Shop Till You Drop: A Review of Ewan Morrison's Tales From the Mall...

We've all been in situations where we are manipulated, are aware of this, but allow the situation to continue anyway. Our world is one of persuasion, slight of hand and pressure to conform in some way or other. We may like to think of ourselves as individuals with  free will, but when even so called 'alternative lifestyles' become something that can be sold and turned to profit then it does look as if the battle has been fought and lost. You may disagree, but think about a pair of jeans that you own. Are they a well known brand? Then the chances are you spent far more than they are worth buying them. Are they the cheapest you could find? Then you probably don't want to know where they were made and the age of those who stitched them. Unless you are living in some self sustaining utopia you, like the rest of us, will be caught between a commercial rock and a hard place every day.

The best you can hope for is to be aware of just how this persuasion is being perpetrated, so at least you have the illusion of choice. Ewan Morrison's Tales From the Mall gives you plenty of ammunition to fire your indignation.  I've read a lot of books this year but this is the only one where I wanted to return to the start and read over again immediately. It blends fact, folklore and fiction in a manner that is as unexpected as it is exhilarating. I'm willing to bet you haven't read anything quite like it. Some of what is described you may have heard before but when presented in such a manner it all makes a terrible and logical sense. Morrison isn't giving answers. He is presenting facts, and fiction, and letting the reader come to their own conclusions. That's what I want from a writer, to be made to think and be challenged.

It is the most entertaining examination of the modern world that I have read since Michael Bracewell's The Nineties: When Surface Was Depth (which I suppose is verging on history now) and Francis Wheen's How Mumbo Jumbo Conquered the World. Like those two it manages to educate while never forgetting to entertain. For those who like their facts and figures there are stats that will have you shaking your head and, at least for a couple of days, heading for your local shops (if they still exist).

Morrison is not suggesting bland acceptance of the state of affairs. There is a tremendous chapter which outlines how to mess with the mall (you do start to view 'the mall' as this persuasive and evil entity in its own right, something South Park expressed in the episode 'Something Wall-Mart This Way Comes'). Tips include posing as a security guard, which you can't be arrested for, demanding a 'shop mobility' scooter and having races, and fun with a bag of marbles and an automatic revolving door. You can tell that Morrison revels in the mischievousness of such endeavours. There is also the feeling that we are past the point of revolutionary change when it comes to our shopping habits, at least until the money finally runs out, so such little victories are the best we can hope for. Depressing, but probably true.

Many critics and reviewers have called this book important, necessary and game changing. It is all of those things but, like those books mentioned above, it should never be overlooked that Tales From the Mall is a damned enjoyable read; amusing, and at times unexpectedly emotional. You may be drawn in by the fascinating, and borderline obsessive, research that Morrison has clearly undertaken, and be intrigued and appalled by the ways in which you, yes you, are manipulated by the psychological and physiological systems and techniques that are central to global capitalism, but what will stay with you are the tales, both real and imagined, of the individuals who work, shop, and sometimes simply exist in shopping malls.

The fiction sections are vital as these are where the heart of the book is to be found. As with anything Morrison writes there is more going on than first appears. The mall on its own is dead. It needs people to live and it brings together a wider demographic than perhaps any other destination. The mall is a place where individuals come into contact with each other, and it is in the interactions between those people that the interest lies. The tales are populated by those who are often looking to blend in and belong, to hide among the crowds; individuals including soon to be divorced dads, transvestites, Hijab wearing power walkers, rebellious pensioners and heroic,racist, cleaners. Their problems are universal. The coffee chains may change; people remain the same.

Three tales stay with me in particular. The list making Sarah in 'Changing' who is trying to force herself to be fitter, happier, more productive etc, and is using her lists as part of an avoidance tactic to discovering and dealing with what is really causing her pain. As I type at a desk with Post It notes everywhere I feel the pang of recognition. The same applies to 'Borders', where the apathetic Harry lives only to make Zoe happy, adjusting his politics, life choices and 'beleifs' in order to do what he thinks she wants him to do. Anyone who has ever obsessed over someone, or who has uttered such a non-committal sentence along the lines of 'I want what you want', will empathise with Harry and his situation. As with Sarah's lists, Harry sees Zoe as his way to happiness, and he is as equally deluded.

But the best image in the book is from 'Incident in a Mall #103', where the cleaner known as Beethoven is caught on CCTV mopping with his alcopop ridden urine as he dances with the grace of Gene Kelly around the empty floors, before he vanishes for good. Such characters could have been painted as pathetic or even figures of fun, but the writer's obvious affection for them shines through, and that is where the emotion lies. To make you care about a character in a few pages takes real skill, but Morrison manages it time and time again.

This is a book which is not only commenting on life today, but is looking back. It made me pay a visit to the first mall I remember from my childhood, the one in East Kilbride which stands (just) as a living example to all that Morrison describes. The section known as The Plaza, which was built in the early 1970s, is 'dying' and stands as a stark contrast to the more recent sections which have been built almost over the top of it in the following decades. Morrison talks about the 'dead malls' which die as new ones are built nearby and replace them. In East Kilbride capitalist cannibalism is in evidence as the mall eats itself.

Everyone reading this will have spent some time in malls (or shopping centres if the term mall grates as it appears to with some), but the likelihood is that those over 40 will have spent a lot of their formative years eating in the food courts, buying first records and favourite books, getting football boots or school uniforms, in just such places. This sense of nostalgia is perhaps the most unexpected emotion prompted by what is a wonderfully surprising read. Tales from the Mall is an exposition on a thoroughly modern love affair. Like that between Zoe and Harry in 'Borders' it is a relationship that we soon realise is one-sided and probably unhealthy for us, but that breakup is one that we never quite manage.
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There are some wonderful video clips to accompany some of the stories from Tales From the Mall. You can find them all at ewanmorrison.com or by going to his You Tube page. In the meantime here's the trailer for the book:

You Have Been Watching...The Wicker Tree

My dear old Granny always said 'If you can't say something nice about someone, don't say anything at all', although if you heard what she said about her neighbours you would know that she didn't always practise what she preached. If I was to practise what she preached then this would be the shortest You Have Been Watching... ever.

The featured film is The Wicker Tree, the follow up to the classic 1973 film The Wicker Man, and it has problems. The most obvious one being how do you follow a classic film? Not like this is the flippant answer. The more considered one is that you don't assemble a cast who seem to have never met and who have been handed a script a mere five minutes before they are due to speak.

What sums up the difference between the two films can be found by comparing the two main villains of the piece. In The Wicker Man Christopher Lee was a charming, educated and intelligent, if psychotic, man. Of course he was, he's Dracula. In The Wicker Tree Grant McTavish roars like Hugh Laurie's Prince George reciting a speech in Blackadder, metaphorically twirling his moustache throughout (and actually a couple of times). This overacting begins to make sense with a quick visit to his IMDB page where you'll find the majority of his recent work has been voicing video games. Nothing wrong with that but this role needs subtlety as the premise is so extreme, and the man who voices Call of Duty and Warhammer 40,000 may not be that man.

Most of the other acting is poor bordering on the bizarre, but I think this is down to the direction which seems minimal. When the cast are ensemble they just seem to shift uncomfortably as if not quite sure what they should be doing. Although most of them are unknown there are a couple of faces you may recognise such as Jacqueline Leonard (River City, Eastenders) and Keith Warwick (My Parents are Aliens and who fronted the sadly missed skiffle band Ray Gun and the Rockets). Which brings me to Honeysuckle Weeks as Lolly, who I seem to remember from a kids TV programme called Goggle Eyes. She is particularly poorly served by the script in the role of local seductress which is supposed to mirror that of Willow, the landlord's daughter as played by Britt Eckland in The Wicker Man. Lolly is constantly finding new partners in the hope of falling pregnant, so subsequently she spends much of her time on film in the buff looking distinctly uncomfortable, and for some reason a sex scene with the local policeman is subtitled, the only time that happens in the film. Curiouser and curiouser. I feel genuinely sorry for the great Clive Russell who grapples manfully in a sort of 'Igor' role, but you cant help but see his kilted castration as a metaphor for what he is being asked to do.

My theory, which is strengthened by this follow up, is that the original The Wicker Man is a great film despite itself (the less said about the Neil LaBute remake the better). It is one of those films which could have been as terrible as this sequel if not for certain unknowables coming together with a far surer directorial hand. In fact it was dismissed upon its release and was only re-examined and re-appraised long after it was out of cinemas. It now regularly appears in polls of the 100 greatest British films. The Wicker Man was saved by having two great central performances, a genuinely wicked sense of humour, a raucous, unsettling, energy, and an ingenious ending that is even more unnerving by being filmed in the mid-summer sunshine. The final shot of the Wicker Man's head falling to reveal the sun setting was apparently a slice of luck, but remains one of the great closing shots in film.

Originally titled Cowboys for Christ, the name of director Robert Hardy's 2006 novel, The Wicker Tree once more pits a fundamental branch of Christianity, this time from the Deep South of America, against the more pagan beliefs still apparently found in the Borders of Scotland. Ex-country/pop sensation Beth Boothby, played by Brittania Nicol in what seems to have been her only role to date, wants to spread the good word to Scotland and, after a brief encounter with heathen Glasgow, begins in the small village of Tressock. She is accompanied by her gormless cowboy fiance Steve, played by Henry Garrett, who is tempted to break their vows of chastity by Lolly, while Beth is chosen as this year's May Queen. I'm not going to go further with the plot, because I'm sure you can work out the rest. In the The Wicker Man you believe that the locals are just messing with Edward Woodward's character Sergeant Howie's head, which makes the final scenes all the more powerful. The fact that within twenty minutes from the start of The Wicker Tree it is clear what is to unfold means that all suspense is lost. The fact that you're willing it to happen makes it even worse.

I'm not going to say more because it is a minor miracle that any film manages to get made these days, but The Wicker Tree is so disappointing and such a missed opportunity that it needs commenting upon. But don't take my word for it, watch the trailer. Trailers normally manage to make even bad films seem better than they are, but the following proves the old adage about polishing poo. It does have three seconds of Christopher Lee lending it more credibility than it deserves, and it is notable for using a quote from Damon Wise from his review from empireonline which says "You'll see faces, performances and scenes that you'll never see in any other movie" but which misses off the final bracketed part of that sentence "(usually for good reason)".

Enjoy:



If you're interested in the often controversial story surrounding the making of the original The Wicker Man, and the problems they had getting a sequel made at all, then you should get yourselves a copy of Allan Brown's The Wicker Man which is subtitled 'How Not to Make a Cult Classic' and which is essential reading for anyone interested in film.

Barrytown: A Review of Irvine Welsh's Skagboys...

Reading Irvine Welsh in the last ten years has been similar to following the career of Bob Dylan in the mid 80s-90s. I kept buying Bob's albums during that time in the hope that he would repay the faith that I, and others, had; faith which was rewarded in style with 1997's Time Out of Mind, but we had to put up with a lot of out of tune dross and ill advised make-up to get there. With Welsh it has been even more difficult to keep the faith as he seemed to be increasingly focusing on the excessive side of his writing rather than creating believable and recognisable characters. We may have wanted to cross the street from them on a dark night, but they were the reason we fell in love with his work in the first place. Latterly he seemed to be concerned with pushing his readership in his novels, daring them not to look away; the literary versions of SAW sequels. His last two, The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs and Crime, read like parodies of Irvine Welsh, and the thought persisted as to whether he would ever reach the heights of his early work again.

For these reasons I was worried about his latest novel Skagboys, especially when I saw the size of it. Now he wasn't only demanding commitment but also stamina. It is a prequel to the game-changing Trainspotting focusing on the same characters and attempting to explain how they first bonded together. I finished it a few days ago but I haven't written about it until now to make sure I was giving it proper perspective. The short version of this review is that Skagboys is not just Welsh's best novel since Filth, it may just be the best he has ever written (and I'm fully aware of what that means).

Now the long version. It was a gamble to return to the characters of Trainspotting as the 2002 sequel Porno wasn't an unequivocal success. This was because by Porno they had become increasingly disparate and divorced, and they only really make sense when relating directly to one another. But in Skagboys Welsh gives them greater depth, or in the case of Simon 'Sick Boy' Williamson, greater shallows. We discover how close Mark Renton was to having a very different life, are shown a rarely seen, and soon to be banished for good, sentimental side to Franco Begbie, learn how Tommy Laurence manages to find redemption just in time with Lizzie and are reassured that Danny 'Spud' Murphy was always happy just to belong. It is also confirmed that Sick Boy really is a man with no redemptive features but with a bagful of charisma; a literally lethal cocktail.

Welsh takes us back to the early-mid 1980s with all that it entails, but most significantly there is raging unemployment and the increasing availability of cheap heroin. Boredom and the desire to get lost leads the majority of the cast to the doors of Edinburgh's ever increasing number of heroin dealers, an enterprise scheme that was Thatcherism in a nutshell. The rate of everyone's descent into addiction would be unbelievable if it wasn't absolutely and sadly true. This is a place and time when the idea of being a functioning addict is unthinkable. Once started it was usually a case of more, more, more until someone, or more likely something, managed to stop you. As in any battle, and addiction is always a battle in one way or another, there were those who didn't make it, a point Welsh makes abundantly clear.

There are problems with the book. I don't mind writers playing with font and design when it has a purpose, for example with the tapeworm sections in Filth, but having the diary sections in a 'handwritten' font is style for the sake of it and actually took away from what were two of the most interesting and insightful sections of the book. Those sections work because it is when he writes in the first person that Welsh really succeeds. When the narrative returns to third person it is all too easy to skim, waiting for the next internal dialogue to begin. We want to know what is going on in these people's heads as this is where we discover their truth and their humanity.

Welsh once more makes the Leith dialogue sing, as interesting and rich in places as anyone writing today. Where the dialogue stalls is when he moves outside of Edinburgh's postal districts. The Cockney of Nicksy just doesn't work, and no amount of writing 'Farkin' is going to change that. In the case of the Geordie of Fiona and the various Weegie characters he doesn't get the patter right either (maybe that's the point, making those who are outwith Leith less eloquent and sharp as those lucky enough to reside there). The other recurring complaint that follows Welsh is the sidelining of his female characters, and although the story surrounding Alison begins promisingly, it gets overlooked as the book progresses as it is the 'Skagboys' themselves whose lives are fixated upon.

But that is not a problem this time as what readers are concerned about is the life of Renton, Sick Boy, Begbie, Tommy and Spud, perhaps not purely for literary reasons, something Welsh seems to tacitly admit. These are the characters who Welsh has yet to better, the ones he understands the best, and as a result are the most believable and complex. There are plenty of other characters old and new, with special mention to Keezbo, Swanney, Matty, Nicksy and Charlene, but it always comes back to those five to a greater or lesser degree. Reading Skagboys with Trainspotting in mind it becomes clear how those central five are all part of one individual; all are required to maintain balance.

There is the intellectual and questioning mind of Renton, which can be turned to good or bad, the overwhelming and destructive desires of Sick Boy, which override any dormant compassion or consciousness, and the unrestrained violence of Franco Begbie, taking joy in a different type of excess and believing that only the strongest survive. Tommy typifies the idea that belonging to a tribe, for better of worse, is a vital part of being, and Spud is the humanity of the group. This leaves him exposed because he believes he needs the protection of the group to survive. The reason most of the others pity or patronise Spud is because they see his compassion as a weakness, and they don't want to be reminded of human weakness.

They are inextricably linked despite themselves. Begbie tolerates Renton's smart mouth as he sees him as proof that someone can escape the life the others seem destined for. Renton and Sick Boy keep Begbie close as they believe that it is mildly safer than having him against them. Tommy feels he has to belong, and Spud feels just glad that someone lets him belong. No relationship typifies the contrary nature of this gang more than that between Renton and Sick Boy. Neither trust, or even like, the other but both are envious.  Renton has the education and intellect that Sick Boy desires, even if only to impress, and Renton sees the confidence with which Sick Boy carries himself and desires to be so bold. Together, as seen in the scenes in London, they make a petty and perverse whole. That's the point. They all need each other as they all are part of one, even if they hate that fact with every fibre of their being. Why else would they continue these destructive relationships. In fact being in each others company reminds them not of who they are, but what they are not, and that can be a comfort or an irritant depending on what they choose to focus.

It's apt that the cover of Skagboys is a skeleton as this is humanity stripped as bare as you can imagine. Many people dismiss Welsh as a sensationalist. Even those who like his work see him as someone who is mostly concerned with giving a voice to those who are rarely represented on the page. There are aspects of both of these, but when he is at his best he examines human nature with a keen insight, asking why people act in the way they do. It is not simple posturing that Renton name checks Kierkegaard and Nietzsche in Skagboys and Trainspotting. Welsh is asking fundamental existential questions, one of which is 'if there is free will what stops us all from acting purely for self gratifictaion?'. Or perhaps we do? It is this aspect of his writing, these questions he asks, that is the reason I have, and always will, read everything Irvine Welsh writes. Strip away the junk, jizz and Jambo bashing and these are characters who would not be out of place in the novels of Camus, Sartre and Trocchi.  Even Welsh's failures are more interesting than many others' successes and this is what makes him one of the most important writers around.

Lost In Music... One Dove: Morning Dove White

As promised on the last podcast (while in conversation with Chris Ward and Arran Arctic who gave their own examples), this is the first in a new regular Scots Whay Hae! column which, while not dazzlingly original, will hopefully be informative, entertaining and mildly diverting, and why else do you read this if not to be mildly diverted?

After ditching the unwieldy title of Stop Me if You Think You've Heard This One Before for the more manageable Lost In Music, the column will look at those albums which slip between the neat narratives that are often used when talking about the history of music. Early 80s Scottish pop? 'It was all Postcard Records'; but what about Scars and The Fire Engines? 'Britpop was a return to guitar music'...then what are we to make of Tricky and Portishead? I want to look at the albums that for whatever reason just didn't fit the times, but still deserve our attention.

To kick off I'm going back to 1993, probably 18 months too late for this album to be the success it should have been. It is the only album by One Dove, called Morning Dove White, and while some of the sounds may have dated, it is still one of the best records of that time when pop/rock/dance all came together under a, often mellow, groove. I had first heard them when the song Fallen was played in clubs, and most people who loved music in Glasgow thought they were going to be huge. Primal Scream, with the hugely important influence of producer/DJ Andy Weatherall, had taken what had started in Manchester to embrace a marriage of rock music and what was happening in clubs, both on the dancefloor and off. If Morning Dove White had managed to avoid the problems detailed below then I believe it could have been a success to stand alongside Screamadelica; perhaps the morning after to the Screamer's night before.

One Dove consisted of producer Ian Carmichael, ex-Altered Image Jim McKinven and Dorothy 'Dot' Allison. What does date the album, far more than the music, is all the references to doves, love, laughing, smiling; you get the idea. If there is one word to sum up Morning Dove White it would be bliss, with all that entails. It is one of those records to stick on on a mid-summer's morning as the sun is rising. It will make you feel just grand.

There are a number of factors as to why the album didn't reach the people it deserved. There were record company wrangles as London Records took over Boy's Own records which delayed its release. The first single, another version of the aforementioned Fallen (with obligatory Andy Weatherall remix) was pulled after a week as it used an unlicensed Supertramp sample and legals were threatened. It was the right record at the wrong time. By 1993 the drugs were changing and so were the bands. In April Select magazine put Suede's Brett Anderson on the cover in front of a Union Jack in a prescient statement of things to come.

Morning Dove White was more influential than you may expect. Kylie Minogue and her producers nicked the sound of the record, (and Dot's suits and glasses), for her self titled album released in 1994, and there were lots of female singers over ambient tracks in the following years that seemed to owe quite a debt to One Dove. As was the vogue of the time, every single seemed to come with about ten different remixes, and the strongest song on the album, White Love, was no exception. The track is so good that every version is worth a listen, but this is the best from the boys from Slam:



This is my truth, now I'd really like you to tell me yours. My thought is that we all have at least one 'lost' album that we want to tell people about, and here's your chance to do so. There is no claim that the albums featured will be unknown to all, or even many. I'm sure plenty will gasp at the choices and say 'everyone knows (insert name here)'...but you'd be surprised.

You can email your own choice to Scots Whay Hae! at scotswhayhae@gmail.com. It should simply be a short article about why you love the album, any story that surrounds it, and a link to any video or musical clip that we can post to accompany it. I'll keep posting my choices, but I already know what they are. I would really love to build up a collection of posts about the best music that some of us may never have heard of, and that would make our lives better if we did.

April's Guys: The Month's Musical Roundup...

For many reasons this has been a busy week so I'll keep this brief and just give you the best music I heard during April. March was so impressive that it was always be going to be difficult to follow, but April gives it a good go, with appearances from The Son(s), Letters, This Silent Forest, and the brilliantly named Kitty the Lion.

First off is a new project from a musical hero. Teenage Fanclub can do no wrong in my eyes, so it's no surprise that the album of the month is Electric Cables from Fannie's bassist Gerard Love's new project Lightships! (exclamation mark bands own, although well deserved). There's no real surprises here, and that's how it should be. There are some things in life you should be able to rely on and members of Teenage Fanclub making gorgeous music is be one of them. From the album this is Sweetness in Her Spark:



Next is my favourite video of the month. See if you can guess why. It's another slice of the sort of evocative melancholia that we've come to expect from This Silent Forest. This is called Milk:



Now for something which appeared in my inbox early in the morning and sent me on my way with an extra spring in my step. One of the best albums of last year was The Son(s) debut album of the same name, which I wrote about here. They have a new EP released on the 7th May called Leviathan, the cover of which you can see at the top of the page. It's a great listen and is more upbeat in places than you may have come to expect, but it remains in the tradition of classic pop music that they do so well. The Son(s) know that of which they play. If you fancy a copy you can buy it here, or if you want more info about the band you can contact record company magnate lloyd@olivegroverecords.com. But before you do any of that have a listen. From Leviathan this if If I Hear You Talk Apostrophes Again...:

The Son(s) - If I Hear You Talk Apostrophes Again... by abadgeoffriendship

Now for some dark cello pop from Edinburgh's Letters. I haven't heard lots of their music, but I'm very impressed by that which I have. There is a melodic, gothic, cinematic quality that hints at depth and breadth.This is the sort of music that very good quality headphones are made for. This is Older Motion Pictures: LETTERS - Older Motion Pictures by godisinthetvzine.co.uk

Finally for this month is something a bit more upbeat than the other things on offer so far. It is simply a brilliant piece of pop. As much as I love my strang and durm I also love to be lifted back up. The song is Duck! byKitty the Lion and the more I listen to it the further I fall in love. It's launched as a single at The Old Hairdressers in Glasgow on the 16th of May, and is as close a guarantee to brightening up your day as I can offer. You can listen to it by clicking here.

So that was the best of April, and listening to the songs again as I write this I realise that there was really some lovely stuff. I hope you agree...

Our Lips Are Sealed: A Review of Iain Banks' Stonemouth...

Iain Banks and Irvine Welsh, two of Scotland's more high profile, successful and influential novelists, have published new work in the last couple of weeks which look back to previous successes. The review of Welsh's Skagboys will appear here shortly, but it is interesting to make a very superficial comparison between that and Banks' latest non sci-fi novel Stonemouth. Both men have been criticised for overly repeating themselves in their work, and they have, to differing degrees, embraced and addressed those critics in these books. But whereas Welsh has returned to the scenes and characters of his greatest triumph, Banks has openly embraced the whole.

Skagboys follows the early lives of Renton, Sick Boy, Franco Begbie et al, perhaps in an attempt to reboot a writing career which has creatively stalled over recent books. With Banks' Stonemouth it's slightly different as his last mainstream novel Transition was seen as his best non 'M' title for some time. The problem with that was it was really a sci-fi novel in mainstream garb. Nothing wrong with that, his earlier novel Walking on Glass is a similar cross breed, but he did seem to be prolonging the worries of those of us who were seeing if he could recapture former glories after the disappointing The Steep Approach To Garbadale, Dead Air and The Buisness. Stonemouth sees a writer back on top form, and embracing his past to promise an exciting future. Banks feels essential again.

There's often a book in a writer's career where you can sense them relaxing and accepting who they are, what they do, and why people read them. Some of my favourite writers who have accompanied me through different stages of my life have recognisable themes which were not only desirable but demanded by readers. I'm thinking of Stephen King, Ed McBain, Alasdair Gray and John Irving in particular. There's a comfort in embracing the familiar as long as there are enough fresh ideas to accompany them, the trick is to be able to use these themes to tell tales in new and interesting ways. Stonemouth sees Banks at his most engaging and this is because it will thrill his fans rather than confounding their expectations

He certainly seems to be deliberately embracing his past, enjoying ticking his tropes off as they appear on the page. In the early chapters there's a bridge, class divisions, family fueds, a reference to a trauma from childhood and an exotic woman who once held the promise of a better life, and who may do so again in the future. Few capture the importance of the formative years on an individual's development as Banks does. There's lots of violence and 'claret', misunderstandings, family secrets, an older, wiser, character, and individuals who are not as they first appear to be. Later on there are a few direct references to his current political concerns but these are less jarring as they have been in other novels, and they seem to fit the central character of Stewart Gilmour rather than simply coming from the mouth of Banks, something which he has been accused of doing in the past.

Gilmour returns to his home town of Stonemouth after enforced exile, allowed to attend a funeral by the local family of gangsters who chased him out of town in the first place for doing them wrong. Set over the weekend of the funeral, with plenty of Banksian flashbacks to fill in the gaps, the writer once more examines the past to help the reader, and his protagonists, understand the present. As the title suggest, it's the things that are never said that often cause the most problems. It's not a case of je regrette rien , more je regrette ... well just about everything, and I think, if most of us are being honest with ourselves, this feeling is one we understand even if we don't admit it.

There are a couple of things which jarred with me while reading Stonemouth. Banks' pop culture referencing, something he is normally excellent at, seems to me a bit scattergun in terms of what and when. The chat moves between drinking snakebite and bottles Staropraman , referencing Kylie, CSI and Bones, and the audio benefits of expensive earbuds. I may be being overly sensitive here but I find it hard to believe these are consistent terms of reference used by these characters, and it's often such small things that can make you pull up short in a novel. It doesn't spoil matters, but grates with a cultural pedant.

Another accusation that Banks has had aimed at him is, with the obvious exception of The Wasp Factory, he often has trouble ending his novels concisely and in this case, when the action is over, the forgiveness and rebuilding of lives feels rushed. I can forgive him this as what has gone before is so engaging and compelling (and often beautifully written, something which often gets overlooked when people review Banks). The final paragraph seems particularly poignant and reinforces the feeling that this is a writer who is comfortable with his past and who is looking forward to what he does next. He's not the only one.

If someone asked me for the best place to start with Banks I always suggest The Wasp Factory, The Crow Road or The Bridge but I would add Stonemouth to that list. I have written before that Banks' novels seem to reflect how he is feeling about life in general at that time and it does feel as if this is a writer who is content with his lot. I hope this is the case because when you look at the fantastic body of work that Iain (M) Banks has given us, he deserves to be.