Glom of Nit #36: Here we are now, Entertain Us
Nirvana book available to pre-order now, thoughts on Edinburgh, tour incoming
Before you go any further —
My new book NIRVANA: A Detailed Guide To The Band That Changed Everything is available to pre-order from my website NOW. GO HERE. GO GO GO!
If you’re one of those people who has been waiting for new tour dates where I visit Wales, the North of England and LOTS of other places … GO HERE NOW.
In this email you’ll find
A little musing on this year’s Edinburgh Fringe
Info on upcoming Magic of Terry Pratchett tour dates
Details on the Nirvana book
Links to articles ands reviews I’ve written this month
An excerpt from my upcoming book, Nirvana: A Detailed Guide to the Band that Changed Everything
Books, Music and TV recommendations.
Hello there.
I wrote this a couple of weeks ago on the train home from my run at the Edinburgh Fringe. I wanted to get my thoughts down while they were fresh.
Last night I had a dream. I was working somewhere as a DJ, it was an odd bonus sidebar to some sort of corporate job I was doing. We had to keep a dance floor running after the Friday night meeting (?), except no-one ever actually danced or listened so it was a pretty depressing job. Over the course of the night I started to get more and more upset, despondent and bleak until I started crying for no real reason. After the usual dreamscape time shifts, I found myself in a therapist’s office. Not a very good one — my therapist actually had a cubicle rather than her own office, with the company secretary and receptionist on the other side of a short, padded cubicle divider. The office itself was horrible, and looked suspiciously like someone was also running a minicab business out of it on the side. If you ever walked into a regional minicab office in the pre-Uber era you’ll recognise it immediately, down to the chairs with foam oozing out of tears in the upholstery and the patina of ancient nicotine across the tattered panels of the suspended ceiling. It was lit like a particularly brutal GP’s waiting room and smelled of old cigarettes. Regardless of this, I was here for a reason and I dropped heavily into the chair facing my doctor, whose face is a vague blur in my memory now. And I started to cry. Huge, heaving sobs. The kind of crying you do as a child. The kind of crying where you’re fighting to pull air into your lungs between great, shuddering gasps, where you are incapable of speech. Blotchy, splashy, snotty, unstoppable tears. I cried and I cried. And then I woke up. And I was still crying.
No doubt about it. It was time to leave the Edinburgh Fringe.
I’m writing this from the train home — a bum-numbing eight hours from Waverly to Bristol Temple Meads, which even an upgrade into first class (OOH, HE FANCY!) will barely take the edge from. This was my eighteenth visit to the Edinburgh Fringe and my fifteenth as a performer. I am more than familiar with the heavy overcoat of exhaustion that usually accompanies the train that takes you away from the festival. Whatever you’re doing up here, performing, working, even just watching, it’s always all-consuming. It’s a self-contained world. A fixed point in time. A bottled reality pinned to a few weeks in August where the entire world is concentrated down to a square mile of the Scottish capital. And as always happens when you concentrate something down like that, when you boil it until all that’s left is a syrupy liquor, it becomes extremely intense. Every feeling is magnified; a good mood has you walking on air, a bad one has you crawling in the gutter. You live or die on your last performance. It’s incredible. It’s awful. It’s elating. It’s exhausting. While you’re here it’s everything. Honestly. It’s only when you step away you realise the great secret of the Edinburgh Fringe; the thing no-one tells you on your first visit — no-one else actually cares. The rest of the world carries on as usual, barely even noticing the 10,000 arty weirdos that have decamped to Scotland, except possibly to note that there’s more room in their local coffee shop.
I’d been a little unprepared for the Fringe this year. It was coming off the back of so much — I performed at Latitude, then the Discworld Convention in Birmingham, I’d been on tour off and on since January and I was bringing a show, The Magic of Terry Pratchett, that I was pretty comfortable with. It was going to be straightforward, and up until I arrived the Fringe felt like something of an afterthought. Last year I’d done three hours a day, three different shows, plus various other gigs. I did something like 70 performances in three weeks and it had nearly killed me. This year was meant to be my “victory lap” year — do the one show, the one we know works, do just two weeks, enjoy myself. See some stuff. Have a breezy, easy Fringe. Of course, that went out of the window once I stepped into the city and met the sensory assault of the flyers, the posters, the thousands and thousands of shows, the public, the performers. The Fringe is a frenzy. It’s all consuming once you enter it. It’s like forgetting you’d planned a deep-sea dive — once you’re in the water, the world changes fundamentally: it has completely different rules. A different viscosity. A different way to move and breath. Utterly different survival needs. You slip into parallel world of shows and bars and comedy and nothing else matters. Or fish, coral reefs and shark tanks if you’re following the analogy.
Once the performing began, everything focused and I was in Fringe Mode. It was suddenly the most important thing in the universe, as is only right and proper. Last year I’d done my run in the brilliant Teviot, a beautiful Victorian manor, in a lovely 120-capacity space managed by the Gilded Balloon, one of the Fringe’s notorious “big four”. However, that space was out of action due to renovations, so Corrie, the brilliant promotor of my show, had us jump ship to the nearby Assembly George Square, upgraded to a 170-capacity space in a converted lecture theatre. My instinct had actually been to go smaller: in 2023, performing the same show, I’d usually managed audiences between 80 and the sell-out 120, achieving the latter a couple of times a week. My thought process had been “get an 80-capacity space, SELL OUT EVERY DAY and then BOOM, we can advertise it as a sell-out show and get laurel leaves on the poster and everything”. Corrie, who is a lot more practical than I am, pointed out that “yes, that would be great, of course, but … have you considered if we had a bigger space we have the potential to make literally twice as much money? Which is, you have to admit, a compelling argument. So with some trepidation, into the cavernous Studio 2 I went. “It’s barn,” I thought, quoting The Blues Brothers, “we’ll never fill it”. I was right. In fact, numbers were pretty slow to begin with, though after increasing the flyering and doing copious Facebook ads it started to pick up, and the last weekend we were comfortably into audiences of 150. Which was pretty bloody glorious, let me tell you. (Though the walk-out I had ten minutes into Saturday’s show was a bit weird. I’m assuming it was that couple I had overheard on their way in saying they “loved a good magic show”).
The gigs have been genuinely lovely. Some of the best shows I’ve ever done. A year on from its premier, it was already in pretty good shape, honed from months of touring. Two weeks of doing it every day has made it even sharper. I genuinely think it has gotten better and better. I am inordinately proud of The Magic of Terry Pratchett. I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever written. In the dark of the night I sometimes worry it’s the best thing I ever will write. Every time I perform it, I feel that connection, to Terry, to his fans, to his world and characters. I feel like we’re on the journey together. I’m not going as far as to say Terry is there in spirit, because I don’t believe in that sort of thing, and neither did he, but there is something of his metaphorical spirit in the room every time. His voice. His worldview. His words. It’s always a privilege.
I finished the run yesterday (Sunday 18th, as I’m writing this) with a wonderful final show, bid my excellent techs thanks and goodbye and gifting them books (Monstrous Regiment for Ash, who was interested in the queerness I’d discussed on stage, Sourcery for Millie, who had told me they were looking for a new “proper fantasy” to read), packed up my props (hourglass, hat, bottle of brandy) and headed out to treat myself to a Haggis supper at the chippy, something I do every year because chip shop haggis is lush, but only once because jeez that stuff is fattening. I went off to see my friend Elf Lyons’ show (it’s astonishing) and headed back to my flat.
A successful run then. So why did I drop off the emotional deep end as soon as I’d done? I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Partly it’s the aforementioned intensity of the Fringe itself. A few weeks where you live and breathe and die and rise with each performance. But I think there’s more to it than that. I think I’ve been underestimating the emotional challenge of the show itself. For those who haven’t seen it, The Magic of Terry Pratchett isn’t just a biographical retelling of Sir Terry’s life, it’s an exploration of what he stood for, of the enduring power of storytelling, of how each of us is a sealed-in universe reachable only by the stories we tell one another. And in that story Sir Terry, a man for whom words were everything, deals with his Alzheimer’s disease. The loss of his words. The loss of his self. I talk about his anger. His burning sense of injustice that powers his books. The sheer unfairness of those who impose stories on us when we already have our own to tell. I discuss his death. And other people’s deaths, too. Terry’s work to promote the cause of assisted dying. The extraordinary Choosing To Die documentary. This stuff was emotional to write, and I see the impact it has on audiences, but I thought I was largely immune to it now. I’m a performer, after all. I’m saying the same words every day, more or less. I’m turning on the pathos for the stage, but I’m not really on that emotional journey myself anymore. Or so I thought.
Because actually, how could I not be? Good grief. Of COURSE I am. For two weeks, every day, I poured that energy out into a room full of people, I tried to make them feel something. I talked about death and hope, I invoked grief as well as laughter. How could that not have an impact? I walk out onstage and I talk plainly about the decline and death of my favourite author of all time. On some deeper level, below the conscious one that’s glibly pratfalling through this stuff, that energy is coming from somewhere. And it leaves you depleted afterwards. It spends something. Of course it does.
I have a week off from doing the show now — and then the tour continues in the first week of September, up north in Kendall, Leeds and Sheffield and then down to Wales, Bristol and beyond. It’s something I need to think about. I’m in the end game now — I’ll be touring The Magic of Terry Pratchett into next year, culminating with a special show on Terry’s birthday in April, which I’ll tell you about when I can, and then I think I’ll put it to bed for a while. It’s still there, in my back pocket to pull out for events and conventions, and I’m hoping I can take it to Australia and the US next year … but it definitely needs a rest. It’s, evidently, too much grief to carry.
Anyway. That’s Edinburgh Fringe done for me, for another year. Will I be back in 2025? Possibly. I have some ideas. I have somethings I want to say. I’m aware, though, that it’s not going to be as special as performing this show has been these past two years. In the meantime? There’s touring to be done, there’s a new book coming out, there’s new books to write (more on that later). I’ll update y’all on those in the next proper Glom of Nit.
Pre-order Nirvana: A detailed guide to the band that changed Everything
Pretty much a year after I hope this would come out (2023 turned out to be FAR busier than I could have dreamed) my next book, Nirvana, is finally available to pre-order and should be shipped out on October 30 or thereabouts. I may also do a launch event, I haven’t really decided yet.
I’m really pleased with how this book has turned out. Nirvana are a deeply, deeply special band for me — the first band I ever got properly obsessed with. Their music evokes a specific feeling and atmosphere that is completely unique to my experience with them. They snap me back to a time and a place. And I think they’re perfect. Genuinely. I think Nirvana are a perfect band. This book has been an attempt to discover why — breaking them down to the constituent parts of their story and seeing if we can understand how the sausage was made. Originally it was going to follow the style of my book on the Manic Street Preachers: a really detailed timeline, interspersed with essays on each album. Once I started writing, however, that went out of the window. I kept coming up against things that needed more context than the timeline format would allow, and didn’t really fit into the “album essay” either. These things, however, were important — the history of the Melvins, the history of Sub Pop records, the importance of Olympia’s music scene etc. So I did what any Pratchett fan would do, and fell back on footnotes. What I realised in that process was that the footnotes were the book. The meat and the analysis could be presented as footnotes, and that left the timeline to be purely factual. I could explain any anomalies and inconsistencies, I could go deep on my opinions and I could be really, really nerdy, but those notes would dance around the solid journalism of the timeline. Once I realised that, the book clicked and I started racing through it. And racing. And racing. And then having to stop for a breather. Because it turned out that there was so much to write … Nirvana are almost uniquely important in music — their career, on the one hand, a relatively straightforward tale of a popular rock band, and on the other absolutely loaded with context. I could probably have written another 50,000 words, although it was getting a bit ridiculous by that point.
I genuinely think this is the most detailed and the most specifically accurate book about Nirvana ever written. And I say this as someone who has read pretty much all of the other ones. I hope I’ve captured something of what made them special. I hope I told the story well. I hope you enjoy it as much I do.
The signed hardback is available to pre-order now. As usual, I’ve created a special edition bundle for those who like to splash out a bit. The bundle gets you a tote bag featuring everyone who has ever been in Nirvana, a section of badges, a print of Andrea C White’s incredible cover art and some stickers based on the covers of the three Nirvana albums. It’s been put together, I promise, with real love.
There’s an excerpt from the book at the end of this newsletter.
I’m especially pleased with the badges:
Tour update
The Magic of Terry Pratchett 2024 Tour
The next leg of the Magic of Terry Pratchett tour kicks off in just a few days and I’m extremely excited to get back on the road. Every show is roughly two hours, featuring the 60-min fringe show and a second act with more stories about Terry and how I came to write the book, plus a Q&A. Afterwards I’m always around to sign books and chat.
5 SEPT Brewery Arts KENDALL TICKETS
7 SEPT City Varieties LEEDS TICKETS
8 SEPT Leadmill SHEFFIELD TICKETS
12 SEPT Queens Hall, NARBERTH, WALES TICKETS
13 SEPT The Grand SWANSEA, WALES TICKETS
18 SEPT The Savoy MONMOUTH, WALES TICKETS
19 SEPT Redgrave Theatre BRISTOL TICKETS
20 SEPT The Maltings FARNHAM TICKETS
22 SEPT Chequermead Theatre EAST GRINSTEAD TICKETS
25 SEPT Town Hall CHELTENHAM TICKETS
28 SEPT Arts Centre WARWICK TICKETS
3 OCT The Witham BARNARD CASTLE TICKETS
4 OCT Waterside Arts SALE TICKETS
17 OCT Arts Centre POCKLINGTON TICKETS
20 OCT Chelmsford Theatre CHELMSFORD TICKETS
12 DEC Arts Centre SALISBURY TICKETS
Stuff I’ve written this month
How poking fun at Donald Trump’s lisp could backfire (Independent)
Oasis gigs will be Taylor Swift’s Eras tour for middle-aged straight men (Independent)
'You've got to laugh or else you'll cry' – what nonsense! (Chortle)
Review: Definitely Maybe 30th Anniversary Edition (Super Deluxe Edition)
Recommendations
Manic Street Preachers – ‘Decline & Fall’.
My other favourite band in the world return on characteristically swaggering-if-admittedly-defeatest form. No other band can do that.
Idestory – Idestroy
Self-titled second album from punk pop trio! The Men That Will Not Be Blamed For Nothing did a whole tour with Idestroy back in 2017, or thereabouts. They’ve always been super sharp. This album feels like a perfection of the formula.
Wishy – Triple 7
I feel like this band could have been created in a label for me to love. Gorgeous, swoony stuff on the indiepop/altrock edge.
Book excerpt
Nirvana: A detailed guide to the band that changed everything
The Other Nirvanas
This is a stitching together of a few bits from the book. It’s inconsequential stuff in the grand scheme of things, but it’s the sort of silly details I absolutely love. There’s plenty of this sort of stuff in there. Don’t worry, there’s meaty stuff too. As ever this is a work in progress draft, and it may well change before publication.
It’s not known at which point Kurt and Krist became aware that a previous band had shared their name, but it obviously didn’t trouble them too much. In a draft press release found in Kurt’s journals, which dates from early 1989, he writes ‘we realise that there was once a 60s band called NIRVANA but don’t get us confused with them because they totally suck Big F*cking Dick’. In a 1990 interview filmed at a show in Cambridge, MA, they’re described by Kurt as ‘this dick-head prog rock band’. Which is a bit harsh, because the original Nirvana were actually pretty good. Their debut album, The Story of Simon Simopath, released on Island records in 1967, is one of the first true concept records to come out of the London psych pop scene, and had been released to reasonable acclaim (not least from John Peel). Nirvana #1 disbanded in 1971 after the failure of their third album, though founding member Patrick Cambell-Lyons continued to record under the name into 1972. The original Nirvana reformed in 1985 to tour Europe, releasing a best-of compilation in 1987, thus their reunion shadows the emergence of their nascent namesakes across the Atlantic, neither presumably aware of the other just yet. It’s rather satisfying that John Peel had a hand in popularising both bands. Nirvana (UK) eventually attempted to sue Nirvana (US) over rights to the name, which is sort-of fair enough, as they certainly got there first. The matter was settled out of court in 1992, with a behind-the-scenes deal done to allow both bands to continue to release records and tour under the name ‘Nirvana’; which is itself a little unusual —usually one or the other would have to change their name, at least in the other’s native territory (hence British indie band Suede are known as The London Suede in the US and American power pop band The Beat go by Paul Collins’ Beat in Europe.) According to Everett True, the original Nirvana were paid $100,000 for the use of their name.
Following the radio premier on KXLU, ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ hit college radio and alternative stations across the US and was an immediate hit, with switchboards lighting up to request the song. The song was also added to commercial metal and rock stations. Around this time another Nirvana, a pretty unsuccessful LA Christian band, start sending cease-and-desist letters to local radio stations demanding they stop playing ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ since they had a registered trademark on the name ‘Nirvana’. Most stations point-blank refused, since the song was unstoppably popular.
If you’re curious, this Nirvana released a self-titled album in 1990 and it’s absolutely dreadful. While the UK Nirvana were paid off by Geffen and allowed to continue to use their name, the LA Nirvana, who were apparently influenced by ‘Boston and Queen’, were actually sued by our Nirvana for issuing the cease and desist. According to Michael Azerrad’s Come As You Are, the LA Nirvana eventually agreed to sell their trademark for $50,000 and permission to continue to trade under the name, although doing so would seem an extremely odd decision considering how ubiquitous the name was becoming. A year later their manager was interviewed in Billboard about how they were trying to crack the Latin American market under the Nirvana name, but had ‘not ruled out changing their moniker’.
There are other Nirvanas. Perhaps unsurprisingly, given that it’s a fairly common word, there have been, at best guess, something like 19 bands called Nirvana that have been successful enough to have been pressed to vinyl or featured on a compilation, going from the 60s to the 90s, based in Spain, Germany, Australia, Sweden, Finland, Croatia, Japan, France, Laos and several in the US, including one that featured notorious Michael Jackson lookalike Daimyo Jackson, joined by his brother (a Prince tribute) and sister (who did Sheila-E). Someone should do a Nirvana-only compilation album.
Mind how you go
Marc B x