Punk Rock Ruined My Life and Other Stories, John Robb (Manchester University Press)
John Robb has always been a hyperactive and enthusiastic networker. One of the earliest compilation tapes I put out on Stride included a Membranes track, but then so did every other compilation tape that year. The Membranes were a noisy, ramshackle punk band, full of energy and enthusiasm, intent on going places, which they duly did.
Since those days Robb applied a similar enthusiasm and ‘I can do it’ approach to anything and everything: editing a zine, making a website (Louder Than War), presenting, writing, interviewing, filming and… you name it Robb has probably done it. Although he declaims that ‘For me music has never been about me, me, me!’ and he is certainly someone who pays attention to what is going on around him and elsewhere, it mostly seems to be his force of personality and amiability that fuels him.
I mean, he is no slouch as a musician or writer but he does seem to be his biggest fan, always managing to mention that so-and-so (insert famous name) said how much he loved The Membranes/Robb’s last book/Robb’s haircut/Robb’s music. If this is at times wearying, so is the total lack of critical engagement throughout the book.
Everyone it seems is a nice bloke, everybody makes great music, everyone succumbs to Robb’s charm, everyone likes him. I longed for a bit of piss take, especially when the likes of Oasis and the Madchester bands are involved, but no, they were all great. Only Black Sabbath and Yes get a negative comment early on, as punk sweeps everything out of the way.
Which is another thing that bugs me. Robb really does seem to believe that Punk Rock changed the world and that somehow the pastcihe Beatles songs of Oasis, Morrisey’s whining and the secondhand psychedelia of the Stone[d] Roses contained the punk spirit. He feels the same about ecology and veganism now, and at times comes across like a grandad, cup of tea in hand (having sworn off alcohol as well as meat), chatting to the likes of Chris Packham and Andy Burnham.
In fact a punk grandad isn’t a bad way to think of Robb. He has great stories, some of which seem unlikely, others modified in the retelling, misremembers some facts but is far more entertaining and friendly than his exterior and demeanour suggest. He’s great company for 348 pages, although a little bit exhausting and prone to repetition and hyperbole. And for a punk rocker he’s surprisingly concerned with the pop charts and sales, especially when his bands (none of which I had heard of except for the Membranes) are involved. My mum would say ‘He’s full of it’, and she’d be right.
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Rupert Loydell
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