Sorry for the relative slowdown, here, but life’s been a bit crazed, of late. Work’s been nuts, we’re leaving for Vermont to drop Oliver off at summer camp tomorrow (see this post for my concerns about same) and, frankly, I'm kind of feeling like I’m going through a bit of a midlife crisis, albeit not in funny, cartoonish way wherein I go get a tattoo and start tooling around on skateboard to demonstrate that I “still have my edge.” I just feel like I’ve sort of lost my center, so to speak. More about that another time, maybe.
In any case, I just finished reading the memoir of one of my old favorites, that being Wayne Hussey of The Mission. Documenting his early life growing up around Bristol, England in a middle-class family, attending school with J.K. Rowling (whose fabled Harry Potter he jovially suspects was based on his bespectacled former self), discovering music and then relocating to Liverpool to immerse himself in the British post-punk scene, the cheekily named “Salad Daze” (thus titled for Wayne’s later affinity for mind-altering substances) is an engaging read, fully imbued with the man's signature warmth and wit. I had the good fortune of interviewing him a couple of times in the early 90’s, and he is without question the bona fide nicest guy in rock, so to speak.
The book — the first of two, allegedly — culminates with Wayne’s turbulent tenure in the mighty Sisters of Mercy (above), documenting his recruitment into the notoriously aloof band, the somewhat stifling working conditions therein, the crafting of their first proper album, the iconic First And Last And Always, and then the inevitable departure from what had become a non-communicative, dysfunctional trio. Wayne and bassist Craig Adams abandoned the allegedly icy tyranny of Andrew Eldritch’s beat combo to form the comparatively populist Mission, an ensemble whose own hoary misadventures await in the singer/songwriter’s next book.
For ardent fans, like myself, of this particular era of the Sisters, “Salad Daze” is both illuminating and depressing. While it’s disappointing to read Wayne’s portrayal of Eldritch as something of a cold, dictatorial figure, he does give him every benefit of the doubt, even recently suggesting that he’d love to get back in a room with him one day and see if they could work together (something I would not hold my breath for). This all said, given the majesty of the single album they collectively created, it remains a shame they couldn’t find a way forward. But, of course, it was not meant to be.
While Wayne will next be turning his attention to the the booze-&-amphetamine-fueled hijinks of his subsequent ensemble in the afore-cited next book, one could suggest that the gauntlet has been thrown at Andrew Eldritch’s feet to publish his own version of events. Given Eldritch’s renowned aversion to giving up too much information about … well, anything, the notion of him penning his own tell-all seems strenuously unlikely, at best. Hell, the world has been waiting for a genuinely new Sisters of Mercy record for over two decades, although he did joke that he’d put another record out if Trump became president. It’s been two years, Andrew, …. we’re still waiting.
The closest thing to Eldritch’s side of the story may come soon in the form of “Paint My Name is Black and Gold,” a purportedly exhaustive forthcoming book from one Mark Andrews. Andrews himself recently penned a piece for Louder presumptuously counting down the Sisters of Mercy’s 25 best songs. While I’d quibble with some of his choices — too many cover versions and an obvious disdain for Wayne’s contributions to the band — it’s worth a read.
Lastly, from Wayne’s book there came a great anecdote about the band’s debut appearance on England’s “Old Grey Whistle Test,” a venerable-if-crotchedy television program. Broadcast live, the fraught appearance starts with soon-to-be-estranged guitarist and co-founder Gary Marx’s instrument malfunctioning, which prompted Wayne to save the day by playing Marx’s intro bit. Gary’s guitar finally starts making sounds at 00:33 seconds into the performance, but prompts a withering, wordless glower to Marx from Eldritch.
Anyway, enjoy…
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