LABORIOUS PREAMBLE:
Despite the provocative title of this post, it’s probably not what you think.
Let’s face it, the world genuinely is deep in the shitter, right now. Our cities have been ablaze with riots over systemic racism and police brutality in the wake of the murder of George Floyd in Minneapolis, but the legitimate protests have been marred by violence and looting, frequently by forces without any meaningful tether to the cause (read here, incidentally, for a deeper dive on the looting phenomenon). Meanwhile, the pandemic is still raging -- despite what the current administration might try to tell you -- and one wonders what spikes in infection will result from the large-scale gatherings of the past several days. There is great uncertainty as to when things might calm down and/or return to a semblance of a normal routine. 2020 is proving to be one for the history books.
While it was never my specific intention to turn this blog into an outlet for political discussion, I have found myself using it more, specifically in the last four years, to vent my spleen in this capacity. I cannot help thinking, however, that posts about my misgivings with the direction this country has been taking and the accompanying fallout are NOT what keep readers coming back here, nor are they topics that have typically defined this stupid blog.
But, as has been the case in the wake of national calamities, mass shootings and moments of divisive political upheaval, posting entries about old punk rock records, under-celebrated bands, forgotten record shops and brazenly nostalgic New York City ephemera seems like a laughably petty waste of time and pointedly inappropriate. It’s for this reason that I’ve abandoned countless posts in progress in the past several weeks, losing my enthusiasm to wax rhapsodic about, say, discovering the myriad culinary intricacies of Lydia Lunch’s cook book or a deeply silly post dedicated to a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it detail in the background of a pivotal scene in Martin Scorsese’s “After Hours.” Those are just two examples, and I may come back to both, but they just feel indefensibly trivial right now, in the grand scheme of things.
I guess my very windy point, here, is that while I may continue to post entries that fit the milieu of this blog, so to speak, it is not to suggest that I’m not keenly aware of the shit show that is otherwise engulfing the goddamn planet. Carry on.
ACTUAL POST:
So, yeah, when not working remotely, furrowing my brow at the news of the day or getting disconsolately irritable on social media, I have actually been doing a fair amount of reading as a means of broadening my horizons, keeping my mind occupied and retaining my sanity. I’ve already paged through books by musicians like Sam McPheeters, Bob Bert and Amy Rigby. The most recent one I’ve read, however, was written by a friend who I came to know via this blog, if I’m not entirely mistaken.
About almost a year back, some readers might remember a post I devoted to the first part of a projected two-volume memoir by one Wayne Hussey, lead singer/songwriter for The Mission and erstwhile guitarist/songwriter for the First And Last And Always iteration of the Sisters of Mercy. In that first volume, entitled “Salad Daze,” Wayne delved into the notoriously chilly gestation of the Sisters of Mercy’s first full length LP, giving his account of the frosty dysfunction within the band and their seemingly inevitable dissolution. I mentioned in the tail end of that post that such an account demanded a retort, however unlikely the notion of Andrew Eldritch — the Sisters’ perennial Mother Superior -- ever deigning to that acknowledgment might be. To that end, I pointed to the long-in-the-works tome by Mark Andrews titled “Paint My Name in Black and Gold,” which — one year later — has still not materialized.
Imagine to my surprise and glee, then, the sudden appearance of “Waiting for Another War,” an exhaustively detailed account of the early Sisters’ trajectory up through and including the same period Wayne addressed in “Salad Days,” not least penned by my new friend and fellow Cop Shoot Cop acolyte, Trevor Ristow. I ordered a copy on the spot and devoured it whole in two days’ time upon its arrival.
Ristow’s relationship to the subject is devotional, acknowledging up front a fervent appreciation for the band that stretches back to his teens. While not even slightly impartial, his approach to the telling of the Sisters’ tale applies a scholarly adherence to chronology and differing perspectives, factoring in a host of pertinent accounts from concerned parties. And while deeply reverent of Eldritch’s long-held reluctance to lift the veil on the meanings behind his songs, Ristow’s analysis of the lyrics and associated imagery connected with the band is studiously fortified with more than simply a fanboy’s grasp of the art, literature and pop-cultural ephemera that informed the gestalt of the Sisters’ carefully cultivated work and mystique. In short, “Waiting for Another War” is written with a refreshing sophistication largely absent from most books of its ilk.
This all said, I think it’s worth pointing out that as much as I slavishly enjoyed the book, I did have my polite quibbles with it. While I still have no clue how Mark Andrews’ “Paint My Name…” will read, I could not have asked for a more succinctly Eldritch-sympathetic response to Wayne Hussey’s take in “Salad Daze” than “Waiting for Another War." Ristow fully acknowledges Hussey’s capable contributions to the cause of expanding the Sisters’ sonic palette, but clearly considers the guitarist’s introduction into the Sisters as something of a dilution of what made the original ensemble so special. I was also somewhat surprised by Ristow’s blunt dismissal of certain material, taking unflinchingly dead aim at “Walk Away,” the first track that caught my attention. I don’t agree with him on that point, but I get it — I similarly blanche when I hear comparatively upstart Killing Joke fans exclaim their adoration of tracks from latter-era albums. As Ristow got onboard earlier than myself, I certainly will not fault him for his own firmly held perceptions.
Conceivably by coincidence, Ristow’s book culminates at more or less the exact same point as Hussey’s “Salad Daze,” and both authors promise follow-ups. But where Hussey plans to concentrate on his own doings with the Mission — a more conventionally “rocking” and arguably populist quartet who never swatted away the “gothic” mantle Eldritch has attempted to (unsuccessfully) dodge for his entire career — Ristow will presumably continue to track the Sisters’ ambitious-but-idiosyncratic path into their current status — a tantalizing, 27-year limbo that’s been keeping their devoted fans baying for new, studio-recorded material. Until that fully realized music materializes, there’s still the Sisters’ magisterial back catalog, one you will only appreciate more after reading “Waiting for Another War."
As a testament to this book's comprehensive brilliance, the first print run has already sold out, but click here to find out more about the second printing. Tell'em Flaming Pablum sent ya.
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