Up Above the City, Down Beneath the Stars “Up Above the City, Down Beneath the Stars” is simply told, evocative, playful, revelatory and ... look, I've read innumerable stories of growing up with rock at its finest, but never one so vivid, so pulsing, so writhingly alive.
Adamson's descriptions will make you want to hunt out half-a thousand old 45s, particularly from the 1960s and 1970s. Man, he was exposed to some magnificent music really early on before he managed to find himself in Magazine.
And his power of recall reminds me of Laurie Lee - and his prose does too, and that's no idle praise. There are a few ... well, they're either clues or nods to his state, or simply offhand comments thrown out there to beguile and pique your curiosity.
This being UK, and Barry being “half-caste” (lovely phrase), and undeniably different in more ways than five, violence and pain are an ordinary backdrop. When Adamson's sex-life roars into life we go from confusion and humping the family sofa with unfulfilled yearning to erotic ... no, I've said too much already. Oh, and drugs. Hey, it was the 1970s by then, see.
Now, I don't want to spoil the delight you will experience as Barry's life and emotional life unravels before you, his confusions, pains, frustrations; his joys, his extraordinarily epic internal world. You feel like you've always known this man by the third page. After that it's just a rich feast, someone's life, damn well-told; that you happen to know a little about some of the music he made is a thin veneer of icing. “Up Above the City, Down Beneath the Stars” is the real deal.
I can only hope there's a second volume on the way, because he's got another 30-odd years to fill in for us, and I simply don't want to wait.
