Bookpacking’s Blog

Bookpacking had such a good time in Peckham on Tuesday that we headed back there the next night. Red wine and readings with the lovely ladies at Head Space 157 were followed by tea, music and poetry at Persepolis. Sadly we missed the charismatic Bernadette Cremin, but we did see Jazzman John riffing his West Coast beat-style prosody - accompanied by some highly-accomplished Iranian musicians on drums and guitar. All that was missing was Kerouac in the corner shouting “Go! Go! Go! Go!”

The evening was defiantly non-elitist, as you might expect in Peckham. But Bookpacking’s companion was straying into new territory, and was worried about ’saying the wrong thing’ or appearing ignorant. This frustrates Bookpacking no end. The notion that the art of words, music or images - or even ideas themselves - should be reserved for certain sections of society is some kind of sick feudal joke. A Phd is not a prerequisite to recognise repetition, an MA is not a ‘must’ to acknowledge alliteration. Bookpacking is a strong believer in art as a force for good. The wider the net is spread, the better.

This is why Bookpacking likes Beuys, and is dismayed when some gatekeeping hacks - seeking to ringfence their cultural capital (see Bourdieu) and preserve their monopoly - decry the spread of “citizen journalism”. Joan Byrne and Anne-Marie Glasheen at 157 had both self-published, and the results were small things of beauty.

Better out than in. Wir sind die Revolution.

(FYI Bookpacking subscribes fully to neither a red nor blue hue of political paradigm. It’s a post-postmodern world we’re all living in now baby)

You could be forgiven for not immediately thinking of Peckham as the most obvious venue for a literary festival. And as Bookpacking walked through the chip papers and past the metal shutters outside Peckham Rye, it didn’t look too promising.

But a quick pint of Star in under-the-arches Bar Story and we were ready to hit the cultural front line on Bellenden Road. It’s quite an achievement for a small (but beautiful) bookshop to have a published poet on the staff - but two? Review bookshop hosted readings from staffers Retta Bowen and Evie Wyld.

Retta mused on broken love affairs while Evie made a stand for prose with an excerpt from her forthcoming novel After the Fire, a Still Small Voice. The Q&A led to some interesting questions about using material sourced from close to home.

Artists have traditionally put themselves ‘out there’ to push boundaries, allow the rest of us to live vicariously, and ask the questions we dare not to. But they also have to live among their friends and families, so there’s a balance. Both writers had experience of either toning down their writing, changing names, or using composite characters. So before you embark on that Philip Larkin-style polemic, think about the fallout.

Ever looked at those people strolling about nonchalantly during the daytime and wondered what they get up to? Well today Bookpacking followed a few of them to the most excellent Housmans bookshop in Kings Cross.

Owned since 1959 by Peace News, the shop’s amiable manager Malcolm had organised for host MC5 legend John Sinclair to come in and plug the new book he edited, Headpress 28. If you’re a youngster like (ahem) Bookpacking, your only direct knowledge of MC5 might be the sample on the KLF’s What Time is Love: “…Right now it’s time to bring on the dance ‘Mofos’”. (For anyone not hip to the street, daddy-o, that’s a bad word and not an 18-30 holiday island). The audience was the usual mix: poets like Niall Ferguson (Rimbaud-rhapsodiser extraordinaire), aging radicals and confirmed hippies.

Rocking up proper rock ‘n’ roll late, in a quiet gravelly voice John read from the book. Some Kerouac, a polemic on the radical ethnic restructuring of New Orleans (never let a free-marketeer anywhere a blank canvas, seemed to be the message) and a poem.

As he stopped to chew the Kings Cross rain-sodden fat, the few that had real jobs – albeit with elasticated lunch breaks – went back to work, formulating as they jogged through the puddles. “A dog stole my sandwich? No, er, I had to help an old lady who was mugged? There was a bomb alert at Greggs? Nah. Aw to hell with it. I’ve just been to see a rock and roll star, Boss!”