Samhain Publishing

I got interviewed by my local paper. I’d written this book, you see, published by those nice people at Samhain. What’s more, the novel’s set in the music scene of my home town – Oxford in the United Kingdom – and the paper loved the local angle. Hell, they’d interviewed Phillip Pulman the week before, so I jumped at the chance.

But it’s a weird thing being interviewed. You have to start justifying yourself, especially when it’s an Oxford newspaper asking the questions. You can’t throw a stone in Oxford without hitting some literary author or another, and the Oxford papers take themselves quite seriously. My novel – The Rocktastic Corduroy Peach – is a bit on the rude side. There’s quite a bit of swearing and a lot of talk about sex (yes, just talk – four dysfunctional blokes who couldn’t pull in brothel, what do you expect?). There’s a lot of rock and roll and drugs and poor personal hygiene and all the sorts of things that make some “literary” editors a little uncomfortable. It’s what you might call “laddish”.

I ended up having to explain why I put all these things in. There’s an assuption that because I’ve written about some awful characters, I must be like them. Although I managed to keep cheerful and positive, I couldn’t help but feel a little defensive by the end of the interview.

But why should I have to justify myself? The book is full of characters that I have met time and again throughout my years of gigging (yes, I play bass guitar). In fact, I toned a lot of the stuff down. Get a group of drunk guys together and it’s almost, but not quite, as obscene as the average pair of women chatting about the latest Samhain novel over coffee. The point is the story needed to be told. Despite all the bad language, the funny bits (“I’m going to steal some of Michael Amos’ punch lines” said Mrs. Giggles), the rock and roll and drugs, this is a sad tale about four, sad, ultimately lonely men. I’m not going to justify the way I’ve told it.

Michael Amos
www.michaelamos.net
The Rocktastic Corduroy Peach – Big schemes, big dreams and some really big drama queens.
4 Hearts, The Romance Studio

Homeland
“A most entertaining tale…of the Shopping Mall of Doom.” Mrs Giggles, 84%

Big schemes, big dreams and some really big drama-queens; yes, The Rocktastic Corduroy Peach is released today in print!

“I like the author’s breezy style and sense of humor…I’m going to steal some of his punchlines, heh” Mrs. Giggles, 78%

“Michael Paul Amos creates a read that allows emotions of love, hate, desire and grabbing and holding onto dreams to surface” Linda L. – 4 Hearts, The Romance Studio

Following the fate of four dysfunctional men, this story of the worst Oxford band that never was draws heavily on my own experiences of musical failure over the last twenty-five years.

A brief excerpt follows:

A wall of sound came from the stage of The Bullingdon Arms, a brutal, uncompromising noise drenching every corner of the auditorium. The massive, distorted guitar, a frenetic bass line, a pounding kick drum, all drove the music forwards, brooking no resistance and taking no prisoners. Almost swamped in this bleak musical landscape came the wailing, angst-ridden scream of the singer, his hair a great mane of black, face streaked with sweat and mascara as he strained to invest every note with the poignancy of his tortured soul.

In all, a majestic performance, marred only by the fact his mum and dad stood right at the foot of the stage, full of the embarrassing enthusiasm only ex-hippy parents were capable of. Mum had even fished out her old tie-dyed T-shirt for the occasion.

The one-hundred-and-fifty-capacity venue currently held an audience of thirteen—the sound engineer, the four members of the band, the singer’s mum and dad, two teenage girls and the four members of Corduroy Peach. Thirteen, an unlucky number. One of the guitarist’s strings broke but he kept on playing. It didn’t make a lot of difference to the overall sound.

Marcus, Danny-boy, Dermot and Paul stood at the rear of the room, their backs up against the wall. Mum and Dad grimaced slightly from the noise but did their best to nod their heads and tap their feet in time to the music. Marcus glanced sideways at Dermot, catching his eye and pointing at the shameless pair. Dermot grinned and rolled his eyes. The noise made actual conversation impossible.

The girls in the corner, lanky, leggy things in tight jeans, didn’t look as if they appreciated the band’s best efforts. One of them gestured with her thumb in the direction of the exit. The other agreed and they quickly finished their drinks and made their way out. As one, Marcus, Danny-boy, Dermot and Paul turned their heads to watch the girls pass. The boys were only looking. No harm in looking.

The music reached a crescendo. Up and up it ratcheted, the singer contorting his face, pouring his soul into the microphone. Clearly quite upset about something, the exact details of his heart-breaking predicament were difficult to discern as he chose to convey them by repeatedly and inexplicably screaming, “Buckaroo.”

And then it was over, the final crashing chord, the microphone flung to one side, the singer’s emotional energy spent. A brief hum of feedback gave way to silence. Mum and Dad clapped enthusiastically, Dad even managing a few whoops. Marcus, Danny-boy, Dermot and Paul exchanged glances and joined in half-heartedly, clapping one hand on their wrists so they could keep hold of their pints in the other. The lights came up and the sound system came on, playing songs from Kylie Minogue’s Greatest Hits.

Danny-boy put his pint on a nearby table and started to extract earplugs from his ears.

Marcus watched the band begin to pack away their gear. “His guitar’s a bit cheap, innit?”

Mum and Dad were now on the stage congratulating the singer, who at least had the decency to look a little embarrassed.

“Well, not everybody’s got the money to buy a flashy, custom-made guitar like yours, Marcus.” Danny-boy pulled out a small plastic box and carefully placed his earplugs inside.

“Well, yeah, it’s custom-made, but I made it.”

Dermot raised his eyebrows. “What, you made your own guitar, mate?”

Even Danny-boy seemed impressed for a brief moment.

Marcus shrugged. “Well, yeah. Nothing to it really once you’ve got the right tools.”

Danny-boy closed his box of earplugs and put it in his pocket. “Yes, well, I’ve thought about doing the same thing but it’s a time thing, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, my arse, Danny-boy, like you could make a guitar,” snorted Dermot.

“As Marcus said, it’s just a matter of having the right tools.”

Paul raised his eyebrows and leered. “You got the right sort of tool then, have you, Danny-boy?”

“Please don’t call me Danny-boy, Paul. I really do find it very annoying.”

“Yes, but your tool, Danny-boy. You got the right sort of tool, have you, eh, boy? Eh?” Paul moved around in front of the other three, smoothing his comb-over into place, evidently pleased with his crude double-entendre. He had a habit of swaying from side to side as he spoke, especially when excited, and he did it now. Marcus felt giddy watching him. Paul was like a metronome, albeit one which couldn’t keep time.

“Be quite a trick if he could make a guitar with his dick, eh, Paul?” Dermot rolled his eyes at Danny-boy and Marcus. They both smiled back as Paul roared with laughter.

“Well, what do you think of them then?” Marcus nodded in the direction of the stage, his tone of voice implying he didn’t think much of the band.

“They’ve got something there, yes.” Danny-boy stroked his chin sagely. “A certain sort of raw talent.”

“Yeah, yeah, I thought so too. Yes.” Marcus felt obliged to agree with Danny-boy. The argument just wasn’t worth it. “I thought they were great.”

“Ah, they were bollocks, mate,” cut in Dermot.

Danny-boy folded his arms across his chest. “Whatever you say, Dermot, they have a certain charm.”

“Charm? Bollocks.” Dermot grinned mischievously. “If they were so good, why did you have earplugs in?”

“I merely wish to protect my ears. Look what happened to Pete Townsend.”

“He went deaf, didn’t he?” Marcus tried to remember the details. “Didn’t he start appearing onstage in a plastic box or something, because of his tinnitus?”

“My point precisely.” Danny-boy looked defiantly at Dermot.

“Well, you just look a bit of a dick with those things sticking out your ears, that’s all I’m saying,” continued Marcus.

Paul guffawed.

Danny-boy picked up his beer. “You can laugh all you want. If we’re going to spend a lifetime gigging, we’ve got to take care of ourselves.” He glanced crossly at Paul for a moment. “Could you stop doing that please, Paul?”

“What?”

Danny-boy reached out and put his hand on Paul’s shoulder, stopping him from swaying. “You’re making me feel seasick.”

Marcus ran his finger around the top of his pint glass. “The thing is, Dermot, me old mucker, bollocks or not, Lazarus’ Kiss have got a gig here in The Bullingdon Arms and we haven’t. So, if they’re so shite, where does that leave us?”

“We’ll play here.” Danny-boy leant back against the wall and raised his pint to his lips. “We’ll play here, you mark my words.” He took a sip. “When we get going, we’re going to blow this town away. Listen, boys.” He paused, waiting until he had the undivided attention of the other three. “Seriously. We’ve got a great set of songs. Better than this lot. Better than anyone else on the Oxford music circuit at the moment. We can almost play them through now without any mistakes”—Danny-boy looked at Marcus—“and we just need to work on our image a bit.” He glanced at Paul. Paul’s comb-over was securely in place, stuck there by the sweat from his forehead. He began swaying again. “We just need to get a handle on those two things and we’ve got it licked.”

Marcus, Dermot and Paul nodded, taking in Danny-boy’s words of wisdom.

Danny-boy ran his fingers through his hair. “We are seriously rock ‘n’ roll.”

“We’re Rocktastic, Danny-boy.” Marcus smiled. “The Rocktastic Corduroy Peach.”

Danny-boy looked patiently up at the ceiling. “Could you please stop calling me Danny-boy?”

Michael Amos
www.michaelamos.net

So, it’s that time again. My new novel is coming out on Tuesday and I’m a mixture of nerves and excitement.

The excitement is second to none (well, maybe second to one thing…) Writing is a fantastic creative process that gives me a real buzz. I can lose myself writing in the same way I lose myself reading a good novel. The best description I can think for writing is organised daydreaming and as such, it is a wonderful escape from the tensions of life. So, when I finally get to see the novel “in the flesh” so to speak, it is a truly fulfilling moment.

The nerves might come as a bit of a surprise to non-writers but I’m sure it is something my fellow Samhain authors will relate to. When you write something, you put a great deal of yourself into it. You stick yourself up on a pedestal and say “look at me, read my book, it’s fantastic”. Then, you wait for the reviews. Good reviews are always welcome (and I’m proud to say I’ve had great ones so far). Bad reviews always hit hard, no matter how grown-up one tries to be about it. But worst of all is no reviews. The thought that after all the effort and excitement, nobody has actually bothered to read it packs the hardest punch.

So, in two days time, I’ll face the world with my new novel. I’ll tell all my friends it’s out, post on the mailing lists and chase up the local radio station and papers.

And then, I’ll wait and hope for a review.

Michael Amos
Fast, funny science-fiction
Rocktastic, contemporary comedy.
www.michaelamos.net

Homeland – out now
“A most entertaining tale of the shopping mall of doom” – Mrs Giggles, 84%
“Amos makes this perverse world come alive” – Virginia O’Dine, Neo-Opsis Magazine

The Rocktastic Corduroy Peach – out 25th March
“I like the author’s breezy sense of humor – I’m going to steal some of his punch lines” – Mrs Giggles, 78%
“A read that allows emotions of love, hate, desire and grabbing and holding onto dreams to surface” – Linda L., 4 Hearts, The Romance Studio

I have something of a nerdy secret. Throughout the year, I keep a list of all the good things that occur, anything I’ve achieved or consider noteworthy. There’s no great detail, just a few words about each little milestone, tucked away at the front of my filoFax.

Some of the entries might seem less than enthralling to you: I wrote some newsletters for a disabled sailing charity; in February, I had a big party to celebrate my nth birthday (where n is a large number); in May, I built my wife an arbour at the end of the garden. Not exactly Earth-shaking stuff, just the nicer bits of living.

Now, I can see this obsessive list-making is both bogus and sad, so why do I do it and, more importantly, why am I telling you?

I’m always a little pensive as the year draws to a close. John Lennon’s words “another year over and what have we done?” inevitably makes its way into my head. It’s difficult not to think of my existence in yearly packages – after all, life on our little, delicate planet is geared up to follow the annual cycle of the sun.

Each year has its share of unhappiness, and 2007 has dished out a few personal tragedies. When things are not running smoothly, the day-job is tedious and life seems to be going nowhere, it’s easy to slip into the winter months thinking “what exactly have I done with myself this year?”

Well, for a start, I built an arbour for my wife and it made her happy. The two word entry “built arbour” reminds me of all the details of its construction – the sunshine; the frequent, extensive coffee breaks; the very valuable assistance from our seven-year old daughter. I find myself smiling now as I think of it.

Without my list, I’d have forgotten. Not forgotten I built the arbour, I see it everyday after all. I’d have forgotten to remember that I built it, and that’s a different thing altogether.

So if, like me, you find yourself feeling the winter blues, keep a list of the nice things. They’re the stuff that makes life worth living and it’s all too easy to lose sight of them.

Michael Amos
www.michaelamos.net

The Rocktastic Corduroy Peach
“I’m going to steal some of his punchlines, heh” Mrs Giggles, 78%

Homeland
“This story is put together wonderfully, with all the satiric elements and humor coming together for a most entertaining tale…of the Shopping Mall of Doom Mrs Giggles, 84%
Amos makes this perverse world come alive…the reader is pulled along with the fast action and an ending you couldn’t possibly see coming. Neo-Opsis Magazine

Excellent!

My mate has asked me to play bass guitar in his band. And for a paid gig, too.

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” I hear you say. “That sounds kind’ve fun.”

And it is.

Well, kind’ve.

You see, we’re not quite what you might expect. You’ve seen the Zimmers, right? Playing My Generation? Take a look here if you’ve missed that particular gig.

Hey, we’re not quite as old as that, we’ve still got our own teeth. Just. But with the youngest member of the band in his forties and the oldest in his late fifties, we’re not exactly tipped to be the next Take That.

“Hey, so what? I guess you play old covers like Mustang Sally and Hey Joe, right?”

Well, not exactly. You see, I live in Oxford, England, the town that brought us Radiohead and Supergrass, The Candyskins and Hurricane #1 and a dozen other indie-rock bands you may or may not have heard of. You certainly won’t have heard of the band I’ve been asked to play for, East Point. We’re talking “art-rock” here, all self-composed, stormy pieces of music, vehicles for the tortured soul of our “troubled” singer, Nigel.

Actually, he’s not all that troubled, it’s just for appearances sake. Stick with me, here.

So, he’s asked me to play a gig and I know what it’s going to mean. Firstly, we want an audience, so we’re going to have to coerce all of our long-suffering friends into coming along.

And our work colleagues.

And our mothers.

We might even trawl through Friends Reunited.

If you don’t put the legwork in, there won’t be anybody to watch you. I’ve played concerts where even the sound engineer left half way through, leaving us playing to an entirely empty hall. Fortunately, the last East Point gig was quite well attended. At least, it was to start with.

Secondly, there’s going to be a lot of hard work. You get there about 6:30pm, with a drum kit, bass rig and drummer rammed into the back of your Ford Cortina, the poor thing overheating and belching black smoke. The car, that is, not the drummer.

Next, the gear has to be unloaded and set up. Roadies? Don’t be silly.

Once the sound check is through by, say, 7:30pm, you have a two hour wait until you play at about 9:30pm. Two hours in a bar, surely not so bad? It is if you can’t drink. You’ve got to play, remember.

And you’ve got to pack your gear up after everyone else has gone.

And drive home in that dodgy Ford Cortina.

After two hours sipping orange juice, fighting the constant desire for a wee brought on by pre-gig nerves, everything’s looking a good deal less rock-n-roll.

So, why the hell do I do it? That’s a question I’ve asked myself many times during the twenty-five years I’ve been playing in amateur rock bands. My Samhain novel, The Rocktastic Corduroy Peach, is a comedy-melodrama following the fortunes of four dysfunctional men trying to work out the same thing.

Ask any musician and they’ll trot out the same pat answer: “it’s the music, dahhhling, the music.”

The music, my arse. If it’s the music, stay at home and play in your bedroom. That way, nobody hears your mistakes.

Actors and gigging musicians alike have a need to be the centre of attention, to be in the limelight. The applause, favorable reviews, fans, groupies (if only) – that’s what it’s all about. There is nothing like the high of getting an encore or the low of receiving a lousy review.

So, is that why I do it?

Nah. Now, it’s just a laugh. The rehearsals, the build up, the gang mentality of the band, the comedy of playing to an empty hall, it’s all just great fun.

Hitting the big-time mattered more than anything to me when I was younger. But somehow, I missed and now it’s not such a big deal. I’ve moved on. The same can’t be said for the characters in The Rocktastic Corduroy Peach, but there’s no helping some people.

Michael Amos
www.michaelamos.net

The Rocktastic Corduroy Peach
Big schemes, big dreams and some really big drama-queens. Outrageous comedy-melodrama about the worst Oxford band there never was.

Homeland
Fast-paced sci-fi comedy.
“The reader is pulled along with the fast action and an ending you couldn’t possibly see coming” Neo-Opsis Magazine.
“The more I read, the more I laughed” Ash Arceneaux
“This is definitely a page-turner novel; this reviewer couldn’t stop till the end” 5 Stars – Euro-Reviews