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Will Be It Funny Tomorrow Billy?
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Stephen Cummings' rock 'n' roll memoir. By Des Cowley.
There was a time when I used to run into Steve Cummings all the time in Melbourne and though I didn’t really know him, it gave me the illusion of knowing him. That is, until I read this book, and then I realised I didn’t know him at all.
In the face of the evidence before me, I am forced to acknowledge that Steve is far weirder and more interesting than I’d ever given him credit for.
Like a Morrissey or Elvis Costello, Cummings has always been a bit of a wordsmith, whether in song or the two previous novels he’s published.
So it comes as no real surprise to discover that this autobiography – subtitled ‘Misadventures In Music’ – is a rollicking good read. Without wanting to elevate Cummings beyond his station, there’s a touch of Bob Dylan’s Chronicles about the way he approaches his life and career. Like Bob, Cummings sidesteps the more usual chronological fare, choosing instead to focus intensely upon certain moments to the exclusion of others. At first glance, this approach can look arbitrary; but make no mistake, there’s serious art going on here behind the artifice.
From an early age, music was everything to Cummings. He was right there when Melbourne’s burgeoning music scene took off in 1970s, playing firstly with the Pelaco Brothers, and then with the mighty Sports.
Cummings rightly believes the Sports should have conquered the world, but his self-confessed control-freak personality, combined with head-on clashes with Mushroom chief Michael Gudinski, ended that dream once and for all. But along the way there were recordings in London for Stiff Records, tours with Graham Parker and the Rumour, and the almost obligatory disastrous tour of the US. Years later, there would be the Countdown reunion tour, an event that brings to mind Karl Marx’s famous quote about history repeating itself.
What is most likely to take the reader aback is Cummings’ outspoken and judgmental attitude to fellow musicians. Nowhere is this more apparent than in his bizarre chapter on Nick Cave, a curious mix of sarcasm and spite. But Cummings eventually turns it back on himself, using his rancour to expose his own feeble jealousies: “Do you know what I can’t get my head around? The idea that he sells millions of albums and I don’t.”
If Cummings is hard on those around him, he reserves his harshest judgments for himself. I wondered whether this book shouldn’t come with a warning sticker, something along the lines of “spending too much time inside Stephen Cummings’ head may not be good for your health”. So sensitive is he to nuance, to the fraught vagaries of everyday social interaction, that I found myself having mild anxiety attacks on his behalf while reading the book. But in the end, Cummings finds his own consolation, feeling “lucky that I get to make my music, spend time at home and read.” I could think of worse ways to spend my time.
Cummings has written a book that is honest, amusing and at times a little sad. And next time I run into him in some deserted Melbourne back street, just the two of us, I’ll damn well tell him so.
Available at the Greville Street Bookstore grevbook@bigpond.net.au
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