'How long is the pattern going to speak for you?'

On 'RUOK Day' I looked in the mirror and decided to be honest with myself. I came to understand that I really, really wasn't OK and the effort of pretending otherwise wore me down even further. Losing my Mum and adapting to life without her was a significant part of that, but the truth is I've felt like shit (mentally) ever since the debacle of my Masters in 2005. This became normal to me because I never confronted or resolved it. I just tried to soldier on as best I could. I didn't want to hurt or upset people I loved by letting them see anything was wrong, so I went through the motions. Day after day, week after week and year after year, I painted on a brave face and tried to convince myself I was fine. I hoped my belief would help create the reality, but it was like treating a brain tumour with a bandaid.

For all my bluster and bravado, I have little confidence in my ability to do anything much. Whenever I succeed or achieve on any level, even with the simplest of everyday tasks, no-one is more surprised than I am. I've tried to sort out my silly old brain once before, and I found that process useful in the short term, but it only helped with the symptoms rather than the cause because I couldn't admit what the real problem was.

I'm tired of feeling this way and I'm tired of disappointing myself and others with constant subconscious sabotage. At present I use about a tenth of my ability because I don't trust myself to let loose and find out what I'm really capable of. Fear is to blame for this and, while I'll never eliminate it, I can and will learn to push on in spite of it rather than hide behind it.  I have big plans over the next few years and, if I want them to succeed, I need to face my many demons and take the buggers down. They, whoever They are, say 'behind every cynic is a disappointed idealist'. I am determined to dig mine out of his shallow grave, dust him down and let him breathe again. He's not dead, he's just restin'. Or possibliy pinin' for the fjords.   

'Tonight we're gonna let the music do most of the talking.'

Prone as I am to muse on this sort of thing, I find myself thinking about bands with a niche or cult following who've taken a risk on the support they have to try for a hit or a wider audience across the board. Who failed, who succeeded and how did that success affect the rest of their careers?

Several examples come to mind. Gene Simmons said in 1992 that 'radio never really gave a shit' about KISS. That was true, until they decided to soften their approach and had a go at a sound that, like tying an onion to your belt, was the style at the time. The result, despite still being one of their most popular songs today, alienated a lot of fans. Never mind that the rest of its parent album sounds as much like KISS as ever to my ears, and eight ninths of it has better drumming than anything that came before.

Thirty plus years after its release, Owner Of A Lonely Heart remains one of my favourite Yes songs. I was six at the time and I now know a bit more about how the band are 'supposed' to sound. I'll be damned if I don't still love that riff though.

Metallica's Black Album was huge, and deservedly so. Unfortunately its success gave them musical schizophrenia and everything since sounds like a second guess. They tried and failed to move with the times (though Load and Reload have a handful of good songs between them), the less said about St Anger the better and, while Death Magnetic was a good stab at getting back to their roots, it felt more like an attempt to appease the fans than genuine inspiration.

Queensryche's Empire arguably got it right. Less a simplification than a streamlining of the band's sound, it's a distillation of everything they did well that somehow landed them on the radio and earned them a much bigger audience. It brought them the success they always wanted, yet very nearly destroyed them. The tour schedule was punishing, and one listen to Promised Land will give you a fair insight into their headspace afterwards.

Aerosmith forsook their late sixties blues rock roots when they cleaned up their collective act and launched a comeback with Permanent Vacation in 1987. The polished, MTV friendly sound of that album and the two that followed was intended to ape the Def Leppard/Bon Jovi model and no doubt left fans of the older material scratching their heads. In commercial terms it made little difference, and today the band are better known for that dreadful ballad on the Armageddon soundtrack than any of the records they built their early sound and reputation on.

At the other end of the scale (ha!) there are old warhorses like AC/DC and Iron Maiden, who know what works best for them, understand what their fans expect and deliver it, year on year and tour on tour, no questions asked. Despite an ever changing lineup, Maiden's American cousins Iced Earth also fit this description. Main composer and rhythm guitarist Jon Schaffer builds his songs around variations of the same descending riff, often to the point where it sounds like he plays it in a different key each time and hopes no-one will notice. I do, and it doesn't stop me buying or enjoying their music. 

I suppose it depends how you define success, and how far you're able to 'sell out' and respect yourself in the morning. I'll know I've crossed the point of no return if I ever include romantic elements in my fiction for their own sake. To me that sort of thing is no more than a sign of lazy writing, and shows the author hasn't bothered to think of a more interesting or worthwhile source of conflict for his or her characters to face and resolve. In my days as a fan of The X-Files, I had no patience for or understanding of those who clamoured for Mulder and Scully to have 'a relationship'. They already had one, you dolts, and to me their bond was far more significant and enduring than if they'd been a couple. Pairing those two off to believe and disbelieve happily ever after makes about as much sense as Black Sabbath releasing a country and western album, but perhaps somewhere there's an alternate reality where that's already happened. The mind boggles.    

'The writer stares with glassy eyes, defies the empty page...'

How much do an author's views affect your opinion of their work? I was thinking about this earlier today and then, by pure coincidence, got into conversation about it. My correspondent mentioned she was a big fan of Roald Dahl as a kid, but feels conflicted as an adult because 'apparently he was a raging anti-Semite'. His books meant the world to me when I was a little boy, and seemed a lot more real than maths or geography lessons. I see no reason why his politics should change my opinion of his writing today.

Similarly, H P Lovecraft's racism appalls me. His prejudices and phobias are all through his writing (who wants to bet Cthulhu looks the way he does because our boy Howard really, really didn't like shellfish?) and I simply can't agree with the way he portrays races other than his own, but dammit if his stories aren't great, unforgettable works that helped reinvent a genre.

I am, as is commonly known, a great fan of Clive Barker. His views on sexuality are a big influence on the way he represents 'the other' in his plays, stories, paintings, novels and films, which is why he tends to focus on the miraculous side as much as the monstrous. I approach his work in much the same way I do David Cronenberg's early movies. As a person with a disability born into a body that doesn't work properly, the process of transformation or becoming something beyond the self fascinates me. Usually in horror (at its core a very reactionary genre) people fear this and struggle against it. I say why not embrace it as the opportunity it is?

That's me projecting my perspective all over the place, and using it as a neat little segue into talking about my own stuff. My writing is full of people who, for one reason or another, don't quite fit into the mainstream workaday world. They observe society and exist on its fringes, but can never quite bring themselves to join in. They react to the sense of not belonging in ways I never would, and their responses often make sense to no-one but them, but there's always a rationale behind the behaviour

For years I thought this was due to all the Ruth Rendell I read in my twenties. The late and much lamented Baroness was and will remain a huge influence on everything I write within the crime genre, but there are other factors at play and I have a dear friend to thank for bringing them to light. During one of our very long lunches, said friend pointed out that I'd been writing about myself. Before I could either deny everything, make light of it or swiftly change the subject, I realised she had a point. I don't belong in the able bodied world or in the disabled world and I doubt I'd ever feel entirely at home in either. Instead I am compelled to carve out a niche in the spaces between them, taking things I like from both and using them for my own benefit, education or pleasure.

Long after I'm dead and students are complaining bitterly about having to read my books as part of their English courses, I hope their teachers will bear all this in mind while also treating my stories as the simple entertainments I intend them to be. Any creative work worth its salt should function on a number of levels, and I will do my utmost to ensure mine are no exception. My politics don't enter the equation because I don't have any, but my experiences and reflections on them colour every word. That's unavoidable, but the stories owe it to themselves and their readers to stand on their own merits without prior knowledge of the author's life or mindset.

'I am being diminished, whittled away piece by piece, great chunks of my past detaching themselves like melting icebergs.'

News of Ruth Rendell's death on Saturday morning (UK time) did not come as a surprise after her stroke in January, but it hit me very hard. I have read her novels and short stories for half my life and drawn the kind of inspiration from them that no other author ever offered me. Her insights into damaged psyches and fractured, unhealthy relationships encouraged my fictional obsession with same and explains the frequent presence of both in my clumsy attempts at writing. I still have Val McDermid, Minette Walters and countless other favourites, but a world with no more Inspector Wexford mysteries, stand alone psychological thrillers or labyrinthine Barbara Vine novels where a secret past casts long shadows over the present will take some getting used to.

In 1997, as an angry young man of twenty, I devoted half of a misbegotten Honours thesis to Rendell's work. What a wasted opportunity that turned out to be. No-one explained to me that I needed to include some elements of the theoretical studies I mocked so relentlessly. If they had, and if my supervisor had been any use at all, I might have dug deeper into the minds of Freud, Jung and Adler and traced their influence on the young Rendell. A psychoanalytical interperation, even from an amateur, would have been a far worthier response than the glorified book review I eventually submitted.

My fondness for Rendell's writing endured in spite of this, and each new or hitherto unread novel or volume of short stories soon found a place in my collection. They became family affairs too. Between stretches in hospital when she could do little else but sit in her armchair and read, Nanna would devour the books at a rate of knots, often guessing whodunit within a few chapters. Later on Mum asked me for a few recommendations to read in bed and, in those rare moments when she could tear herself away from the radio, we discussed my choices over dinner. There was never any shortage of Rendell material around the house. Most birthdays and Christmases brought with them either a new release or a reprint of an old favourite I'd borrowed from the library but never owned.

All of those books, and many more, are now piled on the floor of what was once my bedroom. I cleared out my bookshelf so it could be moved into my present sleeping quarters. Sometime between now and doomsday, I need to decide which ones to keep, which to sell and which to donate to St Philip's next Autumn Fair or book sale. Parting with Ruth Rendell's near complete body of work won't be easy because each story has a memory attached to it, even if the twists and turns of the plots have long since blurred into each other.

The most treasured of all those memories is the author's signature inside the front cover of The Rottweiler.  I went to see Ruth Rendell at Adelaide Writers' Week in 2004, and it was a privilege to be in the presence of one of my most important role models if only for a few minutes. She was quite reserved and didn't talk to readers individually in the signing queue, but getting her autograph was and is a very big deal.

I have smaller but no less significant memories of my other Rendell books. Inscriptions like 'To Stephen, Love Mum 22/9___' or 'To Stephen, Love From Nanna 25/12___' carry more weight today than they did at the time, and that's not the sort of thing you can transfer over when you get all the ebooks and put them on your iPad.

I'd like to finish on a lighter note in the words of Baroness Rendell of Babergh herself, who once said she overcame her fear of getting police procedure wrong 'largely by leaving it out'. I think there's a good lesson in that for all of us who sweat blood over the finer details of who does what at a crime scene.

      
  

'Can you help me occupy my brain?'

I've been doing some pretty intensive physio sessions over the last few weeks, with the aim of building confidence and improving my wheelchair skills. Today I completed a pivot transfer from wheelchair to standing position to standard chair in twenty seconds. I then wheeled around to the other side of the parallel bars and tried the same thing from a different angle. I couldn't do it without help, a few false starts and much bad language.

For the rest of today I have inwardly fumed about my failure instead of being happy with my success. Like a stone thrown into a river, that thought pattern created ripples and I came to understand I've been doing this my whole life. Instead of feeling satisfied and acknowledging opportunities for improvement, I think of things only as I believe they should be and punish myself long and hard because I think I've fallen short. I can't begin a piece of writing just to see where it goes and enjoy the ride. I hone and polish every word in search of some impossible and unknowable ideal. In doing that I choke the life and soul out of it, and rob myself of any joy that may come from the act of creating.

Rather than reflect on the last eighteen months and acknowledge all the progress I've made since my mother died, I dwell on the reason why I had to make those changes and feel miserable and alone. I would like to think of myself as a phoenix rising from the ashes of a life altering tragedy, but that's hard to do after nearly forty years of looking through the wrong end of the telescope. I can do things today that would have seemed impossible to me a year ago, but I rarely celebrate or give thanks for that because I'm too busy obsessing over what I haven't yet done, or believe I can't.

To flog a not quite dead but not at all well horse, I'm convinced that if I ever let anyone outside my family get close enough to love me, I'd spend so much time taking the relationship apart to see how it works that I wouldn't be able to enjoy it for what it was or give my all in return for the affection offered. My old buddy Socrates is reputed to have said 'the unexamined life is not worth living', and I'm beginning to realise the same could be said of a life that's both overexamined and underappreciated.

Because it's human nature to categorise and to label, I've given my tendency to dissect and examine every little thing a name. I call it 'writer brain', and its most obvious symptom is a chronic inability to live in the moment. Seldom can I relax and let myself take pleasure, or any emotion, in anything because there's always a corner of my mind that demands ''what am I thinking right now? What am I feeling? How would I describe this? What would character X, Y or Z do in the same situation? Why?' On and on it goes. Questions without number and self-criticism without end.

I need, as the prayer says, serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can and wisdom enough to know the difference. I would also benefit from talking with someone in a professional capacity about this, but the only person I ever trusted enough to do that has moved on and I no longer know where to reach her. A fellow Metallica fan, she once told me 'no matter how bad you think what you've written is, it will always be better than St Anger.' It's hard to argue with that.

'But every time you fall you get yo' ass in a sling...'

Would someone explain to me, please, how not being able to sleep or think straight, feeling sick all the time and having your entire mental and psychological state depend on the next email or text message from your pedestal-seated beloved is considered not only a normal part of life but wonderful enough to write endless stories and songs about? I let it happen to me nine years ago, and even the memory scares the living hell out of me. I didn't fall into that pit by accident, I jumped without a parachute and was naive enough to think I could land unscathed. Fortunately I managed to climb out, but it took a very long time and made me all the more determined to avoid a repeat performance.

That accounts for why I've locked all past tender feelings, and the possibility of any future ones, away in an emotional strongbox and will never let them out again, but it doesn't help me understand why some people, having come to the end of one relationship, are so keen to pair off with someone else without taking time out to consider what they've learned. Is being alone really so frightening that they'll 'hook up', as the young people say, with a new partner before the scars of severing their ties with the previous one have healed?

While it's true my atttude to these things at times appears more Vulcan than human, I'll admit I'm not as much of a solitary creature as I always thought I'd be. At times I get very lonely, more so than I ever believed I could, but I'd rather put up with that than risk getting involved with the wrong person just to avoid it and face a world of pain when it all blows up in my face. The single life seems like the lesser of two evils and, unlike Mae West, I'm not brave enough to pick the one I never tried before.  

 

'One of us, one of us' (gooba-gobble...)

To what extent are those of a particular religion, race or minority obliged to be spokespeople for that group or culture? Several of my online correspondents are Jewish, and one or two of them have a deep interest in matters relating to the Holocaust. I wonder how much of this is due their own family history or a 'shared' memory of something that had a disastrous effect on others of the same faith? 

Similarly, many women, LGBTQ people and those of other races or religions have fought for recognition and equality through the years. Should those who come after them feel a duty to carry on the struggle even if they don't have any direct experience of the discrimination or prejudice their forebears suffered? 

I ask this as someone with a disability who's been lucky enough not to have to spend my whole life thinking of myself as disabled. It's a part of who I am, yes, but it doesn't define me. I went to school with several kids who grew up into the sort of people who defined themselves by what they weren't and, as a result, were encouraged to have no higher ambitions than to become statistics. 

I saw even more of this during the years I 'worked' as an advocate for people with disabilities. Yes, you're entitled to this payment, that subsidy or whatever, but is that really all you want? My enthusiasm and idealism for the job evaporated very quickly because I couldn't relate to many of the situations I had to deal with. I could empathise as easily as the next guy, but I felt like a hypocrite because I'd never experienced any grave social injustices first hand. Or maybe I had, I just chose not to let them bring me down. I bumbled through an unremarkable life as best I could, I made do and mended and I adapted where possible. That was all I felt able to do at the time, and I had little or no desire to rock the boat.

Since I began to use a wheelchair, arguably thirty plus years too late, I've come to understand I should have made a lot more noise, and educated myself better about what my needs are and how to meet them. For every new opportunity I may explore, there's at least one obstacle that those with functional lower limbs, or more advanced wheelchair skills than me 'umble self, won't have to face. I'm very, very late to the equal access party. Or, if you like, I've come in halfway through the service and have to read the words out of someone else's prayer book because I didn't have the foresight either to bring my own or pick one up from the back table on my way through.

If I am to live out the rest of my span in the manner to which I hope to become accustomed, I owe it to myself to learn all I can about what's available to me and make the most of it. My circumstances are not what they once were, and I now have the opportunity to play more of a role in the grand scheme of things than I've ever allowed myself to imagine before. I have the freedom, the resources and the will to make that happen. What I lack is knowledge, experience and skills. As Socrates once said, 'true wisdom comes to each of us when we realise how little we understand about life, ourselves and the world around us.'

Lost In Translation

Why do so many attempts to turn books and short stories go from bad to downright unwatchable? How does the good intention of bringing something from page to screen so often result in total disaster?

I understand books and movies are different media with their own rules and regulations, but that doesn't stop the pain when I witness a story I love, and therefore have a lot of emotional investment in, turned into a complete dog's breakfast.

I would hope the people who write, produce and direct big screen versions of best selling and/or much loved books want to do a good job, but too often something goes awry. Why, for example, would anyone change the ending of My Sister's Keeper? Jodi Picoult can't have been too pleased about that. I wouldn't be if it happened to something of mine.

My knowledge of the movie business is limited, and I'd appreciate some insight into the thought process. More adaptations than I can count seem to me like they've read the blurb on the back cover of the book, spun a whole new story off it and made the movie from that. If you're not going to respect the source material and the people who created it, why bother? Why insult them and their readers with something that misrepresents the story they know?

Prose writers can and often do use the classic Hollywood three act structure in their work. I've tried it myself and it's very helpful when plotting, so there goes that hurdle. Writers also like to be as involved as possible when bringing their work to celluloid, but very few of them have that chance.

Look at Stephen King and Ray Bradbury, both great writers who've had far too much of their hard work turned into terrible movies. Why does this happen? They can't be so hard up financially that they'll sign any old contract to help them pay the gas bill. Why don't they, or their estate in Bradbury's case, have more say in who does what and how?

After he got burned a couple of times, Clive Barker was determined for this not to happen again and he took the director's chair himself. The success of Hellraiser proved him right for a while, until the studio suits and the MPAA set their hearts on turning Nightbreed into a travesty, then blamed him when it failed.

I am both a control freak and a shocking collaborator, so it's very unlikely any of my stuff will ever make it to the small or large screen. Having said that, I might one day be very tempted to sell the rights to my work to the highest bidder. My namesake Gabrielle Lord, who I've met twice, made enough out of the movie version of her debut novel Fortress to flee a failed marriage and make a new start. Changed ending or not, a similar arrangement might just help fund my long held dream of disappearing for a while and wiping the slate clean.

An addendum to my rant of January 25th

On Christmas Eve 2006, I found myself locked out of the house in the small hours of the morning and had one of those 'oh God, is this all my life is ever going to be?' moments. Soon thereafter, I had a vision of myself with twin daughters (Eleanor Victoria and Nathalie Joanna) who would get double firsts at Oxford and make their old man even more impossibly proud by playing Man On The Silver Mountain and Temple Of The King on viola and harpsichord at the village fair.

I laboured under this delusion for a couple of years until my friends started to reproduce. I went to someone's house for a Sunday lunch and was surrounded by babies and toddlers. They shuffled about like drunken midgets, bumped into things and broke them, screamed like banshees whenever they fell over, puked, shat and peed all over the place and poked their sticky little fingers into EVERYTHING.

The above was the stuff of nightmares for a neat freak like m'self, and I realised it would only get worse from there if I had children of my own. I'd have to feed, clothe, discipline and educate the little buggers for at least eighteen years, cook for them, clean up after them, answer their endless questions and try not to strangle them all the while.

That seems like a pretty tall order for someone who can barely look after himself, and from there it was only a hop, skip and jump to the realisation that not only did I not want kids, I didn't even like them. If nothing else, being a parent is so permanent. You can't send them back for a refund if you change your mind and, if you stuff up, which I almost certainly would, that one mistake or lapse in judgement will affect them for the rest of their lives.

So, long story slightly less so, no kids for me. I'm quite happy to be remembered through the books I will write, mostly about people like me who hover around the edges of society and can't quite make sense of it all, and the English Lit courses I will teach once I'm qualified to do that. I want to be part Socrates and part Alice Cooper with a dash of Dead Poet's Society. In short, the cool tutor everyone hopes they get, who will blow their minds by encouraging them to think about the books and films they already love in ways they never considered before.

I will chase that dream at the expense of everything else and go anywhere in the world to make it come true. Compromising it, or giving it up altogether for the sake of a partner and a family, isn't an option, nor would I expect anyone to give up or change her plans and ambitions so she could be with me while I follow mine. That isn't fair.

To quote my old pal Clive Barker, 'personal relationships have their place but everything is put aside for work. To me, the idea of a wife and children is a millstone, getting between me and the things I want to do. My most intimate relationship is with my imagination. It always has been. My imagination is the one thing that I really like about myself. It is the longest one night stand I've ever had. And it has never let me down. Yet.'

I may die alone. I believe we all do no matter who is with us at the time, but I sure as hell won't die forgotten.

Signal To Noise

I went to see some old friends on Boxing Day and came home with a bag full of horror DVDs, which I've watched sporadically. Some are great, some good and some awful, but that's another topic for another post. Or several.

One of many things I've noticed about films of this genre in recent years is an over reliance on music to compensate for lazy writing or direction. Music can be, should be and has been used to evoke emotion and enrich the whole viewing experience but too often in contemporary horror, I find it telegraphs the scare moments from miles away and lessens their impact. Not only that, it also leads to the dreaded 'fake out' and case after case of directors crying wolf to milk every last moment of tension.

When music or special effects are done well, they complement the film rather than overwhelm it. Consider the violins in Psycho's shower scene, the snatches of Mike Oldfield's Tubular Bells in The Exorcist or pretty much any of the recurring themes in John Carpenter's better films like Halloween and The Thing. Aren't any or all of those so much more memorable than the constant CRASH! BANG! BOOM! that is today's standard horror soundtrack? 'Why is this orchestra following me up the stairs? Something scary's going to happen! Oh no!'

It's not just horror either. Modern cinema, and TV to a lesser extent, suffers from the need to make everything self consciously epic; to manipulate and exploit the viewer's mood rather than enhance it. Doctor Who is especially guilty of this. In the 70s, Dudley Simpson would write virtually the same score for every episode, complete with ascending scales whenever a monster appeared, and nobody complained or even noticed because we were caught up in the story. Nowadays every significant moment or ropey plot point ('quick, let's blow up the Earth's atmosphere. Again!') is accompanied by what sounds like a manic John Williams in hopes we'll buy into the manufactured drama and turn a blind eye to such poor storytelling.

'Morpheus, you have been summoned here to offer your judgement of the boy.'

I was asked to write this piece in 2012 as part of the 'NovElder' celebrations over at KISSFAQ. As that section of the website no longer exists, I am posting it here for posterity. Or, as the album's many detractors may suggest, out of my posterior.

As polarising and unpopular as Music From The Elder may be, I have loved it since I was a small boy and can trace my fascination back to a Sunday evening in early 1982, when I watched this and this on my grandparents' television. A World Without Heroes, co-written by Lou Reed, is my favourite song of all time.

                                             THE ELDER'S HEROIC JOURNEY

Thirty one years after its release, Music From The Elder has the dubious honour of being perhaps the most controversial entry in the KISS catalogue. Its birth and gradual evolution from the 'straight-on rock and roll that will knock your socks off' comeback Paul Stanley promised in late 1980 into the album we know today is as well documented as its makers will allow. Stanley, Gene Simmons, Ace Frehley and producer Bob Ezrin have been blisteringly candid about the record's making and perceived shortcomings, but no-one has shed much light on its attempt at a narrative. We know it began with a short story Simmons 'had written for the screen' but, in the wake of the project's spectacular failure, his reluctance to go into detail is as understandable as it is unfortunate.

In Chapter 22 of his KISS Album Focus, Julian Gill describes Music From The Elder as 'an obscure album built on an obscure premise.' The saga of a young boy who learns to overcome his doubts and gains the confidence he needs to fulfil his destiny might have broken new ground for a band who built their career on simple three chord party anthems, but the central themes are as old as stories themselves. Similar ideas appear in myths, legends and religions from all over the world. Again and again we meet heroes who must perform pre-ordained tasks and face a series of character building challenges as they do so.

Mythology expert and academic Joseph Campbell calls this process 'the hero's journey' and his 1949 book The Hero With A Thousand Faces has informed the work of everyone from Stanley Kubrick, George Lucas and JK Rowling to Bob Dylan, Jim Morrison and The Grateful Dead. Given Gene Simmons' fondness for movies and comic books, it's reasonable for him to have drawn some inspiration from it as well.

For all his influence, Campbell is not always easy to read. When Hollywood executive Christopher Vogler worked for Disney, he distilled the book's essence into a seven page memo, which he later used as the basis for his screenwriting manual The Writer's Journey: Mythic Structure For Writers. That structure breaks the journey down into twelve stages.

1. THE ORDINARY WORLD. An introduction to the hero through his or her everyday life.

2. THE CALL TO ADVENTURE. An external or internal challenge to the hero to step away from his or her comfort zone and play their part in the larger world.

3. REFUSAL OF THE CALL. The hero tries to turn away from the adventure, and often uses prior obligations as an excuse not to participate.

4. MEETING WITH THE MENTOR. The hero either meets someone who gives him or her training, equipment, or advice that will help on the journey, or reaches within to a source of courage and wisdom.

5. CROSSING THE THRESHOLD. The hero commits to leaving their ordinary world and entering a new region or condition with unfamiliar rules and values.

6. TESTS, ALLIES AND ENEMIES. A series of tests which enable the hero to learn who to trust on his or her journey

7. APPROACH TO THE INMOST CAVE. The hero and newfound allies prepare to face their major challenge.

8. THE ORDEAL. The hero enters a central space and confronts death or faces his or her greatest fear. Out of the moment of death comes either a new life or a new appreciation for their present one.

9. THE REWARD. The hero takes possession of the treasure he or she has won by facing death. There may be celebration, but also danger of losing the treasure.

10. THE ROAD BACK. The hero is driven to complete the adventure and bring the treasure home. Often a chase scene signals the urgency and danger in this part of the journey.

11. THE RESURRECTION. The hero faces another, more severe, test on the threshold of home. Another sacrifice, or moment of death and rebirth, purifies him or her on a higher level. The hero's actions resolve the polarities, internal and external, that were once in conflict.

12. RETURN WITH THE ELIXIR. The hero returns home or continues the journey, bearing some element of the treasure that can transform the world as the hero has been transformed.

Vogler goes on to identify the character archetypes the hero meets on his or her journey. These represent familiar patterns of human behaviour, which the examples below represent.

1. HEROES: Central figures in stories. Everyone is the hero of his or her own myth.

2. SHADOWS: Villains, antagonists or enemies, perhaps the enemy within. The hero's repressed possibilities or his or her potential for evil. This category may also include other destructive forces such as repressed grief, anger, frustration or creativity that is dangerous if it does not have an outlet.

3. MENTORS: The hero’s guide or guiding principles, such as an inspirational coach or teacher.

4. HERALD: One who brings the Call to Adventure, either a person or an event.

5. THRESHOLD GUARDIANS: Obstacles that block the hero's important turning points on their journey. These may be jealous enemies, professional gatekeepers, or the hero's own fears and doubts.

6. SHAPESHIFTERS: Vampires, werewolves or, in a less literal sense, double agents or defectors. These characters represent change or ambiguity, the way other people or our perceptions of them vary.

7. TRICKSTERS: Clowns and mischief-makers, who are often more perceptive than their public persona suggests (eg the Fool in King Lear). They reflect the hero's mischievous subconscious and urge them towards change for the better.

8. ALLIES: These characters help the hero to manage change. They may be sidekicks, buddies romantic partners who support and guide the hero through the transitions of life.

Many creative writing teachers, some of whom I've studied under, claim this model provides a foundation for any story worth telling. Anyone familiar with  Music From The Elder will recognise a few of the stages and characters I've listed above but, when evaluating how well the storyline ticks all the boxes, it's important to keep in mind that the album as released was the first volume of a trilogy that never saw the light of day. Had KISS completed parts two and three, the tale they attempted to spin might have reached a more satisfactory resolution, likely by following the dependable if predictable three act structure of most motion pictures. I could hypothesise forever on how the band might have gone about this, and I hope Seb Hunter's forthcoming film adaptation will fill in many of the blanks.

Painted in very broad strokes, Music From The Elder demonstrates a working knowledge of the heroic journey's early stages. After a portentious opening with Fanfare, Just A Boy shows us the anonymous protagonist's ordinary world, once a comfortable and familiar place now under threat from persons unknown. He wants to help save and protect it, yet has little or no confidence in his ability to do so ('I'm no hero/but I wish I could be').

To my ears, the earlier placing of Odyssey is one of few mistakes on the 1997 remaster. It's a track by an outside writer with no prior connection either to KISS or Bob Ezrin, and I can only suggest they chose it for theme rather than content. If Odyssey belongs anywhere, I would put it after Mr Blackwell and before I. It makes the most sense for the boy to have his moment of revelation after he returns from the mental and physical journey the song suggests he's undertaken.

Only You gets things back on track, offering both the call to adventure and its refusal. Our hero to be meets Morpheus, who explains his destiny in cryptic terms ('Only you have the answers/but the questions you have to find.') and suggests the biggest challenge he will face on his quest comes from within.

The boy, of course, will have none of it. He denies the caretaker's claims ('I can't believe this is true/why do I listen to you?') and wonders if they've chosen the right man for the job ('If I am all that you say/why am I still so afraid?').

Morpheus is an appropriate choice of name for The Elder's herald figure. It's a nod to the Greek god of dreams and translates as 'he who shapes', a process which can refer to destinies as much as unconscious imaginings. The Wachowskis picked up this idea and ran with it in their Matrix films, using Laurence Fishburne's same-named character to wake Neo from the sleep of his everyday world and guide him towards his ultimate purpose.

Under The Rose brings our hero in waiting before the Council. They remind him of the task their caretaker has hinted at ('but now before you lies a quest at hand/and from this boy you may become a man') and warn him of the consequences if he decides to accept it ('Loneliness will haunt you, will you sacrifice?').

Meeting the mentor(s) continues with a couple of long overdue and very welcome pieces of exposition. Dark Light is about the state the world will soon find itself in, leading to the rise of 'Sodom and Gomorrah/the malevolent order'. Although Ace Frehley's vocal delivery makes it less than convincing at times, the message gets through to our protagonist and his subsequent declaration that 'a world without heroes is nothing to be/it's no place for me' marks a significant turning point in his development. He understands now that if there is no-one else to stand against evil, he must do it himself.

The Oath follows an epiphany with a crossing of the threshold. This shows the boy leaving behind his
ordinary world to take on the role the Council have appointed him for. Upon pledging himself to the Order of the Rose, he attains a new sense of confidence and realises everything Morpheus and the unnamed Council members have told him is true. ('I gave my heart and I set it free. There's no turning back from this odyssey/because I feel so alive suddenly.')

As powerful an album opener as The Oath was in 1981, the remaster restores its rightful place in the timeline. There is no way the boy could 'go forth surrendering to history' without due preparation, knowledge or self awareness.

Mr Blackwell introduces the story's antagonist, the earthly representative of an evil force as timeless as The Elder. Whether the 'Washington DC power broker' mentioned in one of the album's early plot synopses has sought this role on purpose is a matter for debate. The contradictory lyrics suggest internal conflict ('I never said I was more than I am' vs 'you're a victim, a real disgrace') and the chorus's concern for his health ('you're not well, Mr Blackwell, why don't you go to hell?') indicate an adversary who is no more prepared for his role than the untrained hero we met in Just A Boy.

Difficult as it is to incorporate an instrumental into the plot, the title Escape From The Island and the use of sirens on the track itself present a couple of options. Since the struggle between good and evil is eternal and cyclical, it's possible Mr Blackwell's unseen employers have hatched their latest scheme while imprisoned, and used his kidnapping of a world leader as a cue to break out and loose their plans on the world. Pure speculation on my part but, considering how little we know, anything's possible.

I is a chest beating slice of self-affirmation, which reminds us how far the Elder's new champion has come since we first met him. The shared vocals and anthemic chorus recall Shout It Out Loud and perhaps it's there to remind the listener that, under the progressive rock veneer of this new and very different album, lies the KISS spirit they once knew and loved. It's a nice touch that comes too late to save the album and, by extension, the band. The first part of the tale they worked so hard to tell ends on a positive, upbeat note and showcases a hero who is ready to overcome the obstacles he will face on the rest of his journey but, unfortunately or fortunately depending on your point of view, neither he nor the fans got a chance to learn what these would be.

Recorded under very difficult circumstances by a band in the midst of an identity crisis, Music From The Elder presents a promising, if somewhat cryptic, take on the heroic journey. We'll never know how it might have continued or resolved and, while that may be for the best in commercial terms, it will remain one of the biggest 'what-ifs' in KISStory.

'Some people never go crazy. What truly boring lives they must lead.'

In 1992, WASP released The Crimson Idol. It was a band album in name alone, as they split soon after The Headless Children in 1989. Founding member and main songwriter Blackie Lawless (AKA Steven Duren) enlisted the help of largely unsung guitar hero Bob Kulick and session drummers Frankie Banali, late of Quiet Riot, and Stet Howland to complete what I consider his masterwork.

In many ways The Crimson Idol  is a consolidation of what Lawless and his bandmates achieved on The Headless Children. Having stepped away from the shock rock and Grand Guignol theatrics that made them the logical successors to Alice Cooper and KISS and so outraged Tipper Gore's Parents' Music Resource Centre, they set out to prove there was more to WASP than being L.O.V.E. machines or wild children who go blind in Texas while welcoming people to electric circuses and inciting them to scream until they liked it.

While The Headless Children concerned itself with then current world issues, The Crimson Idol's focus turns inward. Lawless draws on the influence of 'my mentor' Pete Townshend to weave the tale of Jonathan Steel. Constructed around simple yet effective musical and lyrical themes, Jonathan's story is not a happy one. Abused, neglected and ultimately disowned by his parents William and Elizabeth, he channels his rage and constant hunger for acceptance into music and hitch hikes to the big bad city to chase his dream of becoming the titular 'Crimson Idol of a million eyes.' He signs a deal with record label president 'Chainsaw Charlie' and is guided towards fame and fortune by  manager Alex Rodman. 

As Jonathan's star rises, a gypsy woman tells his fortune. Her tarot cards reveal a fallen hero in the tradition of Bowie's Ziggy Stardust and she warns him to be careful what he wishes for because it might come true. Rather than reassure Jonathan that he's on the right path, the woman's prediction leaves him with 'a haunting that would follow me (for) the rest of my life.'

Jonathan finds 'success agreed with me, with amazing ease. The more records I sold the more excess I had of everything', but none of these material trappings and sexual or chemical indulgences can bring him what he really wants. In several songs and interludes between them he asks 'where's the love, to shelter me? Only love, love set me free.'

His search leads him to the very place he left as an angry teenager. He phones his parents before a concert and attempts to reconcile with them but 'less than fifty words were spoken' and the last four were 'we have no son.' This prompts Jonathan to contemplate suicide and, during what turns out to be his final performance, he makes a noose from his guitar strings and hangs himself before his adoring audience.

Blackie Lawless has always had a flair for the dramatic. This is a man who thought nothing of drinking stage blood from a skull or wearing a chainsaw shaped codpiece that shot sparks into the crowd, but The Crimson Idol was the first time he incorporated such theatrical elements into his music rather than its performance. It was a labour of love that took years to realise and, like most stories that endure, it can be interpreted in many ways.

What appeals to me most about it is the juxtaposition between Jonathan's messianic, larger than life public persona and his true self. There are elements of Lawless' personal history throughout, which he would explore further on the next WASP album Still Not Black Enough while no longer 'hiding behind Jonathan.'

At the risk of sounding like the pseudy academic I once was and will be again, one of The Crimson Idol's most fascinating aspects is the construction and deconstruction of selves. The self I am in the process of building appeals to me much more than the person I see in the mirror or, as Jonathan called it 'the four doors of doom', but I must take care not to lose sight of who he is or where he came from. Unlike Jonathan, I have had a lifetime worth of 'love to shelter me', and that should provide enough rocket fuel for whatever lies ahead.    

  

'You can twist perceptions, reality won't budge.'

I don’t mean to go all postmodern on you, but I’ve been mulling over something for a while now and I think I’ve reached a conclusion that would save everyone and their dog a lot of arguments. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.

All opinions and interpretations are meaningless to everyone except the people who hold them. You can no more convince someone else that your view is right than you can change what colour socks you wore yesterday. Trying to bring another person around to your point of view at the expense of their own is an act of immense egotism and an exercise in utter futility. What do you really achieve by persuading someone to agree with you? Unless your grasp on your beloved convictions is so fragile that you feel the need to recruit an army of like-minded drones, then the victory is hollow at best. If you have absolute faith in the opinions you espouse, then the support of others shouldn’t even be necessary. Live as you like, believe as you wish and give everyone else the chance to do the same. 

In all the online communities I’ve been involved in over the years, not to mention that curious beast we call 'real life', I’ve noticed a trend for debates to rage back and forth for years at a time. Nine times out of ten they lead nowhere except round in circles, and succeed only in straining relations between people who might once have been good friends. When all’s said and done, the one thing people tend to forget is how little these differences matter. 

Every choice we make is based on our unique experience. The key word here is 'unique'.  I have no right to impose my opinion on someone else’s decisions because my choices are a product of very different experiences, which may or may not have influenced me in another direction. Whatever I decide or believe is entirely up to me, just as whatever you decide or believe is entirely up to you. Our paths may cross on the journey through life, but there’s no reason for our swords to follow suit if we happen to disagree.

Opinion by its very nature is subjective. More often than not it’s fuelled by gut reactions, which are set in stone the moment we feel them. There can be no such thing as a truly unbiased view, as good an idea as that might sound, because everyone sees things from their own distinct perspective and it’s never quite possible to remove the blinkers. From this we get the very human and very destructive habit of talking over the top of each other and thinking in terms of 'right' and 'wrong' instead of getting on with the daily business of living as we see fit.

The opinions expressed within this post are my own and do not represent those of anyone with better things to do than take up space with empty rhetoric.