Lost in Music - Giles Smith

I wish I’d never looked at Giles Smith’s picture before I read this. If you decide to purchase this book yourselves forget about the back cover and just remember that it cost £5.99 and DON’T LOOK. His image gave me a voice in my head that I didn’t need to have, slightly Northern, slightly Morrissey and quite monotonous. The photo’s pensive and too contrived and his hair is reminiscent of Richard Madeley: shiny and flicked. ...
...trying to read this as if it were written by Bukowski or Mishima which certainly helped matters because I wanted to give his book a fair chance and not judge it by it’s back cover.

The book is Giles’ account of his life and music, or music which is his life. It’ll transport you back into the days of radiograms, record players, 7 inches – I’m talking singles, obviously – and the thrill of finding ... more

I wish I’d never looked at Giles Smith’s picture before I read this. If you decide to purchase this book yourselves forget about the back cover and just remember that it cost £5.99 and DON’T LOOK. His image gave me a voice in my head that I didn’t need to have, slightly Northern, slightly Morrissey and quite monotonous. The photo’s pensive and too contrived and his hair is reminiscent of Richard Madeley: shiny and flicked. He looks like a Kenny G fan, so I’ve been trying to read this as if it were written by Bukowski or Mishima which certainly helped matters because I wanted to give his book a fair chance and not judge it by it’s back cover.

The book is Giles’ account of his life and music, or music which is his life. It’ll transport you back into the days of radiograms, record players, 7 inches – I’m talking singles, obviously – and the thrill of finding limited edition coloured vinyl that probably isn’t worth shite these days. It’s not so much a critical analysis, it’s him telling us anecdotes in an easy manner, so it’s not hard to read. For every major, or minor, event in his life, there’s a song or an album that he was listening to that got him through the crisis. I happen to remember listening to The Lemonheads non stop to get me through my GCSE’s but I was so into the music I spent most of my revising time singing my head off in the garden and sunbathing. When I was 13 I’d live my life to a permanent NWA/De La Soul/Public Enemy soundtrack carrying a crappy old ghetto blaster everywhere I went. Most of the events in my teenage life happened to these albums (That and the godawful 2 Live Crew) so many a memory is bought back.

Giles also remembers the day when he got his first Walkman, and the world was turned into one big music video. I’m sure you know what he means. You annoy people on buses with your tinny music coming out of the headphones, and watch their faces and the streets pass by in a big old MTV blur, or you’re walking down the street hearing nothing but your music and everything becomes surreal and you’re that woman from that Massive Attack video and not a part of anyone else’s reality.

Whatever you’ve thought about music, or done to music, Giles has already been there (Or after you, depending on your age). He thought very carefully about what would be the right album to lose his virginity to. Too fast and he’d be pumping himself into exhaustion, too slow and the gal would fall asleep. He planned his first kiss to coincide with a certain part of a song at the school disco to prevent maximum (imagined) embarrassment and The Cocteau Twins got him through cancer.

And then there’s the first album you ever bought. I used be more into my music than I am now, what with the kids taking priority, and way back in those days I’d naturally gravitate to other people who were just as fanatical as I was. So the question of what my first album was came up a heck of a lot. I usually avoided the question or lied about it, but I don’t mind telling you all the truth now, I think it’s about time I fessed up. I was eight, it was purchased from a car boot sale and it was the 12 inch remix of Madonna’s True Blue. My best friend hated my guts, not just because we liked Madonna, but because we wanted to BE her. Yeah, I’m afraid we were those trashy little whipper-snappers wearing lace gloves, mini skirts over leggings and pixie boots. I usually hated my mate, so it made a nice change, because we used to pretend we were in a band and she always got to be the singer and I was stuck with playing air keyboards. Thankfully, the phase only lasted 2 years and my dream of being a pop star went with it. (Unless you count the time when I was ten and got together with a group of friends to make a wannabe Five Star group).

Giles lies repeatedly about his first record. It was actually the one that goes ‘I saw a mouse, where? There on the stair…’ but depending on his mood it’s Hey Jude or Let It Be, Ride A White Swan by T-Rex, Sittin’ On The Dock Of The Bay or Cindy Incidentally by The Small Faces.

Some of the chapters in this book are titled ‘T-Rex’ or ‘Stevie Wonder’ etc… and are quite self explanatory; an entire chapter dedicated to his obsession with that band or singer. Although the chapter on Madonna is more a chance for him to talk about himself, with Madonna only mentioned in the first 3 sentences.

Other chapters are about his own wanting to be a pop star and the bands that he and his brothers were in. The funniest bits of this are of his comedy band (The orphans of Babylon) with his mate Geoff, and the fashion of song titles in brackets: Milk Teeth (Are Good Until You Lose ‘em)

And every true music lover will surely identify with the embarrassment of having crap albums in your collection, and the envy you have of those bastards who seem to have been born with music savvy. Our crap albums were cool at the time but have aged terribly. For example: Along with the Lemonheads I listened to that awful band who did a cover of Cats In The Cradle. I’m honestly not a fan of cock rock, and I really can’t explain away Faith No More. I think I fancied the lead singer, but I went off him after certain perverted confessions he made. I make many apologies, I’m not that loyal to my collection.

I’m finding it hard now to think of the rating I should give this book. I wanted it to be better than it actually is, and I have a sneaky suspicion I’m forcing myself to like it more, hence the voice rubbish I was going on about in the first paragraph. He's the Jackie Collins of the music world, But I don’t want you to think I don’t recommend it. It’s better than average, but not quite brilliant or worthy of four stars, so ignore the ciao rating and imagine 3 and a half stars if you will.

And do me the honour of telling me about the first, or worst, record you ever bought.
 

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