Extract from New Sound Melody interview, 10th February 1991

 

Extract from New Sound Melody interview, 10th February 1991

Billy Fairhurst is in bullish mood. The warmth of the open fire in his local boozer provides stark contrast to the cold spring of 1987. Back then, Those Flamin’ Heifers were darlings of the indie scene. John Peel favourites, they were tipped for greater-than-greatness and their debut ‘Can’t See Camouflage’ led to a frenzy of major label courtship. Four years on, they’ve had a messy divorce with one label, seen another label go bust, and had not one but two band members in rehab. At the same time. Another addition to the long list of ‘difficult second albums’, ‘Balderdash and Bladderwrack’ has remained shelved. Until now. 

“It’s happened. It’s all happened. And there’s still stuff going to happen. What can I say?” Fairhurst slams down his half-empty glass with indignation. “But we’ve made a decent album. More than decent. There’s no songwriter around to rival me at the moment.”
A bold statement, which begs the question: so why is everyone slagging it off? Although I’m the one getting paid to do the interview, it seems one of the locals wants in on the act and beats me to asking it. Fortunately for him there’s a few tables, a bar and a generously-built barman between us. Fairhurst glowers, sups his pint, and proceeds. 

“Cos you’ve all gone soft,” he drawls across the pub in that inimitable Mancunian way, before turning back to reposition my dictaphone. “The trouble is, right, nobody wants decent songs any more. Nobody can be bothered with the art of songwriting. What was the biggest hit last year? The Righteous Brothers, with a song from the Sixties. Kylie, Jason, Craig McLachlan! If I ever hear another Sock, Apron and Waterbasin song it’ll be too soon. They don’t care about the art. It’s too much effort. They’re just after money. Easy money. And don’t get me started on Tina bloody Turner!”

It’s an unfortunate fact of life that an Ivor Novello won’t put food on the table, I suggest. “Well I’d rather starve and be credible. I couldn’t live with myself, living in a mansion paid for by songs like ‘Simply The Best’.”

This seems an unlikely target, and after I have taken a quick sip of Dutch courage I correct him on the title. There’s no ‘simply’, I mumble, edging closer to the door for a quick getaway should the need arise.

“Oh come on!” he explodes. “The whole thing’s simple. Simple music for simple minded people. You’re simply the best, better than all the rest, better than anyone… I mean, it’s just … banal! Banal, emotionless tosh. Anyone can write that - a kid in primary school could write that.”
With hatches almost battened down, I poke the beehive further: what about John Cage’s ‘3’44’? A kid in primary school could have written that, surely? Couldn’t the same be said for Fontana’s slashed canvass or Duchamp’s urinal? Anybody could do that. 

Fairhurst is having none of it, his face now set to explode. “You don’t get it!  That’s art - nobody had thought to do that before, and that’s what makes it so brilliant! Same as Dali … Da Vinci invented helicopters before we had electricity. Van Gogh - look how creative he was! And Cage … It’s imagination! It’s total imagination. So clever: every time you hear it, it sounds different. We can listen to it together and hear it differently. It’s musical art in its highest form. These songwriters now though, churning out generic rubbish. That’s not art. It’s just lazy. A lazy cash-grab. Where’s the imagination in Tina Turner? It’s like a race to the bottom of the barrel.”

That’s a matter of opinion, surely? ‘The Best’ has sold more copies than the entirety of Fairhurst’s entire back catalogue. “There’s no accounting for taste,” he sighs as he swirls the last half inch of ale around his glass. “Simple music for simple-minded people,” he reiterates. 

The arrival of another round of drinks brings a pause to the conversation. A couple of scallies walk past, perform a double-take, and then ask Billy Fairhurst when his new album is coming out. “Two weeks ago,” he says, his tone more bitter than the beer in his glass. At a risk of invoking further ire with my choice of words, I ask how Fairhurst proposes to change the, erm, status quo? How can he get more people to listen to Those Flamin’ Heifers than Tina Turner? 
“Oh, I don’t know … “ he sighs, swigs, and sighs again. “Maybe I’ll just cut my ear off.”  

He’ll definitely hear John Cage differently then.

****

This piece was written for a Watford Writers competition in February 2026, with the theme being 'inspired by a song lyric'. It won second place.

Text and image copyright John Hartley. All rights reserved.

Bookshelves

 

So, Christmas has been and gone, and you’re left with book tokens you don’t know what to buy with or, far, far worse, the dreaded One4All card that allows you to spend in hundreds of different stores but none of which seem to allow you to or have anything remotely worth buying.

This is where I come in.

Maybe.

You see, I’ve got books for sale. Not the ones in the photo above; technically they are mine, because I own them, but they’re not my books.

You can buy my books from any bookshop, online or physical, including Waterstones for whom the One4All card is acceptable. You may need to wait a week or so as they may not be in stock, but you can still buy them. 

But which to buy?

Well. 

‘The Broken Bottle’, ‘How Green Are Your Eyes’ and ‘This Is Not The End’ are a trilogy of books aimed at readers from 12 to adult. Indeed, most of the readers seem to be adults, so you’ll be in good company. They tell the story of Wilf, a teenager in Croalworth, near Manchester, as he goes to school, forms a band, falls in love, gets scammed, gets involved in gun and drug crime, goes to Ireland, searches for an awol alcoholic, stumbles across an arms dump, is befriended by a mysterious girl, meets the most drunk stop/go sign holder in the world, goes home, goes to university, makes some new friends, finds his flatmate is a bit weird and unhinged, finds his bag mistaken for an unattended package by the bomb squad, is the victim of mistaken identity and rings his sister to take him home. 

https://books2read.com/b/3nBzEP

https://books2read.com/b/bPGOPl

https://books2read.com/b/m00DAA

‘Capturing the Wry’ and ‘Welcome To The Underachievers’ are memoirs of my time in actual real bands writing and recording actual real music and playing actual real gigs. Across the two you can read the trails and tribulations of nearly being signed to record labels, the highs and lows of playing in youth clubs, restaurants and universities, and marvel at just how many venues I have played gigs in which have now closed down and become housing developments.

https://books2read.com/b/3LVWp1

https://books2read.com/b/b5JlqO

‘Seasonal Adjustments’ is a poetry anthology. I once wrote a poem that came in the top 0.17% of a national competition, and still didn’t win. But it shows the potential quality, even if it is up to you to decide the actuality of it. ‘Out of Tune’ meanwhile is the cleverly-titled collection of lyrics presented without their tune. Do you see what I did there?

https://books2read.com/b/49LEaw

https://books2read.com/b/b5W5wk

‘The View From Orlando Bridge’ is another memoir, this time about supporting Bolton Wanderers in the 1980s and 1990s. Yes, it’s that bleak.

https://www.lulu.com/shop/john-hartley/the-view-from-orlando-bridge/paperback/product-m5z964.html?srsltid=AfmBOopiLnNATy_RPJS1AEiE2eEbyl3Ghqjk84MvuYSWnweTsQmh8kgm&page=1&pageSize=4

You can get all of these anywhere, really, including Amazon. You can also get signed copies of most of the titles directly from me at www.brokendownrecords.bandcamp.com/merch

So come on, don’t be shy. Spend those vouchers, or just your hard earned cash, and you too can have my books on your bookshelves (but not the ones in the photograph for reasons already established).

A Christmas Message

 

A Christmas Message

She sends a message to me from above:

“The chair that you sit in is solely for hugs

The baby’s asleep, it won’t travel far

Be good to yourself. Love who you are.

You can’t do without the love that’s within.”

The kindness of strangers never grows thin

“You’re not alone; I’ve travelled this road,

The journey’s the story that never gets old.”

Taken from the album ‘A Johny Nocash Christmas’, which is free to download on Bandcamp, and available on most streaming platforms, ‘A Christmas Message’ was inspired by a true story told by a young, tired mother about a conversation she had with an elderly neighbour living in the flat above. I hope I have done it justice.

https://brokendownrecords.bandcamp.com/track/a-christmas-message

Text, lyrics, music and image all copyright the author.

Al Fresco

Al Fresco

“Dinner’s served!” announced Steven. Caught between discretion and display, he worried for a moment his proclamation might have been too bold. He need not have worried. His call echoed through several different voices in any case as the guests swooped to take their place around the platter. Resplendent in their white suits, the gathered fancied themselves as the suavest wedding party in town. In reality, they looked more like a scruffier John Lennon crossing Abbey Road. 

So fresh was the delivery; so joyously fresh, considered the host with pride. Oh, how the scent of juice and flesh carried succulence on the wisps of steam lifting into the air. Appetites would be whet without compromise. He just hoped there would be enough to go around.

“Fast food at its finest,” celebrated the arriving Dominic, with youthful joy.

“It’s always better when the skin’s still on” Steven’s paternal voice confirmed the thoughts of fellow feasters as they tugged gannet-like at the carcass.

The exuberance of the picnickers was not passing unnoticed. Magnus, magnificent in tuxedo, observed curiously from the corner of his black-bead eye. He cocked his head a centimetre or two, then cackled a feigned indifference. He was manifestly aware his presence had been noted, but enjoyed the cloak-and-dagger of it all too much to make a move just yet.

In any case, it was the arrival of other unwelcome visitors that had caught the attention of the host. Both arrived together, clad in funeral black and in turn dipping in and out of church wall shadows.

“Russell’s here,” Steven warned his colleagues; ”Sheryl, too.” 

Most were too engrossed in the banquet before them to pay any attention. Dominic, heir apparent, was not amongst them.

“Shall I have a word,” he offered, menace etched across the shoulders he stretched wide in scuffle-ready anticipation. 

Father Steven looked around. “Not yet,” he said. “And I see Mr Cousin’s here too now. Didn’t think this was his sort of party. You can’t keep anything a secret round here.”

“No,” said Dominic. “At least he has the sense to keep a distance. Not sure the red shirt was called for, mind …” He noticed a sudden look of alarm fill his father’s eyes.

“What?”

The time for explanation evaporated in the instant the question was asked. Steven squawked alarm.

“INCOMING!”

The mechanical roar of engine came as suddenly as Steven’s call. A cloud of white rose high into the air as two heavy tyres of rubber ripped through the banquet, scattering morsels across the ring road in its wake.

“Well,” sighed Steven from the wall of the multi-storey carpark. “Looks like that’s that then. We’d barely started and all.”

Dominic gave a wry shrug. “Indeed. And poor Rat … if it wasn’t dead before, it certainly is now. Shall I go and check the Chapel Street menu?”

Image and text copyright the author 2025. All rights reserved.

Minus One

I was delighted to learn - genuinely delighted, like grinning-inside-delighted - to learn that a short story I have written won second prize in the 2025 Southland Arts Creative Writing Competition, which attracted entries from across the UK and possibly beyond. 

The theme was ‘Penning the Elements’. Here is my entry.

Minus One

One boy.

Two sets of goalposts.

Thirteen hours into the day.

I had left the house five hours earlier in t-shirt and shorts; a rare Northern morning. The type where clear blue skies teased out the growth of a June sun which wrapped its strength in the disguise of a warm breeze. T-shirt and shorts; Mr. Nuttall was experimenting with the idea of voluntary school uniform, knowing that there would be no catwalk fashion parade amongst his charge of under-11s. Not in this village, where poverty knocked on most doors. Eight o’clock, eight years old, and already I was walking the half mile into the village unattended by adults. In the sunlight, the pond by the old mill on the left hand side of the road, just after the railway bridge, glistened cliches in abundance. The long reeds in front swayed in hushed morning singalong to an old crowd favourite they shared with only themselves. Four cows, heifers all, grazed nonchalantly as I meandered schoolwards.

Those were the days. Just as we had sung along to Miss Reeves’ wonky piano playing in the morning assembly, those were the days. We thought they’d never end as well, just as the next line of that old Russian folk song anticipated. The summer holidays loomed ever closer. Six weeks of unadulterated joy lay ahead. These might, perhaps, be punctuated by a week by the seaside; adulterated joy that remained unconfirmed beyond snatches of hushed parental voices - “booked the week off”, “careful with money” and “train tickets” amongst phrases that wafted upstairs past bedtime on the tobacco smoke from dad’s pipe. 

The second half of the summer term was when we were allowed to play on the school fields at dinner time. Unless it rained, of course, in which case we spent the time gazing out of the window mournfully whilst Shirley Jenkins, Kevin Fitzpatrick and Carl Norris fought over half-ripped copies of ‘The Beano’ and ‘Dandy’ (or, if they were really unlucky, ‘Whizzer and Chips’) stored in a cardboard box underneath the Art Cupboard for occasions such as these. There was no need for comics today. Not yet, at any rate. Instead, we sprang out of the dining hall full of excitement, joy and cold tapioca pudding, then bounded onto the school field through the cultivated gap in the hawthorn bushes that separated the lush green grass from the cold grey tarmac of the playground.

Twenty eight degrees centigrade.

Fifty minutes of play.

One hundred and fifty eight children.

This was the field on which, four months ago on a soggy Saturday morning, I had let the boys from Sacred Heart kick the ball beyond the desperate reaches of my muddy hands and into the goal on five separate occasions. Cause for celebration; the previous week Craig Runciman had conceded double figures against the same team. I didn’t bother cleaning my boots after the game, letting the mud crust deep around studs and leather to superstitiously carry the good fortune into the next game. The next game was lost 8-1. At least we scored, noted Mr. Nuttall in the Monday assembly. Whether he knew it had been an own-goal was never revealed.

Just past the entrance to the field, three dinner ladies sat in hard grey plastic chairs borrowed from Mrs Robert’s classroom, their tabards forming scant protection against the unforgiving curves of the seats. To their right, the goalposts that so often had provided a lonely frame for a goalkeeper bemoaning his much-breached defence. To their left, a clutch of girls excitedly foraging little white flowers with which to make garlands. Three dinner ladies, whose sole purpose appeared to be idly tying daisy chain headbands on demand whilst chatting about … oh, I don’t know; we never knew. We didn’t care either. Whatever the cause of their raised eyebrows and gasps of disbelief, it was nothing on the excitement of chasing a football between two pairs of jumpers or avoiding the outstretched arms of the person trying to pass on the curse of being ‘It’. 

The sun dissolved quickly, via first breezy haze and then soft grey overcoat of cloud. Nobody noticed. Nobody cared. Grey skies were our bread and butter, up here in the industrial north west. We played on. The wind dropped. The air sucked moisture from the ground and hung it heavy around us. Christopher Thomas and Robert Francis pulled my attention away from the kickabout; we began to explore our own feats of strength. Christopher Thomas could do a handstand, and then walk on his hands. Robert Francis didn’t believe him. Neither did I. Christopher Thomas demonstrated, walking on his hands towards a small circle of girls playing pat-a-cake, before tumbling over, and catching Victoria Mullins in the back in the process. She ran to the dinner ladies, tears in full flow, whilst Robert Francis led a sprint away towards the goalposts at the top of the field.

The wind had now picked up, gusting wildly in sporadic intervals. A cool chill against the bare limbs of a boy dressed only in t-shirt and shorts. T-shirt and shorts, the only clothes fit for such a rare morning. That was five hours ago. Now, bare limbs sweated in humidity. An intermittent smattering of heavy rain drops, carried with them the unspoken understanding that proceedings may soon be interrupted by the call of the dinner ladies to head inside. The sky was a deeper shade of grey now, not that we were looking up. My eyes were fixed on Robert Francis; his on the white flaked-paint-covered steel goalposts. I don’t know where Christopher Thomas was looking as Robert Francis leaped up and grabbed hold of the crossbar, swinging.

Bang.

I didn’t know where Christopher Thomas was looking. I knew where he was standing. The light was so intense, brighter than any optician’s torch since shone at my retina. The heat seared, scorched, singed. My ears suddenly numb, then ringing. I knew where Christopher Thomas was standing. Only where he was standing he now lay, motionless bar the odd neural twitch. Through the whine in my ears pierced the screams of children. The strong arms of an adult scooped me up, carried me at pace, horizontal and confused. Everybody ran. The rain pummelled skin, clothing, grass and tarmac. I looked beyond my shoulder. Everybody running, except Christopher Thomas.

Volts: Three hundred million.

Odds: One in thirty three million.

Population: Minus one.

 Text and image copyright John Hartley 2025.

All Paths

All Paths

All paths lead me here:

Where endless horizons

Meet tracks so well-trodden,

And questions abound ...

To ebb or to flow?

To wave or to drown?

To sink or to swim?

Dilemmas unfaced.

All paths lead me here: 

Where walking books bring me,

A holey-souled pilgrim

All sea breeze-slapped face

And saline-spray tears.

Futures less certain

Than those which have passed

Wash out on the tide.

All paths lead me here:

Where storm-weathered bridge 

Meets saltwater dreams,

Beach-pebbled nightmares,

White horseback escapes,

Deep contemplation,

Fleet-footed endings

And fresh-faced new starts.

All paths lead me here.

All paths lead me here.

This poem of mine recently won the Watford Writers' Poetry Competition. We were invited to submit poems that were inspired by an image. The image inspiring the poem was one I took between Worthing and the Sea Lane Cafe at Goring-by-Sea, although the poem could have been written on any beach, anywhere.

I grew up in an industrial town where the nearest 'seaside' was Southport where, on a good day, you could walk a mile out on the beach and still not be actually able to see the sea. Perhaps the draw of the coast instead from the mariners and shipbuilders of my mum's ancestry. 

Image and text copyright John Hartley 2025

FIVE

 

This August marks the fifth anniversary for the Watford Writers Kids Lit group, a group I’ve recently joined. For our last meeting before the summer break we tasked ourselves with writing something for 5 year olds. This was my contribution:

Things I Learned by the Age of Five 

You can’t hide from thunder under the stairs.

Don’t go to school without underwear.

Don’t eat worms. They wriggle and writhe,

Taste quite horrific and won’t help you survive.

Burps from the mouth should be covered by hand.

Burps from the bottom: don’t blame them on Gran.

Washing your hands when you’ve been to the loo

Means Jennifer Barton won’t say “I smell poo!”

Snoodles and bogies are not what mum means

When she makes a big deal about eating your greens.

This much I knew by the time I turned five.

It’s done me no harm and I’m still alive.

Words and photograph copyright John Hartley 2025