The legendary Will ‘The Thrill’ Viharo interviews me over at Digital Media Ghost. I talk about genre hybrids, noir and more.
Check out the interview, and the rest of the site, here.
This week I was interviewed by the journalist Adam Pakiela for the Polish newspaper’s Magazyn Bydgoszczi.
The online version of the interview is up now, and includes some great photographs from Lukaszcz Antczak.
Let’s get you introduced to everyone, shall we? Tell us your name. What is your age?
I’m Paul D. Brazill and I’ve shockingly made it to 55.
Fiona: Where are you from?
I was born in Hartlepool, England and live in Bydgoszcz, Poland.
.Fiona: Tell us your latest news.
Well, 3 of my novellas are now only 99p. They are: Too Many Crooks, Big City Blues, and A Case Of Noir. They are all published by Near To The Knuckle. I have a short story collection coming out in the next few weeks. It’s called Small Time Crimes.
Fiona: When and why did you begin writing?
Apart from a rubbish screenplay in the ‘90s, I started writing in 2008 when I discovered flash fiction.
Fiona: When did you first consider yourself a writer?
Only when someone tells me I am one.
The Dark Lord chats to me about Big City Blues, Guns Of Brixton and more over at The Slaughterhouse.
Over at SOLARCIDE I’m interviewed by NATHAN PETTIGREW and talk about TOO MANY CROOKS, London, boozing and more.
Pubs and alcohol are main characters in your work. When an idea for a story comes to you, does it already start in that setting? Are your characters already there having drinks when they are first conceived?
Ah. Well, as someone who has spent far too much of his life in pubs it seems a natural setting. It’s not a great stretch. Also, when people go to pubs they usually talk- or they did before WiFi Hotspots- and they usually talk rubbish, which can be pretty funny. I like to think I write absurdist fiction and most people in pubs are absurd or say something absurd at some part of the night.
TOM LIENS has a new feature at his blog where writers talk about their influences. I plump for TONY HANCOCK.
Tony Hancock – the easiest comedian for charades – and I share the same birthday, May 12th. Whether or not we share the same death day remains to be seen, of course, and let’s just hope we can put that little fact-finding mission on hold for a while, eh?
And Tom also gives TOO MANY CROOKS a tidy review.
If you can imagine a Guy Ritchie film re-cast with Carry On actors, you will come close to understanding this book’s offbeat charm!
Graham Wynd interviews me about TOO MANY CROOKS , comedy, music and more!
In May 1989 I was at a loss as to what to do to make a living. My band life, getting paid for what I loved to do, was coming to an end and I had to think of a way to blag my way back to the real world – a place I had hoped was left behind when I signed a record deal four years earlier. Back on benefits, staring into the void of feeling terminally useless I decided the only option for me was to become a music journalist. I decided to use my own initiative, get some interviews under my belt to build a kind of portfolio, and then offer my services to any paper that would have me. Such stupidity comes from desperation and to be honest, I was old enough to know better, but the rock n roll fairies were still dancing in my head.
My chance to blag it came. Brian Connolly’s Sweet was playing the local Black Cats venue in my resident town of Stockton on Tees. The place had had its glory years – as indeed, had Sweet – when it was called the Fiesta: back in the sixties and early seventies, when hit makers actually played such uncool places. The Kinks had played there. The Walker Brothers. The Hollies. Even Alvin Stardust at the height of his brief fame. The Fiesta was a big money payer back then and one story about the place that was the stuff of urban legend was that Jimi Hendrix was booked to play there in the early days, but pulled out as he became a big star. Another story is of the Shadows who, driving away from the Fiesta after a gig there in 1964, saw a meteorite shower, inspiring the B-side of one of their hits called ‘Stars Fell on Stockton’. With such a roll call of musical luminaries, I was entering a place that had its own legendary status.
Blagging my way in was easy. I phoned the venue, told them I was a freelance journalist and that I wanted to interview Brian Connolly. I could have been an axe wielding ex-roadie with a grudge against Brian, but they let me in anyway.
A person acting as Brian’s protector/manager vetted me. I gushed about how Sweet were essential Top of the Pops viewing back in the day and that I was a fan. I was not lying. I really liked Sweet’s singles from ‘Blockbuster!’ onward. They came across to me like a band who really did not give a shit. They had an almost pre-punk ‘let’s wind up the parents’ attitude about them. Of course, they lacked ‘rock cred’. But hey, 13 year olds don’t even know such a thing exists. And Brian Connolly was a compelling front man – his girly long blonde hair framing his masculine face was a killer combination for the teenyboppers back then. He looked slightly menacing in his catsuits and leather gloves too.
I hung around in the sound check and felt a teenage thrill at hearing the band run through ‘Hellraiser’. Of course, Brian was the only original member; the others hired lackeys, proficient and clinical, pay roll musicians doing a job. What a nasty lot they were though. I went back stage to introduce myself and straight away, two of them sidled up to me to tell me tales of how they were in a proper original material band and that this was just a ‘job’ for them. Thinking I was a journalist who could give them exposure, their crawling around me was astonishing to see. I put them straight and said ‘I’m here for Brian’. They went ashen faced and sullen and did not speak to me again. I felt sorry for Brian. Here he was, manfully trying to be the idol he used to be, having a bunch of wannabe scheming jerks on his pay roll. I noted how he seemed apart from them. He was right to be, too. They were horrible people.
Brian was very gracious. He told one of the roadies to get me a drink and chatted to me as a girl fan sat on his knee. It was like I was not there. She kept pawing him and saying ‘can I see you later Brian?’…’I love your hair Brian’….I thought I was going to witness some strange back stage porn shoot. Brian, a man who obviously had had a lot of female attention was very polite to her. ‘Ok, you go now and see me later…let me talk to this guy ok?’…She obeyed and went back to whatever concubine was waiting for Brian after the show.
As she left, he shrugged and winked: ‘I’m a married man with a daughter! But they just won’t listen!’
Brian was then ushered away by the manager/protector for something to eat. He disappeared back to his hotel – actually more like a cheap traveller’s bed and breakfast place, not a plush five star place – shook my hand and said ‘we’ll speak later…enjoy the show’…
I have so far avoided the terrible truth about Brian. The Wildean ‘portrait in the attic’ aura that surrounded him. His glorious looks had been ravaged by illness and alcohol abuse. He looked ten years older than his age at that time: 45 (as he told me). His hair, actually thinning on top, was combed forward to try and recapture those splendorous goldilocks. His eyes seemed dull and were etched with lines that told a story of pain, of disappointment, of struggle. He had actually died on an operating table for thirty seconds when his alcohol induced illness finally took its toll on him. This was Brian back from the dead I was talking to. He related the tale to me with icy precision. I felt enormous sympathy for him and worse still, felt that Brian could keel over at any moment. He actually shook from time to time and was taking medication to control his spasms.
I came back later with a borrowed tape recorder. I sat in anticipation of the show, already too many drinks down the line. I was nervous, not only for the interview, but for Brian.
The band came onstage to a puny attempt at pyrotechnics. ‘POOOF!’ – a pathetic plume of smoke crawled into the air as the band crashed in with ‘Hellraiser’. It somehow seemed horribly symbolic of a career long having gone up in smoke. Of course, Brian waited for an entrance. He clomped onto the stage from the left side, his cowboy boots making him move with all the grace of a welder at a wedding disco. Like a glam rock Frankenstein, he had an expectant look on his face of demanding adulation. The fat lasses down the front stood up and cheered; their boyfriends just laughed. As Brian sang, his voice was surprisingly strong. But when it came to the ‘Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!’ screams, his face contorted into a look that seemed to suggest deep pain. It was horrible and at the same time fascinating. The band did some corny cover versions; the kind you would get from a working man’s club band in the 70s: ‘No Matter What’ by Badfinger, ‘Born To Be Wild’ (their ‘we are a real rock band’ gambit I guess). The set was peppered with the thrilling hits: ‘Blockbuster’ – with authentic siren alarms, ‘Wigwam Bam’ – Eddie Cochran gone daft – and of course, saving the best for last: ‘Ballroom Blitz’. Only there was no ‘are you ready Steve?’ spoken intro. It was replaced with ‘are you ready yeah?’ aimed at the crowd. By the end, a throng of about fifty people were up dancing, but in a very pissed nightclub way, not in a rock roll idiot dancing way.
The band came on for an encore. One I had forgotten about: ‘Teenage Rampage’ – it started with some roadies baying into the microphones ’We want Sweet! We want Sweet!’ emulating the record. The audience got the mantra, joined in clapping and stomping. It felt like a Slade gig for about thirty glorious seconds.
‘But they don’t care! No! No! No! No! No!’ Brian’s voice now a knackered strangulated attempt at trying to sound like Deep Purple’s Ian Gillan.
The gig over, it was time to meet Brian for the interview. Half an hour later he appeared. He had changed into a T-shirt that stretched over his bloated body and the irony struck me: it was a Jack Daniels T-shirt. He was advertising the very monster that was killing him.
He was very relaxed, ushering away pestering fans – women now in their thirties perhaps – who had adored Brian back in the heady glam rock days. The girl from the dressing room earlier appeared.
‘Do you remember me Brian?’
The question seemed to resonate with a deeper meaning.
My mind flashed back to Brian on Top of the Pops. On top of his game, a blonde male bombshell living the pop star high life that my teenage self dreamed about. I had to pinch myself: this was a bona fide proper pop star sitting across the table from me, pint of orange juice in his hand. In the low light of the back of the gig, he almost looked his former youthful self.
Girl politely put on hold for later, I asked him about those Top of the Pops appearances.
Brian told me how Sweet used to get Pans People to advise them on makeup. A quintessential anecdote that somehow summed up the glorious daftness of pop in the early seventies.
I asked him about other pop stars of the day. He told me how Marc Bolan said ‘you’ll never beat Bolan!’ when he met them at Top of the Pops. Brian liked Marc saying he was a ‘very nice bloke underneath all that ego’. Sweet were good mates with Slade too, and there was a friendly rivalry between them.
I ventured that it must have been great to have been on Top of the Pops in that garish Glam rock era. His eyes lit up. Like Norma Desmond remembering the heyday, the golden time, the plush carpet of success.
Brian was not a fan of Lou Reed. I cannot remember how he came up in the interview but in Brian’s estimation he was a ‘lucky man…it was only because of Bowie that he became known’. I had to admit, there was some truth in this but did not see why it should foster a dislike for old Lou.
‘He can’t sing’. Brian delivered his punch line. I just feebly nodded, wanting to protest but didn’t.
I asked him if he had met other musicians who had been influenced by Sweet.
He told me a story of how he gave an autograph to a girl when she was only about 15; Sweet were playing a gig in Los Angeles. It turned out to be Joan Jett.
I told him that I had read that Def Leppard were huge Sweet fans. He seemed pleased and I was surprised that he didn’t know this.
The interview took a brief nosedive when I said that Sweet were almost like a punk band in their attitude. He fixed me a rather withering stare and said ‘Punk was rubbish wasn’t it? We could play!’ Realising Brian had missed the point, I apologised for some strange reason. He smiled ‘that’s ok’, and I felt a wave of relief come over me. (For a second I thought he might get up and leave)
He then went on to tell me how Sweet had a lot of input on their records and that, far from how they were seen by the ‘serious music press’ they were not pop puppets. In fact, in Germany, they were perceived as a band in the same musical sphere as Deep Purple (a band that Brian was a fan of)
‘We got Hell’s Angels at our gigs. We were a heavy rock band that just happened to have hits’ .
The calibre of Sweet as musicians is not in doubt: they could rock heavily with the best of them.
So Brian – what was it like to be famous, be a regular band on Top of the Pops? was my must ask dumb question.
‘Fantastic…but all the touring, being in demand. Then back in the studio, recording your next hit…it all becomes a blur’ he said.
He told me the first time he realised he had made it was when he went out to the newsagents to buy some cigarettes. ‘Suddenly a crowd of people appeared, they were at me, wanting to touch me, wanting my autograph. It felt strange. Great but strange’.
What was his favourite Sweet single I wondered?
Brian said he liked most of them but his personal favourite was one of the band’s lesser hits ‘The Six Teens’. He told me he could identify with the words on that one. Brian had no problem with the fact that Sweet’s hits were written by Chinn and Chapman.
‘They could write hits and we didn’t learn how to do that until later. We learnt a lot from them’.
He also revealed that not everyone in the band felt this way.
‘Andy (Scott) and Steve (Priest) were always asking for an A side and got frustrated. When we split from Chinn and Chapman we had a hit with our own song and that felt good’. (The song was ‘Fox on the run’ by the way)
Did Brian feel it would all go on forever then?
‘You don’t have time to stop and think. You keep rolling along with it’ he replied
He then told me the sorry tale of how things came to an end for Sweet. Brian admitted that his drinking had long since gotten out of control and that it took a disastrous American Tour in 1978 for things to come to a messy head. It was appalling timing as Sweet had just scored their first big hit there with ‘Love is like oxygen’. He was effectively kicked out of the band as his alcoholism was affecting his performances and the band could not continue with him in it. Brian also blamed bad management and all manner of behind the scenes skulduggery conspiring against him. He told me how he was ‘getting well’ but that being kicked out of the band sent him over the edge.
‘I just didn’t know what to do. The band was my life and then it was gone. I went solo for a while but it wasn’t the same”.
Rock ‘n’ roll can become a tragedy of Shakespearian proportions, and Brian’s story could have been written by the great bard. What brought about the downfall? Was it fame? Was it unchecked excessive behaviour? Was it lust for riches? Was it leechy managers plotting to fill their own pockets?
Brian Connolly, it seemed to me, was almost an innocent who entered the gilded palace of rock n roll sin. Like a lot of those 70s pop stars, he doubtlessly gorged himself at the banquet table of fame and his working class background probably ill prepared him for the shock to the system that fame brings. What do you do if you are a going nowhere no hoper (in the real working world I mean) and you wake up one day as a pop star with a million pounds in your bank account? Do you act wisely, seek counsel, invest it, look after it, or do you go gaga ape-shit and party like there’s no tomorrow?
I think we know the answer to that one.
Except the reality is, Brian was never a millionaire. He just spent money as if he was one and then of course, the tax man came knocking at his door when the hits dried up.
Brian told me he was playing to pay off debts. The taxman being one of them. Legal fees being another as he was trying at that point to get royalties he said were owed to him from those 15 million sales of Sweet singles. I don’t think he ever got them. He also claimed that his ex-band members cheated him out of money when he was kicked out of the band. Brian said: ‘They left me high and dry, no pay off, nothing. They stopped returning my calls’.
I suddenly had an impulse to tell Brian I would write some songs for him. He could record them and we would restore him to former glories. Get him the right producer. But even I knew this was delusional and I resisted to tell. I was also drunk and those rock ‘n’ roll fairies mentioned earlier were flirting with my reason.
I felt very sad for Brian. As the interview went on, he opened up to me. I got the feeling he had a lot to get off his chest and he seemed happy that I had not judged him, that I had listened.
It was like the ending of the David Essex film ‘Stardust’, where the pop star played by Essex says ‘It’s not worth it’ as he slips off into a junkie nod and dies.
He shook my hand after the interview and said ‘You’re good! Good luck with it’. I wished him the same, knowing full well that Brian’s luck was rotten.
Brian had been a great subject to interview. I had loads of tape to look forward to listening to.
I got back home, played the tape: nothing. The stupid player had not worked. Why hadn’t I checked it? I felt really bad – almost like I had betrayed Brian, who had given his time to give me a very open talk. I wrote down what I could remember straight away and then tried to hawk my interview to music papers.
Melody Maker: ‘What that singer from Sweet? Nah, don’t think our readers would be interested’…
Sounds: ‘We do not commission unsolicited articles. Sorry’
Kerrang: ‘We only cover current bands. Thanks anyway’.
N.M.E: I admit I didn’t even bother.
Evening Gazette: ‘We don’t use freelance stuff – sorry’.
Brian Connolly: rock ‘n’ roll he gave you the best years of his life…
Thanks for the memories.
(Previously posted at Cultured Bunker.)
Bio: Alan Savage is a Middlesbrough, U.K, born singer and songwriter.
He releases music under his own name and other guises such as Dada Guitars and The Crystaleens.
I have a Quick Fire interview up at Richard Godwin’s Slaughterhouse.
I talk about Cold London Blues, living in EXILE and more.
Crime author Tony Black interviews me over at his Pulp Pusher blog where I talk about Cold London Blues, Elmore Leonard, films and more.
Check it out here!
Who the hell are you?
PDB: Paul D, Brazill. I was born in England and live in Poland. I’m the author of Cold London Blues, The Last Laugh, Guns Of Brixton, and Kill Me Quick! And some other stuff. I have short stories all over the shop, including in 3 editions of The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime. I’ve had stories translated into Italian, German, Polish, Slovene and Finnish. I’m working on two novellas. One is set in England and Poland and the other is set in New York, London and Madrid. My blog is pauldbrazill.com
1. In the modern age of the jobbing writer, is there such a thing as an average writing day for you?
PDB: No. I read and write when I have time and when I feel like it. Like most other things in life. Consistency is the city hobgoblin of little minds. Or is that Jim Kerr?
2. How often do you feel a seething envy whenever one of your writer friends posts about their latest publishing success?
3. Should prolific writers be tied to a chair for a few days, before being allowed to post constant updates on social media sites relating to their literary prowess?
PDB: No. Unless you’ve got an agent and a big publisher behind you ‘Shill What Thou Wilt Shall Be The Whole Of The Law.’
4. How long does it take you to complete a short story from start to finish in the age of the internet and Facebook?
PDB: I’ve never timed it. I suppose about 24 hours – off and on- and then piddling about for an hour or so at a time while I’m watching Dog- Bounty Hunter..
5. Can controlled substance abuse really aid the writing process?
PDB: It seems unlikely. I don’t even drink when I read let alone when I’m writing. Horses for courses, I suppose but not for me.
6. What are your thoughts on setting word targets each day? Are they constructive, or is it something only an insufferable pedant would claim essential?
PDB: If you’re a professional writer, it seems eminently sensible but not for a dilettante like what I am. I suppose it should be an achievable word count, if you are going to do it and it probably varies from person to person.
7. Would you like to be a reviled and unpopular obscurantist if it meant having worldwide success in the literary world, or are you a true artist who would never dilute the substance of their art?
PDB: I’m lucky in that I have a job so I can write what entertains me. And that entertains other people, too. Which is nice. If I was offered a ton of dosh to write something? Of course but I’m far too slap dash to end up with an offer like that, I think. I see myself as an entertainer rather than an artist: More Lionel than Roland, More Des than Flannery.
8. More importantly, how often are you involved in an online argument among other genre writers bemoaning the state of the writing community?
PDB: Never. I pay almost no attention to ‘the stuff’ this days.
9. What are the most common gripes that authors make on social media sites which drive you bonkers?
PDB: Nothing. See above.
10. How long does it take for you to decide if the story is a work of genius or utter drivel?
PDB: I immediately know that it’s quite good and that opinion rarely changes.
11. Are beta readers a good idea, or are they the equivalent of your Uncle Bertie’s friends from the local library reading group?
PDB: It seems sensible. I hardly ever do it, mind you. It’s great working with good, honest editors, which I have done and do with Caffeine Nights, All Due Respect and Number Thirteen Press.
12. What is the most difficult form of fiction to write, a short story, a novella or a novel?
PDB: I still haven’t written a novel so it must be that.
13. Have you ever considered writing under a pseudonym to kick-start a lengthy career as a writer of erotica?
PDB: If I could do it easily, I’d have no problem with writing erotica. I wouldn’t use a pseudonym though.
14. What has been the longest writing project you’ve embarked on? Was there any point at which you thought of abandoning the story so you could get absolutely sh**faced?
PDB: Guns Of Brixton and Cold London Blues took the longest, I imagine, since they are the longest. It’s finished when it’s finished for me. I don’t get stressed about not finishing things. Story of my life …
15. Have you ever lain awake at night and wondered why you write? Have you ever considered if other people lie awake at night also wondering why you write?
16. Do you conduct research for everything which you write? Have you ever broken into a top secret facility to add authenticity in the name of research, or is Wikipedia your ultimate guide to authenticity?
PDB: I spy for the FBI. And do as little research as I can get away with. The world is a mouse click away. Or I can make something up. I’m not a journalist.
17. What piece of research might show up on your internet history and give your family cause to worry about your stability?
PDB: Carnaby Street tailors in the 1970s.
18. What life experience has been the most advantageous in terms of writing a story?
PDB: Meeting interesting /funny/ mental people. Ripping off their lives and anecdotes.
19. Should authors give advice to aspiring authors , or should they leave them to do things their own way? What was the worst bit of advice you ever heard ?
PDB: Never give or listen to advice. It usually goes tits up.
20. What are some of the most popular misconceptions about writers from the perspective of the public?
PDB: That writers are rich or even make money from writing.
21. What was the worst rejection from a publisher you’ve ever had?
PDB: Never had one, I’m shocked to say. I’ve had a 2 or 3 short stories turned down but the rejections were usually very polite and I just rewrote the yarns.
22. Have you ever thought of launching a secret hate campaign against a publisher who simply misjudged your literary genius?
24. And finally, which would you choose, a commercial contract with stipulations about what you’re allowed to write, or a career in the Small Press with no restrictions on what you are allowed to write?
PDB: I’m happy doing what I do. I’m an indie/ cottage industry guy. Never say never, though. If I ever write something that might end up in ASDA or Walmart then maybe I’d give it a shot.
This interview first took place on Frank Duffy‘s Facebook page.