Jimmy the Kid by Donald E. Westlake (Mysterious Press 1974)

A luminous afternoon in the black-and-white forest. The monster, played by Boris Karloff, pauses as he hears the sweet notes of a violin. His face lights, he lumbers through the woods, following the sound. He comes to a cosy cottage amid the trees, very gingerbread. Inside, the violin is being played by a blind hermit, who is being played by O. P. Heggie. The monster approaches, and pounds on the door.

Someone pounded on the door.

“Eee!” Murch’s Mom said, and jumped straight up out of her folding chair. Which folded, and fell over with a slap.

They had all been sitting around the battery-operated small television set they’d brought out to follow the kidnapping news. There’s been no kidnapping news—apparently the cops were keeping a news blackout on—so now they were watching the late movie. The three kerosene lamps, the hibachi in the fireplace, and the flickering television screen, all gave some light and less heat.

Someone pounded at the door again. On the TV screen, the blind hermit opened his door to the monster. The others had all scrambled to their feet too by now, though without knocking over their chairs. Harshly Kelp whispered, “What do we do?”

“They know we’re here,” Dortmunder said. “Let me do the talking.” He glanced upstairs, and said, “May, if the kid acts up, say something about him having nightmares and go up there and keep him quiet.”

May nodded. The pounding sounded at the door for a third time. Murch’s Mom said, “I’ll go.”

They all waited. Dortmunder’s hand was near the pocket with his revolver. Murch’s Mom opened the door and said, “Well, for God—”

And the kid walked in.

“Holy Toledo!” Murch said.

Kelp, slapping his hands to his face, yelled, “Masks!" “Masks! Don’t let him see your faces!”

Dortmunder didn’t believe it. He stared at the kid, looking as wet and muddy and ragged as a drowned kitten, and then he looked upstairs. And then he ran upstairs. He didn’t know what he thought, maybe that the kid was twins or something, but he just didn’t believe he wasn’t in that room.

Bank Shot by Donald E. Westlake (Mysterious Press 1972)

 

The lieutenant looked out the side window, though without any hope. They were climbing a hill, and just ahead was the sign for McKay’s Diner. The lieutenant remembered the free cheeseburger he’d been promised, and smiled. He was about to turn his head toward the captain and suggest they stop for a snack when he saw the diner was gone again. ‘Well, I’ll be darned,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘That diner, sir,’ the lieutenant said as they drove by. ‘They went out of business already.’

‘Is that right.’ The captain didn’t sound interested.

‘Even faster than I thought,’ the lieutenant said, looking back at the space where the diner had been.

‘We’re looking for a bank, Lieutenant, not a diner.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The lieutenant faced front, began again to scan the countryside. ‘I knew they wouldn’t make it,’ he said.

The Fugitive Pigeon by Donald E. Westlake (Random House 1965)

 

It was a slow night, like any Tuesday. The late late show was High Sierra and there’s always a couple of Bogart fans around, in fact I’m a Bogart fan myself, so I figured to stay open till the movie was over and then lock up and go upstairs and get some sleep. After one-thirty I only had two customers, both regulars, both sitting at the bar, both watching the TV, both beer drinkers. I stood down to the far end of the bar, with my arms folded and my white apron on, and I watched the TV myself. Commercials, one or both customers had refills. I don’t drink on duty, so it was none for me.

My name is Charles Robert Poole, everybody calls me Charlie. Charlie Poole. Just so you know.

High Sierra ended with the cop shooting Bogart in the back and Ida Lupino glad society couldn’t treat Bogart bad any more, and I said, “Okay, gents, time to drink up. I need my beauty sleep.” It’s a neighborhood bar, regular customers, I like to keep an informal atmosphere.

These two were both good about it, not like some which come in mostly on weekends and want the night to go on forever. But not these two, they drank up and said, “Night, Charlie,” and out they went, waving to me.

I waved back and told them good night and rinsed their glasses and set them on the drainboard, and the door opened again and two guys came in with suits and topcoats, the topcoats all unbuttoned so you could see they were wearing white shirts and ties. Not what you mostly get in a bar in Canarsie two-thirty on a Tuesday night.

I said, “Sorry, gents, just closing up.”

“Yeah, that’s okay, nephew,” said one of them, and they came over and sat down on stools at the bar.

I looked at them then, and they were both grinning at me. Tough-guy types. I recognized them both, associates of my Uncle Al, they’d both been in before to drop off a package or a message or to pick one up. I said, “Oh..I didn’t recognize you at first.”

The one that talked said, “You know us, though, don’t you, nephew? I mean you know us to see, am I right?”

The Prisoner of Brenda by Colin Bateman (Headline 2012)

 

JMJ’s hands moved to her hips; it was the naval equivalent of taking battle formation.

‘Are you deliberately trying to provoke me?’

‘It’s a distinct possibility,’ I said.

‘You do know that there can only be one winner here?’

‘It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’

‘What?’

‘A bird in the hand is—’

‘Enough! Jesus, Mary and Joseph! I’ve had you down as a troublemaker from the moment you were carried in here, and now it’s right out in the open for everyone to see! Well, you listen to me, mister, we live by harmony here, not anarchy! These pizzas have been brought in from outside at not inconsiderable expense, as a special treat, but they’ll bloody well go in the bin if you continue with this outright . . . defiance – yes, that’s exactly what it is – defiance! Do you think I’m going to go without dinner tonight? No, but these poor souls, they certainly will if you do not see the error of your ways and apologise for your attitude and your behaviour. Immediately.’

Her stare was intense.

Michael slipped off his earphones. ‘Apologise, man, you’re not going to win.’

Joe said, ‘Do it, I’m starving.’

Malachy pointed a finger at me. ‘Say “you’re sorry. We get pizza once a month if we’re lucky. Don’t fuck it up.’

Andy stared at the pizzas.

JMJ raised an eyebrow. ‘Well?’

Yes, her eyes were good, but she was no Nurse Brenda – or Alison, for that matter – and I knew my plan was good, and for every moment I held my silence I knew that it was drawing closer to fruition.

‘Okay,’ she said, ‘have it your—’

I spoke. Muttered.

‘What was that?’ JMJ snapped. ‘If you’re going to apologise, speak up, let everyone hear you.’

I said, a little louder, ‘Food fight.’

She screwed up her eyes and leaned a little closer. ‘What was that?’

‘I said . . . FOOD FIGHT!’

I reached down and picked up one of the pizzas. It was cold and as firm as a discus. “The orderly looked from the pizza to me to JMJ and back, utterly confused and seeking direction.

JMJ began to say, ‘Put that d—’ but then had to duck as I Frisbeed it across the dining room towards her. It smeared off her left shoulder and hit the wall behind her, leaving a snail trail of cheese as it slipped to the floor.

‘C’mon!’ I yelled, urging the others to join in, ‘Food fight!’ I lunged at another pizza just as the orderly jumped at me, knocking me forwards and across the table. ‘Food fight!’ I screeched. He had me by the neck, pressing down. I screwed my head to one side and spat out: ‘C’mon, you half-wits! Food fight! This is your chance! C’mon!’

But they sat there, looking blankly at me. I managed to grab another pizza but a second orderly came rushing in and caught my hand and bent my fingers back until I let go and then they pulled me up and back and JMJ came round the table and put her face in mine and raised her hand and grabbed my cheek and pinched it between her fingers and twisted it and snarled, ‘Anything you want to say now?’

‘Yes . . . yes!’

‘Well?’

‘You don’t eat pizza with forks, you fucking witch!’

‘Pathetic!’ And she twisted my cheek even harder and it brought tears to my eyes and she smiled and said, ‘Take him to his room and lock him in, and I don’t want to see him until breakfast. You can have a long hard think about your behaviour and I expect a full and sincere apology or I swear to God . . . !'

Laid (2011)

 

Matinee (1993)

 

FIFA Uncovered (2022)

 

Nightfall (1956)

Friday's Playlist #27.5

Update.

What was Friday's Playlist #27 is now Friday's Playlist #27.5. See the following link for why an added 0.5 was necessary. Scrub December 2007 and replace it with September 2011.

#    #    #    #

Where was I? Oh yeah, December 2007. Back when people still had (and updated) blogs and when Elon Musk still had his original hairline. What was once an ongoing series . . . well, we will just see. 

One thing for certain, though: looking back at the old Friday Playlists just reminds me what a great resource MySpace was for discovering new music. Maybe if Twitter bites the dust, people will rediscover the joy of MySpace. Here's hoping . . . 

• Gene Loves Jezebel, 'Suspicion' (The House of Dolls)
• The Beatles, 'Doctor Robert' (Revolver)
• Amy Rigby, 'The Summer Of My Wasted Youth' (18 Again - An Anthology)
• Gil Scott- Heron, ' Lady Day and John Coltrane' (Pieces of a Man)
• Elbow, 'Scattered Black and Whites' (Asleep in the Back)
• Shelagh Mcdonald, 'Let No Man Steal Your Thyme' (Album)
• Paul McCartney, 'Jenny Wren' (Chaos and Creation in the Backyard)
• Los Lobos - 'Will the Wolf Survive?' (How Will the Wolf Survive?)
• Summer Fiction - 'She's Bound To Get Hurt' (Summer Fiction)
• Charlie Rich - 'The Most Beautiful' (Behind Closed Doors)

Spotify Playlist Link.

Friday's Playlist #27 (For real this time . . . )

That's hilarious. Turns out I'd had an earlier notion to revive the Friday Playlist on the blog. The post below has been hiding in drafts since 2011! Half the bands listed I don't have a scooby about. I don't even know where I might have stumbled over them. By 2011 MySpace was long gone as an online space for finding new music, and the wonderful  PBS/WNET 13 New York Noise had been cancelled fours years before. Maybe I was sniffing around Pitchfork 11 years ago, and just 'liking' what was in fashion. I'm being a bit harsh on myself; the Holy Ghost and The Suicide Commandos' tracks are both top notch, and I love Ivy's cover of the Steely Dan classic.  The only track on the playlist that I couldn't find on Spotify was The Polyamorous Affair track. Click on the link below to find it on YouTube.

. . . And there's only 9 tracks listed. Maybe back in 2011 the door bell rang and I never got back to the post. Think of the missing 10th track as a John Cage tribute.

From Sep 30, 2011

Only a three and a half year gap between numbers 26 & 27, but when you've got as few readers as I have, who's counting?

Please don't let me be misunderstood. The revival of the Friday Playlist isn't a late attempt to revive the flagging fortunes of the blog's sitemeter . . . or even to dredge up that old notion of turning the blog into a music blog. Just me taking advantage of Spotify recently launching in the US.

What was once 'ongoing series'

Holy Ghost!, 'Do It Again' (Holy Ghost!)

The Suicide Commandos, 'She' (Make A Record)

LCD Soundsystem, 'Drunk Girls' (This Is Happening)

Dr. Feelgood, 'Roxette' (Down By The Jetty)

Thunderclap Newman, 'Look Around' (Hollywood Dream)

The Bitter Springs, 'Big Sweaty Dad' (Poor Trace)

Ivy, 'Only A Fool Would Say That' (Guestroom)

The Polyamorous Affair, 'White Hot Magic' (Bolshevik Disco)

The Ark, 'Patchouli' (We Are The Ark)

Spotify Playlist Link. 

Alan Partridge: Alpha Papa (2013)

 

Be Stiff: The Stiff Records Story by Richard Balls (Soundcheck Books 2015)

Prologue

32 Alexander Street, London, W2

1977. An office in a former house in Bayswater, now home to a small record label. Inside is a garrulous Dubliner with scruffy hair, a couple of women hard at work, and a boyish-looking singer called Wreckless lounging in a chair. The door opens and a bloke comes in carrying several large cardboard cut-outs of some of the label’s exciting new acts. One cut-out is of a nerdy, pigeon-toed singer with a sneer and a Fender Jazzmaster.

“Ah great, they’re here. Great,” says the Irishman. “Jesus, these are pretty good. I love the one of Elvis. These look all right.” Excitedly he picks them up and admires them, before grabbing a hammer from a drawer and climbing on a chair. “Hey Suzanne, would you pass me a nail? I want to put these up. These are gonna look great up here.” Bemused at this sudden burst of activity, the singer looks on as the giant shop displays are banged into place. “That’s the sort of stupid thing I’d do,” he thinks to himself.

As the hammering goes on, a wild-eyed, intimidating figure bursts in and looks up at the wall, horrified. “Yeah, we’ve got the displays,” says the Irishman. “They’re fucking great aren’t they? Great.”

 

“What the fuck?” yells the other guy. “What fucking moron did that?” “Well we’ve got to put ‘em up, Jake, you know?” he replies. “Put ‘em up? Do you want to see Elvis Costello with a fucking nail through his head? I fucking don’t”. Jake then storms out of the office, slamming the door behind him, and disappears along the busy London street.

A storm is brewing. Something is going to blow.

Excerpt From: Richard Balls. “Be Stiff: The Stiff Records Story.” iBooks. 

Excerpt From: Richard Balls. “Be Stiff: The Stiff Records Story.” iBooks. 

Freebie and the Bean (1974)

 

Hooked: Addiction and the Long Road to Recovery by Paul Merson with Rob Bagchi (Headline 2021)

 

'Still,’ I thought, ‘who goes to the World Cup from the league I’m in?’

I did. To go to the World Cup when you’re not playing in the Premier League is a massive achievement, I realise now, and I owe it all to Glenn. I remember Ray Parlour saying to me after he’d just won the Double at Arsenal in 1998 and wasn’t getting a look-in with England, that Arsène rang Glenn to ask why. They knew each other from their time at Monaco together and he told Glenn that Ray was playing superbly, made a vital contribution to winning the Double and that he did not understand why he wasn’t involved. He turned to Ray after he put the phone down and said, ‘You’ve just got to hope he gets the sack.’ When Kevin Keegan came in, Ray played for England but I never got a call-up. Ray was no better in 2000 than he was in 1998, I was better in 2000 than I was two years earlier. It’s all about the manager. If he likes you, you’ve got a chance. If not . . . you’re stuffed.

Ray having a laugh with the lads about what he claimed to have said when he went to see Glenn’s faith healer Eileen Drewery – ‘short back and sides, please, Eileen’ – didn’t help. I went to Eileen with an open mind and liked her. I was struggling so badly with the gambling relapse, bottling it up and keeping it secret out of shame, that I would try anything. It had sent me into a deep depression, but I didn’t know that’s what it was. I’d be so down that I couldn’t get out of bed and the paranoia, which had never really gone away, ramped up. It seemed that everybody was looking at me, judging me. I thought, ‘I need something to work here.’ And whatever help was offered, I would try it. Eileen gave me that calmness, settled my raging doubts and was a big part of me being in the right frame of mind to go out to La Manga with the squad of twenty-eight, which was to be cut to twenty-two after the warm-up games.

It was an odd week. Too many of us felt on trial and I was convinced I’d be one of the six who wouldn’t make it to the World Cup. I don’t know why Glenn did it that way, it was unsettling and there was an air of tension. I expect Glenn thought it would keep everyone on their toes, but most players were a bag of nerves. He wasn’t the best man-manager, at times he became impatient when a player couldn’t do what he wanted. Because he could still play, he often joined in and demonstrated something by doing it himself. After a while players get frustrated with that, a bit jealous. If he had been better at handling people and hadn’t said all that weird stuff about disabled people and karma, he would still be England manager now. No one could touch him as a tactician.