The best of cons, the worst of cons

The approach of BristolCon has me thinking back to previous cons I’ve attended. There have been good and bad, and many in-between. But which was my best?

Was it Jersey in 2002? Possibly. At this con I had a meeting with John Jarrold, then editor at Earthlight (Simon & Schuster) during which he told me a deal for my novels was pretty much on the table. A 3-book deal. This was on the Friday, about an hour after my arrival. I went to a party or two. There were huge chocolate bars in the hotel shop. I flew on a plane (y’know, like, twice!). I went to the beach. It was sunny! The only downside was the man who snored in the bedroom next door.

Or was it the Glasgow WorldCon in 2005, where I hung out with Lou Anders, who was to publish my books in the US. An absolutely wonderful guy, Lou’s enthusiasm was hugely encouraging, particularly given the difficulties that had transpired in the UK since that con in Jersey. The only downside to this con was my experience with taxi drivers. (Taxi drivers, you are often the first point of contact for visitors; make a good impression.) Oh, and the fact that the bed in my hotel room broke. And the fact that for 24 hours I lived on only M&M’s* from the mini bar. * – apostrophiles please note M&M’s is correct.

Or was it the World Fantasy Con in Washington in 2003?  This was a big deal. It cost a small fortune, but I considered the trip to be an investment in my career. I flew to America alone – like some kind of jet-setter. It was an adventure. I stayed in hotels, met editors and authors and agents, lunched and dinnered and partied. And I was more tired than ever before or since.

Or was it my first con: Liverpool, the Adelphi, 1997. Here I met the lovely David Garnett (where are you, Dave?) who introduced me to loads of people I’d heard about and who also wrote stuff, and told me to send him something for New Worlds, which he was then editing. (I did, and although he didn’t buy it he did give me some useful snippets of advice.)

Or was it the 2011 Eastercon near Birmingham? This was my kids’ first con. They loved the relaxed atmosphere and general hub-ub. Furthermore, I was able to introduce my very excited daughter to Keith Brooke – all round good egg and author of her favourite novel The Unlikely World of Faraway Frankie.

And my worst con?

Perhaps it was Blackpool, (2004). This should have been so great as my first book was just out. But no one from the publisher was there, there were no copies of the book, and the con membership packs were DIY jobbies, pick ‘n’ mix leaflets. There was something for my novel among them, but I think I was the only one who picked it and mixed it. There was no actual convention hotel. The hotel in which we stayed wasn’t great, and Blackpool’s a dump (sorry if you happen to live there – no offence or anything). It’s also a 4-hour hour drive from Birmingham. No thanks. My best memory of this con is the great Peter Lavery’s delight at picking up a Best of Blackpool Trams DVD. A great guy who I’m sorry not to see any more.

Or was it Manchester in 98, where I had pleurisy, felt RAF and spoke to hardly anyone the whole weekend.

Or Fantasycon (2007?) at which I asked Conrad Williams to sign a book he hadn’t written. (This ranks as one of my Most Embarrasing Moments – up there with the time I sneezed into an ashtray in a pub and blew its contents all over a girl I really fancied…) The highlight of this con was seeing the wonderful Hal Duncan stagger back to the hotel in the morning from God knows where looking like the living dead. (What? Oh, apparently Hal is the living dead. Fair enough.)

I’ve met loads of great people at cons over the years, many of whom – if not most – are on my wavelength. I’ve met authors I’d read and admired, many becoming friends. At a recent Eastercon at Heathrow my wife spotted a man we both recognised. It turned out he lives next door but one.

So, while cons vary, it’s clear having written this that even the least enjoyable have high points. And who knows, maybe the best of them all is yet to come…

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Relax and Swing – a blog about 80s pop group Japan

I was mad into Japan 25-30 years ago. I had David Sylvian hair (well, kinda – and as my wife pointed out, “everyone had their hair like that”; but then she went to a girls’ school). I also had a Sylvian coat, but although I tried to get shoes like those he wore on the back of the Tin Drum cover, the best I could do was a pair of cheap espadrilles from Bacons. It was a fascination with the band I shared with a friend, who wore a similar coat and and had similar hair. We must have looked a right pair when we walked around Tamworth. Where are you now, Warren Garret?

Sometimes I’d have friends round to my house. Being an enthusiastic sort I’d make them sit cross-legged on my bedroom floor attempting to eat Chinese food with chopsticks while playing Japan albums on my Amstrad. When we went out we’d ask the DJ to play Quiet Life, with it’s helicopter sound, sweeping keyboards and wailing guitar. This is a great, powerful dance track that you’ll sing to without realising it, and which somehow sits comfortably between glam and disco and new wave. It’s got depth, too. At the end there are numerous vocal layers, including a very deep vocal that’s barely audible through anything but headphones.


Since hearing about Mick Karn’s premature death from cancer last week I’ve been listening to the band a lot. Back in the day I tended to focus on Sylvian’s voice. He always struck me as somewhat affected and pretentious even when I was 14; but that’s OK, because he was a pop star, and pop stars should always be out of the ordinary, right? Right.

The thing is, listening to Japan now what strikes me most from my older and more musically appreciative viewpoint is the innovation in the band’s music, and the quite incredible musicianship.

Japan got lumped in with the whole New Romantic thing that was developing at the beginning of the 1980s, but that wasn’t really what they were about. Yes, they wore make-up and had hair in spades, but this was more to do with their glam roots than anything. They were Avant-guard, more influential of the New Romantic scene, particularly Duran Duran, than part of it. Although let’s face it, being labelled “New Romantic” probably didn’t do the band any harm at the time.

Japan’s music is complex and carefully constructed. Although not a style the band is associated with, there’s considerable funk, and intricate rhythms with lots of percussion, drum machines and “real” drums from Steven Jansen, all usually happening at the same time without sounding a mess – not an easy trick to pull off. Then there’s the minimalist guitar work; often it doesn’t sound like a guitar at all, with great dive-bomb sounds or sitting just the right side of rock – more attitude than anything. Then there’s wonderfully warm and warbling sounds produced by Richard Barbieri’s keyboards, with everything underpinned by Karn’s fantastic bass playing.

Karn was probably the coolest member of Japan for my money. His bass playing was nothing short of phenomenal. He used a fretless bass, which has a unique, woody sound anyway, but this guy played bends and slides and vibrato in a very percussive and funky style. He was also responsible for the Bowie-esque chorused saxophone sound the band used such a lot, as well as more exotic instruments such as the ocarina.


The Smokey Robinson classic I Second That Emotion was a big hit for Japan, being very accessible to many people, and coming along as the New Romantic scene began to blossom. While this is a great track that the band covered in their own style very effectively, it’s not my favourite simply because it’s a cover. However, I could listen to Karn’s bass line all day, with that little slide down at the end of each phrase.

My all-time favourite Japan track is Swing, from the album Gentlemen Take Polaroids. Why do I like it so much? I understand now that what draws me to much of Japan’s music, and this track in particular, is the use of flat notes, semi-tone changes and minor chords. This is what makes many of the band’s tracks pretty dark, despite somehow managing to remain “pop”. This is something that also draws me to artists such as Nick Cave and Radiohead.

The vocal is pretty soulful. While I always liked Sylvian’s voice I thought it was somewhat over-croony at times, but respect to the man – he could really sing. Underneath it all, a drum machine and Jansen’s drumming perfectly compliment each other, supported by synth textures that are by turns powerful and beautiful, but often subtle enough to pass by the casual listener.


Ghosts is perhaps Japan’s most famous track, and possibly the one which encapsulates the band. Back in 1981, and even today, Ghosts as a pop song is pretty daring, with Barbieri’s wibbly-wobbly keyboard notes and fart noises reminiscent of the sounds generated by Louis and Bebe Baron for the beginning of the classic SF movie Forbidden Planet.

This is a dark song that draws you in gradually. The guitar complements the keyboards as Barbieri uses pitch bends and great warmth in the synth sounds to offset the tortured vocal. Everything grows gently as the song builds to Sylvian’s plea in the last chorus, beneath which is a beautiful, minimalist high keyboard line. It is pop genius in what is an otherwise very downbeat song.

Cantonese Boy was one of Japan’s biggest hits, with a more poppy sound than many of the band’s other songs. To be honest I never really liked the chorus on this one – the oriental thing’s just a tad overdone – but Karn’s bass is something really special, with wonderful percussion. There’s also a great instrumental bridge from the chorus back into the verse, with Barbieri’s synth whistles and chirps and percussive playing.

There are great dynamics and space in most of Japan’s tracks, and Cantonese Boy is no exception, despite sounding relatively full. There are also very subtle touches in terms of production, with shifts in the stereo field and changes of reverb. Huge kudos to Steve Nye here.

The first verse is a perfect example: the high synth lines switch from left in the stereo field to the right on alternate phrases, and act as a minimalist hook throughout the verse; the bass and drums are quite up front, the bass central and steady. When Sylvian’s voice comes in it is initially quite dry with little reverb, and central in the stereo field; it then separates, with more reverb, supported by multiple vocal overdubs, and alternates with the dryer, single vocal.

This is all within the first 45 seconds, kids.

The Art of Parties

Okay, so Japan’s eastern thing was perhaps a little overcooked, but it gave them unique positioning. Looking back, they were a band whose musicianship was perhaps not as appreciated as it should have been.

Does Japan’s music sound dated? I don’t know. I’d have to get a teenager to listen to it and gauge their reaction. To me, it’s a tremendously creative sound that’s way more than the sum of its component parts, and stands its ground in terms of creativity.  Play a few tracks, and take a listen beyond that which immediately presents itself – you might hear stuff you’ve never heard before.

All you’ve got to do is relax, man. Relax and swing.

I’m a writer, editor, and Royal Literary Fund Fellow.
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A lollipop man without a lollipop, is just a man


There’s a lollipop man near us. A wizened, grumpy old sod who looks like Albert Steptoe. He wears a fluorescent yellow jacket and cap, both of which are at least two sizes too large for him. Almost every day as I approach he makes me stop to allow various mothers and kids to cross. I know he waits for me. I can see it in his eyes, shining red from beneath the peak of his cap. Waits until he sees me coming, then shoves out his stick.

At least he used to.

For some reason a pedestrian crossing was recently installed at his point of responsibility. Maybe it was just too dangerous when he wasn’t on duty. At school time he’s still there, though. They’ve just taken away his stick. Now he only has to press the button and wait for the lights to change, whereupon he escorts people across the road, with everyone concerned clearly feeling a bit daft.

I can understand that perhaps they don’t want to make the guy redundant. Not yet, anyway. And maybe they never will: there are loads of people in our neck of the woods who can’t operate a pedestrian crossing properly. Despite his miserable demeanour and quite obvious grudge against me and my 1998 Nissan Almera, I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for this bloke, in his oversized coat. I suspect that he may eventually be forced to retire due to RSI of the right index finger as a result of repeatedly pushing that button. No doubt suing Birmingham City Council for thousands.

My sympathy is only tempered by the fact that even without his stick, he still waits until he sees me coming to press his button. He’s just had to hone his timing a little.

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