the early nineties with Generation Terrorists, and were an integral part of the swaggering Cool Cymru scene that truly put Wales on the pop culture map. Since that glorious heyday, the quality of material they’ve put out has varied wildly and apart from the odd banger, they haven’t bothered the charts much. Apart from a brief period in the late nineties, they have generally been on the periphery of the mainstream, in that adjacent space they carved out for themselves so deliberately where they are free to offer off-centre political comment and their unique brand of Pound Shop philosophy, but largely unencumbered by commercial pressures. Through it all they have managed to maintain a sizeable cult following, so like a lot of so-called heritage acts still releasing new material (most of them don’t) now try to cater for the fanbase by being the versions of themselves they think most people want them to be. Sometimes it’s comforting, sometimes it’s passable, and sometimes its borderline embarrassing and they come across like a parody of themselves. Coming immediately after reissues of earlier albums Know Your Enemy and Lifeblood, in interviews the band have alluded to this album being a hybrid of those two endeavours. Perhaps as a consequence of being forced to retrace their steps so often, introspection is never far away in the life of the Manics, circa 2025.

Critical Thinking is filled with every Manic-ism you can think of, and more besides. The soaring choruses, the sloganeering, the lyrics concerning obscure painters and war photographers perpetually wavering between defiant and morose, the odd plinky plonky piano. Seasoned bands are generally less experimental these days, and just give the fans what they want. Times ten. Or in this case, times twelve as that’s how many tracks it contains. In doing so, they climb a few rungs on the fame and riches ladder because their popularity goes up a few notches. “Albums are a reflection of where your mind is at – certainly in the Manics’ world,” Nicky Wire told NME just prior to the release of this album, before defining ‘critical thinking’ as the power to reject by not always going with the flow. This ingrained non-compliance has been a near-constant theme in the Manics’ work for decades now, to such an extent that it has become a trait in itself. Each of their albums feature a quote, chosen by the band, which aims to add context to the overall project. This time it’s ‘I am a collection of dismantled almosts’, by US poet Anne Sexton who often addressed mental health in her writing before committing suicide at the age of just 45. In clarification, Wire says “If everyone had the same amazing fucking benefits I had when I was growing up – the music that was around, the parents that I wish everyone could have – it wasn’t anything other than working class but it was just so culturally-enriched. It’s all about critical thinking – trying to re-evaluate who you are and why you like those things.”

That might not be in line with everyone’s interpretation of the phrase ‘critical thinking’ but ‘everyone’ doesn’t matter. This, the band’s fifteenth studio album, comes four years after their last, the Ultra Vivid Lament became their first UK number one since This is My Truth, Tell me Yours topped the charts way back in 1998. The most memorable thing about that particular release was that it wasn’t very memorable. Here, we are dropped right in the middle of some kind of Clash/Dead Kennedy’s mash-up with Nicky Wire’s sweary, deadpan, spoken word delivery layered over the top. This might be what would happen if New Order covered Blur’s Park Life. It’s an intense, and slightly weird start, which, thankfully, acts as a hors d’oeuvre. It isn’t long before the album’s jewel, recent single Decline and Fall, spills forth, the sweeping tones and anthemic chorus bringing to mind peak Manics. That early highlight is quickly followed by another, Brushstrokes of Reunion, written by James Dean Bradfield about an oil painting by his now-deceased mother, and the emotive power it still maintains over him. Moving stuff. These two tracks alone exemplify everything that is great about this little group of survivors from Blackwood.

Next up is Hiding in Plain Sight, a perfect example of one of those jaunty little numbers with paradoxically depressing and mournful lyrics the Manics do so well. This track works as a fitting couplet with People Ruin Paintings, which will invariably sound suspiciously like something else you’ve heard but can’t quite put your finger on. Not that there is anything wrong with that. I think it’s called ‘paying homage’ and Oasis have made a career out of it. The track Dear Stephen was ostensibly inspired by a postcard sent to Wire as a teen from Morrissey at the request of his mother after he was too ill to attend a Smiths gig, and a sleeper hit here (were it not for the subject matter) might be Being Baptised. Elsewhere, Out of Time Revival sounds like classic late-period Police with maybe a hint of Talking Heads, while album closer OneManMilitia is defined by a breezy, country-tinged guitar solo.

You’ll find influences laid bare throughout the album, something the Manics have never shied away from. They have always been a product of their environment. But Critical Thinking is a remarkably consistent effort, especially after repeated listens. The quality doesn’t drop much throughout, even if it gets slightly repetitive towards the end and you find yourself yearning for a You Love Us or a Stay Beautiful to shake things up a bit. Nope. You should be so lucky. Instead, it’s all a bit polished and safe. No doubt, it will please the diehards. Hell, it even pleased me for a while and I’m not even a diehard. As ever, there is some exceptional lyricism on display veering between insightful and profound. One of my favourite lines comes from Late Day Peaks; “There’s no shame in a smaller world, become an expert in what you observe.”

One thing about album-making the Manics (and most other artists) have adapted to over the years is brevity. Albums in general now tend to be tighter, more focused, and shorter. Unless you’re Taylor Swift, of course. Mercifully, bloated 72-minute albums full of spaced-out, mid-tempo plodders, are a thing of the past. The record-buying (or, more accurately, music-consuming) public just don’t have time for it. With Critical Thinking it sounds like the Manics have finally got the balance right, and they just might deliver gold.

Critical Thinking is out now on Columbia Records

Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band @ Principality Stadium, Cardiff, 5 May 2024

So here we are. The opening night of the 2024 Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band European Tour which, in effect, began in February last year before being derailed by Bruce’s stomach ulcer. I had to travel to Birmingham to see it then. At least this gig is closer to home. Bruce has taken a lot of heat on this tour. And not just because of the Ticketmaster fiasco. Some diehard fans complained about the static setlist and the slightly maudlin, reflective mood. It may not have changed much from night to night, but to be fair it was a cracking set and if I had to sit down and write one of my own, it wouldn’t be far off. Some of that criticism must have stung Bruce, because here it seemed as if he were begrudgingly trying to give all the people everything they wanted at the same time. There were rarities galore and a more generally upbeat tone. Gone are the long jazzy improv sessions, giving way to a litany of more leaner and muscular crowd pleasers. In many ways this felt like a band giving it everything in one last power drive.

Despite a few cursory yells of “Cardiff!” there was very little interaction with the crowd in the opening stages, which was a bit unusual for Bruce. Instead, he let the music do the talking and dug deep in a bid to prove the naysayers wrong. The opening track, always a point of discussion between Bruce fans, was So Young and in Love, a sax-heavy, sixties-enthused deep cut that first appeared on his 1998 compilation Tracks, though the song itself is much older than that. My guess is this slot will be regularly occupied by something random. Or he might do it just often enough that when he does start shows with something more conventional, that’ll be a surprise in itself. Springsteen has a history of doing this, often busting out covers that have a connection to the place he is playing. I remember seeing him open a London gig once with London Calling by the Clash, and he sometimes plays INXS songs in Australia. Word is he has been rehearsing an old Pogues tune, which might be significant given he is scheduled to play a few gigs in Ireland soon. It’s attention to detail like this which makes each gig more of an experience for the fans. Though I have no idea what So Young and in love has with Wales. I live in hope of seeing him play an Alarm song in Wales.

Lonesome Day, No Surrender, Prove it all night, The Promised Land, and Darlington County all followed in quick succession with barely a pause for breath. It was exhilarating. Then came Ghosts from his 2020 album Letter to You, one of his best tunes in years which sits easily among the older, more established material. In fact, that whole album is a banger. A definite late-career return to form. Another lurch to leftfield came in the form of nineties relic Better Days, played as a result of a sign request. With such an expansive back catalogue to choose from, as well as the likelihood of the odd cover version, I can’t see that song getting too many more outings on this tour. Presumably the bulk of the set will remain unchanged but Bruce will slot these little oddities around it to spice things up. This undoubtedly won’t please everyone, but it seems the most sensible approach.

It was exhausting just watching this. Just shy of three hours might not sound like much, but the dude is almost 75 years old. It’s all made more taxing by the emotional investment demanded of the crowd. It’s pretty intense, especially in the middle of the set which included flawless run-throughs of My City of Ruins, The River, a cover of the Commodores’ Night Shift from his most recent album Only the Strong Survive, and a rare If I was The Priest, culminating with a rumination on absent friends and being the last surviving member of his first band in the introduction to Last Man standing. Cards on the table, some moments do seem a bit contrived and, dare I say, overdramatic. But Bruce is an entertainer, and he does his job well. I absolutely loved the segue from Wrecking Ball through The Rising and into Badlands, leading into a rousing Thunder Road. The energy levels barely drop a notch.

With this show, The Boss takes you on a journey, and it’s not always an easy road to travel. There will be both sadness and joy, elation and devastation. With all kinds of sentimental swerves depending on the little tweaks Bruce makes along the way. A Bruce show is a microcosm of life. There’s a lot of regret, something probably most humans are dealing with to some extent. Its relatable. If you’ve been following Bruce for any length of time, and most of the at his gigs have, you form unique bonds and attachments to these songs. They might remind you of certain people, times, or places. Lonesome day, for example, take me back to a breakup I had 20-years ago. Badlands brings back the feeling of being a rambunctious teenager who thought he knew it all. The River, for some reason, brings back memories of a trip to see the Boss in Rotterdam a lifetime ago where I got robbed in a cafe and strip searched by French border police. Even the obscure opener blasted me with memories because Tracks was such a seminal release for me that I remember where and when I bought it and by extension who I was going out with at the time.

The joy was compounded about two thirds through when Bruce turned the house lights on, another long-standing tradition, and ran through a thrilling life affirming sort-of extended encore (I say sort-of extended encore because I don’t actually remember them ever leaving the stage) of Dancing in the Dark, Born in the USA, Born to Run, Bobby Jean and Tenth Avenue Freeze Out. By then you felt like this was your reward at the end of that long, difficult journey. These songs mean different things to different people, like a hidden language only you and maybe the Boss himself, can understand. Well, not even he understands it. He doesn’t even know you exist. It’s just you. But as pathetic as that might sound, at least we found a shred of meaning in this fucked up world and for that alone we should be grateful. This, I recently worked out, is the same kind of deeply personal relationship some overly-religious people say they have with Jesus. And others have with Taylor Swift who, incidentally, is playing this very venue next month. Each to their own, I guess. I don’t think its an accident that in later years Bruce has inserted more religious references and imagery in his shows, almost like he us taking on the role of preacher. Or cult leader. There’s a reason so many fans (and sometimes reviewers) liken seeing the Boss in concert to a religious experience.

Maybe we are all looking for some kind of connection, and in an increasingly isolated and segregated world where we seem to have less and less all the time, we find it in places like this. Being part of the fan community helps you meet like minded people and have conversations that not many other people would find stimulating. We get it. We all understand. This journey we are on together is another chapter in the book of our life, and because of Bruce we are all here together at this precise moment in time. It’s all fine and dandy being a lone wolf, but even wolves know there is safety in numbers sometimes. Whatever helps us all get through the day and make it to the next milestone. I very much doubt we will ever see the E Street Band as a live force at the conclusion of this extended tour, but I said that last time.

That reminds me of a meme I saw recently. The earth is billions of years old, and you are lucky enough to be on it the same time as Bruce Springsteen.

Hallelujah!

Far From Saints (album review)

Far From Saints is a collab between Kelly Jones of Cool Cymru survivors Stereophonics and Patty Lynn and Dwight Baker from US country rockers The Wind and the Wave who seem to be innoffensive enough. They do the work and get the job done. I know I’m a bit late to the party. This came out last June so any interested parties will probably have heard the trio’s 10-track debut album by now.

Jones and Lynn harmonise really well together, their respective tones dovetailing nicely throughout. They sound a bit like a less polished and more bluesy version of Deacon Blue. You get the rough with the smooth – Kelly Jones’s gravelly croak and her soft touch, hitting the notes Jones gave up trying to reach about three albums ago. I was a bit wary of giving this a listen, to be honest. It’s been sitting on my playlist for ages. In my mind Kelly Jones just about manages to stay relevant through being in Stereophonics. The stuff he’s done on the side has been patchy at best. He made a solo album a few years back and named all the songs after women he’d shagged. Sorry, been in a relationship with. then he pulled a fast one and called the album ‘Only the Names have been Changed.’ The crafty git. I thought he would get absolutely shredded for that, especially as it came out just as the #MeToo movement was hitting. But nothing happened. Dodged a bullet there. Maybe he managed to pass it off as more Bowie than Ryan Adams nut it was still a bit of a weird concept. The album made you feel grimy just listening to it. And after that he did the Don’t Let the Devil Take Another Day compilation, which was pointless in the extreme.

This project is a significant step up from that. The album is a bit one-paced and samey, and there isn’t really much to get excited about. If I still made mixtapes would anything from this make the final cut? Maybe one of the singles as a token representative. Do bands even do singles any more? Anyway, point is, this just plods along, the odd big chorus, the odd soaring guitar solo, but nothing to elevate it too much. All that said, this is pretty solid work. From front to back, it’s well paced and the tracks don’t outstay their welcome. There’s always a danger with projects like this that those involved might get a bit too indulgent and start drifting toward those bland nine-minute epics. Thankfully, Kelly Jones steers clear of that and after the requisite couple of listens, a few tracks do begin to stand out. Let the Light Shine Over You and Screaming Hallelujah are fit to grace any playlist, and neatly condense what the album represents down to neat little 4-minute chunks. Take it Through the Night is a bit more raw and rocky, reminiscent of classic Stones, while the cheerfully-titled We Won’t get out Alive, a deep cut from the second half, manages to rise above the mediocrity and anthemic closer Own It (it even has a ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa refrain) is one for the ages. Something that always impressed me about Sterophonics was their ability to pace an album and end it on a high. That was all Kelly Jones. He knows how important it is to finish strong.

That cover art is also interesting. There’s a lot to unpack here. Looks to me like the trapeze artist guy has lost his grip and is tumbling to his doom, which could be a metaphor for a lot of the subject matter contained herein. The trapeze artist girl is doing her best to save him, bless her, but it looks like a lost cause at this point. the poor dude’s going to get smashed to pieces in front of all those people. It’s an impactful visual of how tragic and futile all this is, that dutiful sense of going all-out to save something you already know is lost, all of which feeds into some of the lyrics and the general vibe. Not that that’s a negative thing, at times the music has a joyous gospel flavour, but there’s also a lot of reflection, melancholy, and regret here. Fiona Shepherd of The Scotsman said this album; “Plays out exactly as you might expect with a mix of country balladry, southern soul inflections, winsome vanilla pop, orchestral embellishments and the acoustic roots rock which best suits Jones’s raspy voice.”

It’s a long way from Cwmaman.

RetView #70 – Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man (1943)

Title: Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man

Year of Release: 1943

Director: Roy William Neil

Length: 72 mins

Starring: Ilona Massey, Patric Knowles, Bela Lugosi, Lionel Atwill, Lon Chaney Jr

This is, by my reckoning, is the oldest offering thus far in the #RetView series, which is no bad thing. From the iconic opening scenes of a couple of graverobbers skulking through a cemetery at night during a storm and breaking into a tomb only to get attacked by a rogue werewolf, you just know you’re in for a treat. As the title suggests, Frankenstein meets the Wolf Man was kind of a mash-up between two of cinema’s biggest stars of the time, a bit like a formative version of Alien vs Predator. Both Frankenstein’s monster and werewolves have been covered before here. Lots. And lots. But this is where it all started. Or, more precisely, ‘it’ started shortly before this because Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man acts as a combined sequel/spin-off to both The Ghost of Frankenstein (1942) and the Wolf Man (1941).

It was directed by Irish-born Roy William Neil, who became most famous for his work on the classic Sherlock Holmes series starring Basil Rathbone made by Universal Studios. The plot follows the luckless werewolf Larry Talbot (Chaney Jr) who, now free of his earthly restraints thanks to those misguide graverobbers, keeps blacking out every time there is a full moon and doing unspeakable things to people, which are then invariably dubbed ‘animal attacks’ by the press, though of course certain figures know the score and are determined to avoid a public panic. One day, he wakes up in a hospital in Cardiff (which would be enough to make anyone question their life choices) prompting a discussion between a Cardiff police inspector and a colleague in Llanwelly which goes something like this:

“Have you got anything in your files on a man named Lawrence Talbot?”

“Of course! He lived here.”

“That’s alright, then. We’ve got him up ‘ere in our hospital.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want him in our hospital. He died four years ago.”

Being a proud Welshman, I have to voice my disappointment that none of these esteemed actors and actresses even attempted a Welsh accent. Everyone sounds like they’re from London. Anyway, there’s another full moon, which sends our mate Larry into a tizz again and he turns into something resembling a Yorkshire Terrier. Unable to live with the guilt, he thinks death is the only way to escape the werewolf curse. He meets a gypsy woman Maleva (Ouspenskaya) who advises him that the only way to stay dead is to confer with Dr. Frankenstein. The doctor himself is long dead but his equipment is in working condition, leading Talbot to team up with scientist Dr. Mannering (Knowles) and Baroness Elsa Frankenstein (Massey). Talbot then embarks on a ludicrous attempt to have his life sucked from his body and transferred into that of Frankenstein’s monster (Lugosi) which leads to an almighty rumble, with Talbot in full terrier mode, at Frankenstein’s castle, all of which takes place amid a backdrop of rampaging, torch-carrying villagers hell-bent on sabotaging everything.

The authors of the exhaustive book Universal Horrors: The Studio’s Classic Films describe the initial reception to Frankenstein Meets the Wolfman film as “lukewarm,” with many writers and reviewers of the day treating it as a little more than a joke. Bosley Crowther of The New York Times stated that, “There’s only a little tussle at the end. And that only lasts but a moment. They are both washed away during same. Too bad. Not very horrible.” Kate Cameron of The New York Daily News gave the film two-and-a half stars, noting that, “The producers have spent time and money on the production and have gone to considerable trouble to give it the proper atmospheric touches.” Harrison’s Reports wrote: “For those devotees who like their horror pictures strong, this one will fill the bill … The action and the eerie atmosphere conforms to a familiar pattern, but it does not detract from the film’s horrendous nature.”

Elsewhere, Variety magazine said that Siodmak, “delivers a good job of fantastic writing to weave the necessary thriller ingredients into the piece” and Film Daily called it, “A horror feast in which devotees of the weird and the fantastic will gorge themselves to bursting.” A more contemporary piece written by Kim Newman for Empire magazine sums the whole thing up nicely in calling the film, “Silly, but enormous fun.”

Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man, the first of what would become known as the “monster rally films” , was followed by other name-brand film monsters in crossovers such as House of Dracula (1945) before things reached peak absurdity with Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein three years later. It is also credited (in particular by Kim Newman) with setting the precedent for future similarly-themed films like King Kong vs. Godzilla (1962) and even Freddy vs. Jason (2003).

GO HERE for more #RetView instalments.

Trivia Corner:

Universal’s original plan was to have Lon Chaney Jr. (who had played Frankenstein’s monster in The Ghost of Frankenstein) portray both the monster the Wolf Man. The plan was dropped due to concerns that the limited special effects available would not be sufficient. There were also concerns about the physical strain it would place on Chaney to play both parts.

So Long Astoria @ Twenty!

“My favourite thing to do was run away.”

– Richard Hell

I can’t remember how I first discovered The Ataris, though it was probably through their cover of Boys of Summer, which was on heavy rotation on MTV at the time. I loved the original, but the cover was spiky, energetic, and had a harder edge. This was at the height of my pop punk phase, so I decided to take a punt and buy the album. That meant a trip to HMV in Cardiff, which was where you had to go to get anything cool if you lived in the south Wales valleys twenty years ago. That, or Spillers Records, which is still there and now the oldest independent record store in the world.

Kind of like weed, So Long Astoria was my gateway album, and for the next couple of years I feverishly set about collecting everything the Ataris had ever put out. I still do, though they’ve lapsed into a funk over the past few years and apart from the odd single, live recording and demo, haven’t released anything new since 2007, though they’ve been threatening a new album for a couple of years now. They’ve never been the most settled outfit, with lots of label and line-up changes, the only constant being singer/songwriter/guitarist Kris Roe.

So Long Astoria, which like all the best albums, is a snapshot in time. Whenever I play it, I am magically transported back to the summer of 2003. It was a special time. My first book had just come out to modest success, I’d left my factory job, which I’d held for almost a decade, and was on the verge of moving to Southampton to study journalism at uni. I’d been writing diligently for eight or nine years by that point, and the hard work was finally beginning to pay dividends. I was also trying to extricate myself from a very bruising three-year relationship that had turned decidedly toxic. In short, my whole world had been turned on its head. Whereas before, it was a world of drudgery and stifled dreams, now it was one of unlimited possibilities.

Looking back, that period felt a lot like a dream. Mostly, I felt a sense of freedom I’d never experienced before. I also felt lucky, and proud that my hard work was finally paying off. I was also slightly terrified. Change is always terrifying, especially when everything changes at the same time. It seemed like every day I had to make potentially life-changing decisions, and I was afraid of fucking things up. There was excitement for my new life, and a duty to navigate my ship responsibly, but there was also a yearning for the past, where my existence was more structured and conventional. I’d spent most of my life trying to break out of a box and when I finally managed it, I had no idea what to do next.

The group of songs on So Long Astoria all fit a certain mould. They are full of optimism, yet many are also tinged with sorrow or regret. It’s an album of new beginnings and second chances. It’s looking forward, but glancing behind with a plaintive, wistful gaze. That fits with the overall context of the album’s release, as it was the band’s major label debut (for Columbia Records) after spending their early career on smaller labels like Kung Fu and Fat Wreck Chords. The mood is encapsulated in the title, a reference to the classic eighties flick The Goonies which is set in a place called Astoria. Roe has said the album’s overall theme was inspired by the book Go Now by Richard Hell (who was a member of several notable punk bands including the Neon Boys, Television and The Heartbreakers with Johnny Thunders) which alluded to the concept that memories are better than life itself. “I wanted this record to portray, that life is only as good as the memories we make,” Roe later explained, echoing the lyrics in the title track that kicks off the album.

The theme of escaping small town life and somehow making it big is carried onto the next song, Takeoffs and Landings, which is about the dissolution of a relationship and probably my favourite cut on the album. That and many other songs like Summer of ’79 and All you Can Ever Learn is What You already Know maintain the tempo and call to mind vintage Bouncing Souls or Sum 41. But they aren’t all spiky pop punk rockers. There is depth here, too. My Reply is about a hospitalized fan close to death and Unopened Letter to the World is an ode to American poet Emily Dickinson.

One of the key tracks is first single In this Diary, which was released on 11 February 2003 and later featured in teen heist comedy The Perfect Score. The below verse is pretty typical of the lyrical content:

I guess when it comes down to it
Being grown up isn’t half as fun as growing up
These are the best days of our lives
The only thing that matters is just following your heart
And eventually you’ll finally get it right

Some versions have a selection of bonus tracks on the end of the standard 13-track release. The pick of these for me is a remake of I Won’t Spend Another Night Alone, a song from the album Blue skies, Broken Hearts… Next 12 Exits, but A Beautiful Mistake, which came out as a b-side in some territories, and the cover of Rock n’ Roll High School by the Ramones are also worth checking out.

So Long Astoria was released on 4 March 2003 and was certified gold in America, selling over 700,000 copies. It sold 33,000 in its first week, debuting at number 24 on the Billboard 200. and charted at a slightly less impressive number 92 in the UK. I was hoping we’d get one of those deluxe 16-disc boxed set reissues, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen. It wouldn’t really be necessary as the demos and live recordings from the era are available on the band’s Bandcamp page. After all this time, the album’s impact remains undimmed, especially among pop punk aficionados. The album was included at number 25 on Rock Sound’s 51 Most Essential Pop Punk Albums of All Time list. They later ranked it at number 97 on the list of best albums in their lifetime, and as recently as 2017 it was voted number 30 in Kerrang! Magazine’s list of Greatest Pop Punk Albums of all Time, the entry saying:

“While his powers have waned, Kris Roe’s skill with three chords and the truth was once second to virtually no-one. The Ataris’ So Long, Astoria is solid-gold evidence of that fact while their cover of Don Henley’s Boys Of Summer remains as good as (dare we say, even better than) the original.”

They are not wrong. Of all the album’s I have ever listened to, So Long Astoria is one I cherish most, and probably always will. If you’ve never heard it, go treat yourself.

Taking shelter in the Hiraeth Chair

My short story The Hiraeth Chair, is included in the spring 2022 edition of Shelter of Daylight, edited by Tyree Campbell.

Hiraeth is a Welsh word. There is no direct English translation, but it is basically used to describe a deep longing or sadness, often tinged with nostalgia and homesickness. I think the most accurate description would be along the lines of missing something, or some place, to which you can no longer return. You can find a more in-depth explanation here.

I played with the concept for a long time. I find it fascinating. I think it’s partly symptomatic of the human condition; whatever we have, wherever we are, most of the time we wish we were somewhere else. Running parallel to this is the notion of time travel. What if we found a way to return to those places we yearn for so much? And what would we leave behind?

This isn’t actually a horror story, which makes a change for me. Nobody dies, and there are no decapitations or slayings. It would probably more accurately be described as soft sci-fi. One reader told me it was one of the saddest stories they’ve ever read. To my mind, it’s not sad. It’s optimistic. It’s whatever you want it to be, I guess. If what that reader says is true, though, then I’ve done my job.

It’s a nice little coincidence, or pure irony, that Shelter of Daylight is published by Hiraeth Books.

Sker House 2020

Like most other people, I am struggling to take any positives from 2020. One positive, however, is the fact that I’ve had more time to reassess things, and tackle some of those jobs I’ve been putting off. One of those jobs was revising my novel, Sker House, my attempt at the ‘Great Welsh Haunted House Story.’

I worked on it sporadically for five or six years, mainly because there was so much research involved because I wanted it to be as factually accurate as possible. Sker House, and many of the places I talk about in the book, are real, and so are some of the local legends I reference including that of Kenfig Pool and the Maid of Sker. Well, they are at least as ‘real’ as legends can be, anyway. The book also incorporates some documented historical events, like the awful practice of wrecking and the Mumbles Lifeboat Disaster, which didn’t actually happen in Mumbles, but here at Sker Point.

In 2016 I got to a point where I was just done with Sker House. I was so desperate to get it out there, I forewent the process of looking for a traditional publisher, commissioned my old mate Greg Chapman to design a cover (based on an old postcard I found of the original Sker House) and decided to publish it myself. Or more accurately, via a now-defunct writer’s collective I was then part of.

Though it became my biggest selling book and picked up some great reviews, truth be told, I’ve never been 100% happy with the version of Sker House I originally put out. The plot was a bit meandering and unfocused in places, and I slipped into using the passive voice a bit too much. The back end of the book felt a bit rushed, and there were a few silly grammatical errors and the odd missing apostrophe or comma. In places I forgot I was writing for an international audience, and referenced things like the Dissolution of the Monastries without actually saying what it was, or what the implications were and how it tied in with the story. From a more practical standpoint, the formatting was also a bit wayward. I was still learning the ropes then and experimenting with different techniques and software.

Some things seem fine the first dozen times you read them, but if you go back and read them a thirteenth time years later you’ll probably find some things you’d like to change. The beauty of self-publishing, apart from maintaining complete creative control, is that you can do just that. During this re-write I also added 4,000 words or so to the original. I’m not sure how that happened because my intention was to do the opposite, but there you go.

Helped largely by a succesful Bookbub promotion, the first edition is my biggest selling book which means a lot of my readers already have it. If you’re one of the few thousand who are in possession of the original (now substandard) version, get in touch and I’ll send you a free copy of the 2020 remaster.

If you still haven’t visited Sker House, why not take advantage of the special relaunch offer I’m running and do so now? It shouldn’t need saying, but THIS INVITATION APPLIES TO THE BOOK ONLY. NOT THE ACTUAL HOUSE.

I said something similar before and got a solicitor’s letter from the house’s current owner. I don’t want that to happen again. 

The revamped, revised, rewritten, and remixed Sker House is available on ebook and paperback.

Onwards and upwards

Surzhai in ParABnormal magazine

My short story Surzhai, about an ill-fated meeting between modern day sex traffickers and a bunch of ancient Chinese warriors with supernatural powers and an axe to grind, has just been published in ParABnormal magazine.

I wrote the story in the summer of 2019 after returning from a road trip through the Guangdong countryside with my then-girlfriend. We saw a lot of little isolated dwellings, and I began to wonder what life was like in those places, largely removed from the trappings of modern life. I’d read a news report about young girls being kidnapped in rural China and being sold into the sex trade, and as we all know, at least in fiction, you can’t have evil without good. Everyone loves a revenge story. Somehow, all these things became intertwined in my mind, and Surzhai emerged.

The Mandarin words ‘sur’ and ‘zhai’ combined mean something close to ‘Death Cult’ in English, at least colloquially, though I know it isn’t a direct fit. My Mandarin is awful, and I was scrambling to find something authentic sounding which had some kind of relevant meaning. It was a balancing act. You can send complaints to the usual address.

ParABnormal Magazine is a print digest released by Hiraeth Publishing which publishes original stories, articles, art, reviews, interviews, and poetry.

From the writer’s guidelines…

The subject matter of ParABnormal Magazine is, yes, the paranormal. For us, this includes ghosts, spectres, haunts, various whisperers, and so forth. It also includes shapeshifters, mythological creatures, and creatures from various folklores. If your story also has science fiction or fantasy elements, we regard that as a plus.

One last word on language and linguistics. Hiraeth Publishing are based in Iowa (like Slipknot!), but interestingly enough, ‘Hiraeth’ is an old Welsh word. There is no direct English translation but it means something close to ‘homesickness’ or a sense of yearning/regret. As a proud Welshman, that struck a chord with me.

The latest issue of ParaABnormal is available now…

 

The Alarm – Stream (Hurricane of Change) (review)

The Alarm were bothering the charts long before the triumphant one-two combination of Equals and Sigma. Between 1987 and 1989 they released a trio of seminal albums beginning with Eye of the Hurricane and ending with Change, with the live mini-album Electric Folklore sandwiched in between. The late eighties were turbulent times, not just for the band, who despite arguably being at their commercial and creative peak were beginning to be torn apart by internal politics and squabbling, but also in a wider social context. This was the aftermath of the Miner’s strikes, and when the Berlin Wall fell shortly afterwards it catapulted Europe and the rest of the world into a period of seismic change. While all this was going on, lead singer Mike Peters travelled extensively through his homeland of Wales in a bid to rediscover his roots. During that period of intense retrospection he wrote extensively, many of the lyrics eventually being incorporated into the songs which appeared on the original albums while others fell by the wayside and still others remained unfinished or in some cases even unwritten.

Though it was their third official release (fourth if you count the debut EP) the original Eye of the Hurricane was the first Alarm record I ever bought, and I soon busied myself filling out my collection. The fact that I ended up with some of that collection on vinyl, some on cassette, and some on CD was perhaps indicative of the uncertainty of the times. The thing that resonated with me most wasn’t the anthemic, fist-pumping choruses or impassioned musicianship, though those things definitely played a part, but more the lyrics. In a landscape consisting mostly of Bon Jovi and Guns N Roses clones, it was refreshing to hear someone singing about the place where I was from, and about the things that mattered to me, especially at that stage in my life. I was 13 or 14, and things are especially confusing then. You begin to ask questions and seek meaning, and it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to say that the Alarm’s music helped me find answers to some of those questions.

Thirty years later, Peters has revisited that period and put all the material in a modern context, recently commenting:

“I have always thought of these three albums as an Alarm trilogy. A lot happened to the band and the world, during the writing and recording sessions from 1987-1990. As one decade bled into another, the themes of response and resolve to contend with uncertain times are running through the core of each and every album. Played together, these songs tell their own story and, with the tumultuous times Europe and the USA can expect to face in the coming months and years, are still as relevant today as when they were first written.”

The original tracks have been re-recorded or even re-imagined, those unfinished or unwritten songs have finally been laid down, and the whole thing adapted into a sprawling double album called Hurricane of Change tied together with segments of poetry and spoken-word narratives. Mike Peters has adopted a similar approach in recent years with re-recordings of earlier Alarm albums Declaration and Strength which, though critically and commercially well received, split much of the fanbase with some appreciating the new interpretations and others maintaining that the original recordings should be left as they are. My stance has always been firmly in the former camp. I enjoy hearing different versions of my favourite songs. Always have. Remixes, remasters, covers, demos, acoustic or live versions, bring them on. Music, like life, is always progressing and evolving whether we like it or not. If your favourite flavour ice cream is strawberry, it doesn’t mean you can’t also enjoy the occasional scoop of mint choc chip as well. Besides, the hardcore traditionalists will always have the original recordings by the original line-up. It’s not like anyone is forcing them to surrender their record collection at gunpoint.

This is an ambitious project, told in chronological order with the emotive autobiographical spoken-word parts delivered by Peters, with a supporting cast of members including his wife Jules, and other members of the band, all adding depth and a theatrical quality that was missing from the originals. Most of the re-imagined songs, slower-paced and piano-heavy, bear little relation to the original versions. Rain in the Summertime and Rescue Me, two of the band’s biggest hits, are virtually unrecognisable. Of the new songs, for me Ghosts of Rebecca and The Ballad of Randolph Turpin stand out both lyrically and sonically dealing, as they do, with folk heroes and uprisings, and really do sound at home in this setting. The first disc (dubbed Downstream) presents the Eye of the Hurricane album, where the new songs serve as missing pieces. The second disc (Upstream) is comprised of tracks originally found on the Change album, including Where a Town Once Stood which I tactfully re-purposed as the title of one of my stories recently, as well as a few b-sides recorded around the same time and another new song, A New Day. The whole package makes a worthy addition to any Alarm fan’s collection, serving to put the original albums in context and take the songs down a different, lyrically-focused route where there is more of an impetus on mood, atmosphere, and storytelling rather than eighties radio-friendly pomp.

Watch the official trailer for Hurricane of Change HERE.

Peters describes the recording process thus:

“By looking at the lyrics afresh, I have now been able to fully realise what I was grasping for as a songwriter and lyricist in 1987-1989. Back then, my confidence had been blunted by a difficult creative process, and I had always privately felt that there was a lot more left to be discovered within the original body of music. With these new recordings, I have been able to realise a torrent of new possibilities and emotions and, in turn, draw them out of the very same songs. By recording Hurricane of Change in this new way, I feel that I have been able to liberate my original lyrical vision and re-present the music in a way that I believe, is just as relevant, if not more vital than ever before.”

Go HERE for merchandise, tickets, and Alarm/Mike Peters recordings.