A musical book has just been published that, I dare say, could enchant all audiences. Or at least, to those who enjoyed The conspiracy of fools, by John Kennedy Toole. Although the fictional Ignatius J. Reilly falls short of the bitumen in geekery compared to the very real protagonist of Superstar of the streets. A year with Lawrenceby Will Hodgkinson (Contra Publishing).
Lawrence Hayward (he gave up the last name, for reasons that can be deduced from the book) led memorable groups such as Felt and Denim, in the current century he has continued with Go-Kart Mozart and Mozart Estate. It’s not Modesto, but it requires some deification to be a cult artist for 45 years. Without the desire to be marginal, eh, but suffering misfortunes not always attributable to their inclusion in the independent branch of the record business. Painful example: on September 1, 1997, Denim was going to publish—with EMI distribution—the song Summer Smashwhich many predicted would be the push for Lawrence to leave the shadow zone. The song portrayed the state of happiness or, oh, carefreeness that we identify with “the song of summer,” but the title could also mean “the crash of summer.” The day before, the accident in which Princess Diana died occurred in Paris. Shocked, EMI canceled the release of Summer Smash and shredded all copies of the single that were still in their warehouses.
The value of Superstar of the streets. A year with Lawrence It goes beyond the celebration of a persistent artist. Will Hodgkinson is an unruly journalist and decides to visit with Lawrence the essential places in his career, looking for keys to his lyrics and his idiosyncrasies. As a rebound, it offers us the texture of that England outside the tourist circuit: urban planning, architecture, interior design, parks. A very selective consumer, although on the verge of penury, Lawrence guides him through markets, supermarkets, and fashion stores. The latter is problematic: the singer and his sidekick raise the suspicion of shop assistants and security guards.
They verify that the potential client does not have a credit card and that he has a prehistoric Nokia mobile phone (they would be even more horrified if they knew that he had no computer or internet connection). He doesn’t look very healthy either, as his diet seems to consist of cups of tea and sweets, with a particular obsession with licorice. In short, he seems like a textbook cursed artist: ex-junkie, revered in France, musically erudite, pathologically evasive, misogynistic in practice, reluctant to share credits (and money). Years ago they consecrated their status with a documentary, Lawrence Of Belgravia.
We run the risk of mythologizing it. There is a temptation to see a moronic genius there, if the adjective were not loaded with negative connotations. Let’s better say that, leaving aside his genius, such foolishness surpasses us. Takes LSD just before a decisive concert. Remove the lid of your toilet so that no visitors use it. He makes his band beat themselves up in cars after performing in, say, Scotland: he doesn’t want to stay in hotels. Comments one of his long-suffering musicians: “Lawrence feeds on his failures. “I have the feeling that he doesn’t want to be a star until he’s dead.” Granted, the devil would respond.