Nick Kent - Apathy for the Devil

Nick Kent, Apathy for the Devil (Faber)

It has long seemed to me, if it could actually ever matter, that the decades that pop music should be divided end in 5's and not zeros. Thus, the fifties were 1955-64; the 60's began in 1965 and the 70's in 1975, etc. Not that anyone should care beyond the professors of pop culture, except that it means this 'memoir of the 70's' crosses a divide between two eras rather than reporting from the front-line of one distinct period. The 70's began with end of the 60's, progressive rock and glam and then found itself in punk.

Although it wasn't necessarily music that was Nick Kent's main concern. By all means, he works for the NME and interviews some of the big names of the day but the more dominant concern of this account is hard drugs. And, then, having written his music paper reviews, he sems to find himself getting beaten up more than seems reasonable. Finding him here published by Faber, I'm not sure how often that would have happened to stablemates T.S. Eliot or Philip Larkin.

He suffers bodily harm at the hands of various punks and has scrapes or just avoids them with Led Zeppelin, Bob Marley and, most alarmingly, the Bee Gees. While we were enjoying the efforts of all the songsters and hit parade merchants in the 70's, thinking they were all just Jimmy Saville's best friends, guys'n'gals, it was actually a predatory industry run by gangsters and fixers, like Zeppelin's Peter Grant or an apparently inept little git called Malcolm McLaren.

Kent's best mate, as a hanger-on on the music scene, was Iggy Pop but he reports on spending time with many big acts. Rod Stewart is given the biggest endorsement as good company and from there, it's downhill all the way. The Rolling Stones are all but over after Exile on Main Street due to Keith Richard's devotion to heroin and the books title is taken from a Bob Dylan quote when asked what he thought of the Stones in the mid-70's. Bowie is 'lightning' clever; Bolan charming when he thinks it will get him somewhere but the lasting impression of the period from Kent's point of view is of a dark hangover period from the sixties, with the grim reaper collecting a great harvest as the excesses took effect.

How much of it one believes, given Kent's drug intake, is a matter for the individual conscience but, in fact as the book progresses it's almost possible to start feeling sympathy with his views and personality if not for his helpless condition. It's not until the Afterword, when his story is brought up to date that you realize with a sort of dull thud how he could take such a dim view of the drug-taking of Sid Vicious, John Bonham, Keith Richards and all and yet describe his own. He eventually got better after casually wandering into a village church near Swindon some years later.

What I wanted from the book was only more anecdotes like those excerpted in the weekend newspapers. And there are some worth having, like Dickey Betts, guitarist with the All man Brothers,

Apparently he'd been out riding his Harley one day when he became peckish. Seeing a bull grazing in a field, he'd stopped his bike, ambled over to the animal, beat it to death with his bare hands and then cooked it and ate it before casually returning to his vehicle and speeding off again.

It's not all quite such good fun, though. Kent is not a great writer but companionable enough and he's not primarily a music critic but a part of the 'scene', as interested if not more so, in its attitudes, styles and careers. His valuations, tastes and opinions seem mostly well-judged, though. I just hadn't realized that the period of pop music I had enjoyed the most, being then of the right age to do so, was quite so dark and hellish for others.