Fai clic su di un'immagine per andare a Google Ricerca Libri.
Sto caricando le informazioni... Clothes, Clothes, Clothes. Music, Music, Music. Boys, Boys, Boys. (2014)di Viv Albertine
Sto caricando le informazioni...
Iscriviti per consentire a LibraryThing di scoprire se ti piacerà questo libro. Attualmente non vi sono conversazioni su questo libro. A most excellent book. She holds very little back in describing her life, what she felt at the time and, of course, what she was wearing from teenage years to now, now being 2013. Autobiographies are strange things. You can never really be sure what's the truth and what is an affectation. Pretty much any political autobiography is a lesson in spin. This, though, reads true. And although she never says so, she must have kept a contemporary diary. Do you remember what you were wearing at any point in time? Perhaps for a big event like a wedding, but not any random day. It's either that or she has a remarkable memory, to recall 50 years later what you were wearing. She's very candid with her ambitions, the successes, her disappointments, and her regrets. But people like Viv Albertine fascinate me. People who are seeming afraid of nothing, have a vision of what they're trying to do, don't compromise on that vision, and still are internally wracked with insecurity and inadequacy. It's fascinating to see her progress from teen to adult and and see the ideas and attitudes that change, and, even more interestingly, what attitudes don't and why. I have to admit that, although I knew at the time of Sex Pistols (how could you not?), the Clash, and others, I was unaware of the Slits. Listening to some of their stuff on YouTube, I agree with Viv, that Ari had an extraordinary voice. The music is generally good, but, something I have to be in the right mood for. In some ways, reading this, I felt the way I did reading Patty Smith's book about Robert Maplethorpe. There are just certain times when there's a critical mass of creative energy in a very specific, and often small, place. When you live in a squat and "run into" Mick Ronson just walking down the street, those things just don't happen, do they? I've had celebrity sightings on occasion, but it's hardly the same thing. I'm not quite sure why I have this four rather than five stars. I may revise it upwards later. I often change them after mulling it over for a while. The book is an extremely worthwhile read. I really loved the start of this book: 1 MASTURBATION Well. It opened up the book to me, and I'm not a prude. At least, that's not what I see myself as. The book is open-hearted in the sense that Albertine seems to write from the heart. She's not usually a writer, except for writing scripts and songs, but this book has content that makes up for the lack of stringency and solidity; somehow, that's what musical autobiographies often lack. The book, as a whole, is really good because I feel that Albertine is as all people should be: not afraid of one's sexuality and searching for herself. This makes for a very interesting teenage experience, partly as she grows up during the advent of punk, and also as she tells of many interesting persons, e.g. John Beverley (Sid Vicious), whom she was very close to, Mick Jones of The Clash (whom she loved romantically), not to mention the person she later married, Malcolm McClaren and Vivianne Westwood and Don Letts. I love how she wrote about discovering music, and art in relation to music: When John and Yoko took their clothes off for the Two Virgins picture, their sweet, normal bodies all naked and wobbly were shocking because they were so imperfect. It was an especially brave move for Yoko; her body was dissected and derided by the press. But I got it. At last, a girl being interesting and brave. She also writes about what is often left in the dark for us born without a uterus: the period. On it starting: My period started the day before my thirteenth birthday. I went ballistic. I howled like a banshee, I shouted, I slammed doors – I was furious, crazed, ranting and murderous for days. This thing that had happened to me was totally unacceptable. I hated it, I didn’t want it, but I had no control over it. I couldn’t bear to live if it meant going through life bleeding every month and being weak and compromised. It was so unfair. And on sexual beginnings: Once when me and Nic were kissing and touching each other on a bed in someone’s house, he put his hand inside my knickers and I orgasmed immediately just from the newness of the experience. Well, I think it was an orgasm, it felt like a big twitch and then I wasn’t interested in being touched any more. On loving music, especially certain albums, passionately: The first album I bought when I got back from Amsterdam was an Island sampler, Nice Enough to Eat. I only had about four records because they were so expensive, but samplers were much cheaper than a normal LP, only fourteen shillings so lots of people bought them, they were important. I listened very hard to all the tracks, I never skipped songs that weren’t immediately appealing to me because I wanted to make the experience of having a new record last as long as possible. This is when I became aware of a label as a stable of artists. I trusted Island’s taste. I saw Nice Enough to Eat in an Oxfam shop the other day, it made my heart skip a beat, like I’d unexpectedly come across a very old and dear friend that I hadn’t seen for thirty years. Someone I’d told all my secrets to. The blue cover with the jumbled-up sweets spelling the bands’ names was so familiar, it meant more to me than seeing a family photograph. I bought the record again of course. Couldn’t leave it sitting there. On getting her first STD; the story of this is testament to how honest Albertine seems and comes across: I look into my knickers and see there is a little black dot at the base of a pubic hair. Then I realise with horror there’s a little black dot at the base of every pubic hair. I try and pick one off. It doesn’t come easily, the little bugger. I hold the speck in the palm of my hand. Phew, false alarm, it’s just a tiny pale brown scab. The squat was so dirty I must have got scabs from scratching myself all the time. But as I peer at it, the little scab grows legs and scuttles off sideways. I scream. Not an ‘Oh help I’ve seen a spider’ scream, but an ‘I am the host of living creatures! Evil parasites are burrowing into my flesh and sucking my blood!’ type of scream. A very serious and loud scream. A ‘Kill me now, I can’t bear to be conscious for one more second’ scream. ...and on having said crabs removed: The next day, Mum sends me to the clap clinic in Praed Street, Paddington. (‘It only takes a minute at the Praed Street clinic’, ‘Rabies (from the Dogs of Love)’, the 101ers.) A nice nurse gives me a blue cotton gown and shows me where to hang my clothes, then she tells me to lie on the bed, which has a piece of white paper stretched over it. I lie down and look at the polystyrene tiles on the ceiling, daydreaming. The nurse explains patiently that I must slide my bum down the bed and put my feet through the stirrups. I start to do it, but realise this means I’ll be lying on my back with my knees bent up to my chest and my legs wide open. I look at her for reassurance, Is this really what I’m supposed to do? She nods. I wriggle my feet through the stirrups and rest my ankles on the black nylon-webbing straps. The soles of my feet are filthy, luckily they face away from the nurse. My legs are held really wide open by the stirrups, my vagina is pointing to the door. I feel as if I’m strapped to a raft on a linoleum ocean, my ankles tied to the sides. ‘Here comes the doctor,’ says the nurse as the door opens. I feel so exposed, it’s unbearable, I’m horrified, ashamed. I’ve never had my legs so wide open before, not even during sex. I’ve never been looked at down there before, never shown anyone, never even looked at it myself. The doctor appears. A man. He’s young and handsome. Why is a young handsome man a gynaecologist? He must be a pervert. I want to die. This is the most humiliating and terrible thing that has ever happened to me (ever happened to you so far). I burst into tears. nessuna recensione | aggiungi una recensione
Appartiene alle Collane EditorialiPremi e riconoscimentiMenzioniElenchi di rilievo
"A raw chronicle of music, fashion, love, sex, feminism, and more that connects the early days of punk to the Riot Grrl movement and beyond ... [Songwriter and musician] Viv Albertine's ... memoir is the story of an empowered woman staying true to herself and making it on her own in the modern world"--Amazon.com. Non sono state trovate descrizioni di biblioteche |
Discussioni correntiNessunoCopertine popolari
Google Books — Sto caricando le informazioni... GeneriSistema Decimale Melvil (DDC)782.42166092The arts Music Vocal music Secular Forms of vocal music Secular songs General principles and musical forms Song genres Rock songs History, geographic treatment, biography BiographyClassificazione LCVotoMedia:
Sei tu?Diventa un autore di LibraryThing. |
The chapters are all very short, 2:45 long, and it's one of the fastest and best flowing memoirs I've read. It's even labelled as "Side One" and "Side Two". The stream of consciousness style suits it well and she's good at doing it (maybe that time in film school is showing?). No ghost writing or over-editing here.
If you ever wondered, "The Slits were good, why wasn't there more of it?" or "What happened to Viv Albertine?" then here you are. Unless you're chasing that "happy and deadly dull life as a housewife" line from too many bad interviews, then you can get in the sea.
But mostly it's about middle age. When your bright young career didn't, then your body falls apart and what do you do about it? That second half doesn't have the name-checks for every obscure punk musician, but it's the more memorable read.
Also one of the few books with anything good to say about Sid Vicious. ( )