31 Songs by Nick Hornby

I once very briefly met the writer Nick Hornby and I mean briefly in
every sense of the word. Our eyed exchange lasted seven seconds exactly
and all that I could respond with was a shaky nod and a muffled 'cheers
mate'. It was enough though, a perfect moment for this late thirties'
romantic, twitchy obsessive.


I was working in Islington at the time and not particularly
having a good day at the office. I went to the local independent record
shop (Wood Music, Cross Street, N1, no longer there, sadly) in an
attempt to lift myself out of my red wine-induced fog. Fingering
through the racks I came across an album that had reached a kind a
mythical status over the last five years of the nineties. The album,
'Dave Godin's Deep Soul Treasures Vol 1', was in my anxious hands. I
was being untypical, indecisive even (there was the very beautiful and
expensive Nick Drake box set on display, leering at me with a cheeky
wink for crying out loud) and so I asked the shop assistant to play the
first couple of tracks. He obliged, of course (record shop people love
this, it turns them into god). The songs were great, my feet wanted to
shuffle. Standing next at the counter was a gruff, intense man who
perked up from his copy of Mojo and stated with absolute conviction
that 'it's a fine album mate and you can't really go wrong buying it'.
The shop assistant agreed, 'Yeah, Nick is right; he knows a thing or
two about this kind of stuff.'. My credit card never left my wallet so
sharply.


Now, the above story may seem a little trite. A kind of 'Hi
Fidelity' moment. I still think that I can dine out on it, but it's apt
and relevant when examining Nick Hornby's recent offering, titled '31
Songs'.


'31 Songs' is a short book. The premise is in the title.
Thirty-one pieces of music that mean something to the author divided
into bite size chapters as if vinyl singles stacked up on an old
Dansette. At first the reader possibly thinks that the songs are chosen
randomly, that the reasons for the choices are a box of assorted
chocolates containing only favourites, but after repeated readings, and
then maybe some listening to the listed songs, a pattern does appear.
Early on in the book, Hornby states that the songs have not been chosen
as memories or meditations but strictly at face value. He wants to talk
about each the songs only in the terms of the music. He does do this
with the first six or seven songs but as the book progresses other
factors come into play; previous books that he has written, fatherhood,
middle age and the nature of Englishness, but the back story (the
backbeat even) is always the music.


The book opens with the Bruce Springsteen elegy 'Thunder
Road'. The song's mythology and optimism are celebrated. The fact that
England will never be America and that it is never too late to change.
The reader feels that this song will forever be alive in Hornby's head,
that this is much more than just a pop song, more than just nostalgia,
a statement of intent perhaps, carried around like a shiny flick
knife.


The flipside to this is the chapter dedicated to the Nelly
Furtado song 'I'm Like a Bird'. Hornby recognises this as a classic pop
song, a song with all the right ingredients, a shiny vocal, steady pace
and an addictive hook line. Hornby also notices that like all the best
pop music, he will grow weary of it and will have no use for it once he
has 'worked it out'. Pop music can sometimes be as disposable as razors
once it has done its little job on you.


Hornby lays his chest bare when examining the song 'Puff the
Magic Dragon' by Gregory Isaacs. This nursery rhyme of a song is given
the full reggae treatment and when hearing it for the first time many
listeners will fail to see the attraction. Reading the chapter in the
book, the reader realises that it is a favourite song of Hornby's
autistic son and that it is very important to him indeed. This chapter
moves the whole book into a new arena. It takes a real risk here and it
pays off in spades. This chapter could have been syrupy and potentially
might have had the reader looking for their Nirvana albums and reaching
for the volume control, but it does not, it's delicately balanced and
perfectly pitched. It falls on the side of right, just. Frequently
throughout this book, Hornby attempts to convince the reader that pop
music is the most valid of art forms. He pursues the theory that a
three-minute wonder can evoke a physical reaction (Teenage Fanclub: You
Love the Place Where I Come From), or can make you sob like it's your
last moment on earth whilst swaying (Ben Folds Five: Smoke). With 'Puff
the Magic Dragon' music is used as a therapy, a key to unlock life
itself.


Hornby has always written with a style that is direct and
perhaps simple. He is like some of the songs he loves, pure pop. This
style of writing is used to convincing effect when he looks at the song
'Reasons to be Cheerful, Part 3' by Ian Dury and the Blockheads. This
song is buried in funk, it could have been recorded in New Orleans, but
Dury's vocal is straight out of Kilburn. The lyrics celebrate quirky
Englishness in a list, an example is illustrated below.


'Something nice to study, phoning up a buddy
Being in my nuddy
Saying hokey-dokey, singalonga Smokey
Coming out of chokey'


Hornby's writing here is taut and convincing, you feel his
enthusiasm and joy for the song. If you are English, or maybe have an
understanding of Englishness, you shuffle and sweat along with all the
contradictions flagged up here. It's a little like being hit by conkers
thrown by a naughty schoolboy wearing Ivy League clobber and
loafers.


There is a chapter that does not quite cut the mustard. An
oddity. Nick Hornby tries to go for the nostalgic, emotional jugular.
The song in question is 'Needle in a Haystack' by the The Velvelettes.
This Motown floor filler is used here to express good times gone by and
good times never to return. Hornby used to dance to this track in his
late thirties in a club called 'Locomotion' in London. Now he doesn't.
He tries to make the reader feel guilty for him being middle aged, that
somehow we will never dance again. It sits uncomfortably amongst all
the pleasure, especially when you re-read the opening chapter on Bruce
Springsteen.


'31 Songs' could be construed as a slight book on first
perusal. It's about obsession sometimes, sure, and it is just one man's
view on the whole canon of popular music. Nick Hornby could have
written a book about a thousand songs and must have been tempted; it's
a good thing he did not, it would have read like a sermon. This is a
fun book, but, if you take the chapters out of the sleeves and put the
book on the record player, you will only find some fluff on the needle
and very few scratches that will make you irritable. This book
encourages you to listen and make choices. It also wants you to argue
with yourself and with others about what is good and bad. I have been
making lists of my important songs ever since finishing it. It has made
me think about why I love and loathe things, not just songs either, but
books, clothes, food, music reviewers, the people close to me and those
not so close.


I once met Nick Hornby in a record shop in Islington (have I
mentioned that already?). He told me about a good album and I bought
it. There is a whole chapter on the greatness of that record shop in
the book, which came as a personal, pleasured surprise when I read it.
The chapter concerns song recommendations given to Nick Hornby by the
owner, and not recommendations force-fed by commercial radio play lists
or payola-induced disk jockeys with a grand idea of their
self-importance.


Perhaps this is the way the world ought to be
sometimes.


Oh, and by the way, some of the songs chosen in this book are
rubbish, ok.