As I said, it was 1971, and I loved music. How could I not, after all I’d seen the Rolling Stones in 1964, on the very cusp of the Zeitgeist. I loved to write, even though the interviewer at Oxford couldn’t see my potential. So I decided I would write about music. Because music isn’t just about the clothes, and the eyeliner and the drugs. Music is the now, or at least it was then, before it all got crap. I still have the eyeliner though.

So anyway it was 1972, and I just blagged a job with Friendz which had used to be Rolling Stone, until the money ran out. To be honest it was a bit befuddled before I joined. And Iggy Pop was my best mate and I heard him and the Stooges sing lots of songs that no-one else has ever ever heard. And I decided to call it ‘punk rock’ for the new Zeitgeist. And Lou Reed is a bit fat, and anyway I did proper cocaine with John Cale.

And I took tablets like the ones that Nick Drake took, but he died and I didn’t which means I’m great. I wrote that down on some paper and before anyone knew what was happening me and Porthos and Aramis were completely running the NME and raising the standards of rock journalism in a sort of Zeitgeist defining way. (I was D’Artagne, because he’s the pretty one, and David Bowie told me how pretty I was, before he became a coked up wreck). Before us it was really all very befuddled. And everyone from before actually hated music and they all went mad eventually, a bit like Syd Barrett, who I also sort of know.

And then I saw Can do their first UK show and they would later give me some heroin and then it was 1973. Except I went to Detroit and had some sexual congress, and some drugs. As well as being a bit fat Lou Reed isn’t very nice, he once made Lester Bangs cry, and Lester was a really nice man too. I went to L.A. and discovered that Brian Wilson is even fatter that Lou Reed!

But Iggy had changed; he was now called Jim. He could have been really really big if he had listened to me but he went off to Berlin with David Bowie and was never heard of again.

Chrisse Hynde was my girlfriend, and was on the NME, but she ended up just working in a shop or something. When it became clear how better I was at writing stuff nobody at the NME liked me any more. But they all lived in proper houses and not in squats with loads of guitars so it didn’t matter.

Music is all about the now but it’s also a lot about hair - the rooster-haired Rod the Mod, pineapple-haired Ronnie Wood, electric-shock haired Richard Hell. My hair is a bit lank, but in cool way so rock stars liked me a lot. Mick Jagger is not as bad as everyone says. People often ask Keith Richards what I’m like, but how would he know? It must be 20 years since I dropped him, and anyway he looks a cross between like Ray Reardon and a human fork that’s a bit dirty.

I saw CSNY in 1974 and they were rubbish. And Joni Mitchell is well snooty; it’s not as if I even wanted to talk to her at that party.

In 1975 Martin Chambers begged me to get back together with him on the floor of Malcolm Maclaren’s shop. But I wouldn’t and there was a fight and although it is all a bit befuddled I ended up starting the Sex Pistols. All they wanted to do was record Billy Fury songs so I left. Johnny Rotten really like Can. And Malcolm put my name on a list of bad people but mainly because I had better hair and knew Brian Eno.

In 1976 Bob Marley looked at me funny in a toilet which wasn’t very nice.

In 1977 I introduced Sid Vicious to his heroin dealer, because I’m the sort of a guy who will do anyone a good turn. Nancy wasn’t very nice though.

And then suddenly it was not the 1970’s anymore, mainly because Keith Moon and John Bonham died. Although I am glad to say that I taught Paul Morely everything he knows, and he went on to become really huge on the TV and everything. So - in a way - I sort of set the tone for the Zeitgeist of the 1980s.

And I saw Bob Dylan and and the Hawks in 1966 too.

Christ, is it really that bad?

No, it's a great read. I'll admit - as I did elsewhere on the board - that the first year is a bit disappointing, and it takes a while for Kent to pick up speed, but the rest crackle. 74-75 are as good a prose as I've read anywhere, let alone in the pop culture arena. Granted, there is a bit of a Zelig-like quality to his memoir, which, if you weren't on-side with Kent in the first place, might grate; however, it's such a great story, one that is, via its sheer scope and cast of characters, arguably unequaled in the stable that is UK music journalists. Some genuinely original takes on well known characters come as refreshment, and I for one would like to see a sequel, perhaps one that deals with his post-peak life.

The point of Apathy, as far as I'm concerned, though, is the prose. It's a succulent read, one that stands in polar opposition to the abuses of language served on our mother language by current (seemingly untalented, and merely scandal-happy) journalism and the internet.

I'm sure if you precise any book you can successfully undo their synergic appeal.

more from them...etc

sorry.

I grew up with the 'Kent' school and that 'ouvre' had such an impact on my intellectual/cultural life that Im gonna give it a go.
'The Dark Stuff' was quality.

and yes, 'The Dark Stuff' is quality. Although I have to say, this morning I had to lift it down from the shelf to make sure.

I know it's all subjective, but before the boredom set in, my overriding emotion as I read was sadness that his writing had sunk to such a level. The occasional paragraph or sketch rises above the sludge but not often enough. If the writing were sharper, and less riddled with cliche, then the self serving aspects of the story would be less grating. It's sloppy and - something that I could never have imagined saying about his work in the past - badly needs an editor.

"Dee Dee Ramone ... was turning gay tricks to feed his drug habit - everybody knew this. Johnny Thunders in particular used to needle him about it".

With an actual needle do you think?

and can't help wondering how people, who can obviously do no better, have the nerve to criticise his prose. I read the whole book in two quick sessions, and if it had been as poorly written as some have said I doubt very much if I'd have managed that.

Good work, Steven C (though I hope the book is better than you say).

Here's Jim Crace's own "Digested Read" of "Apathy...":
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/mar/16/apathy-for-the-devil-nick-ke...

but it's not that good. I'm in the' me the junkie' phase.
Considering he's a writer it's very poorly done.

Nick Kent isn't backwards7 in disguise.

Just finished the book, so thought I'd wade in again. I'm not sure what people are expecting from Apathy, because books on pop/rock are rarely what you'd consider decent prose, so to have something that is a colourful read is a boon. The impression I'm getting is that some here didn't like Kent even before picking the book up, and have merely used the books shortcomings (as they see them) to confirm their opinions. Given that he battered himself with Class A's for over a decade, and is nudging 60, can't the man be forgiven for not trotting out his best sentences?

Granted, he could be forgiven for score settling and sniping back at many, but he did experience some pretty astounding moments in music (which I think many of us would fail to be totally humble about), and has some interesting counter-arguments to air about some of the more legendary figures of said period.

(If you want to read something that is really bitter and overly selective in what it has to say, go read Jah Wobble's book, Memoirs of a Geisha; I picked that up as something of a fan, but he's so thin-skinned and belligerent throughout - and very selective when it comes to his own acts of violence on others - that I went right off him.)

I will say Apathy is a bit of a confused read, though; for a memoir it ditches the author too much in favour of an analysis of what's going on in the music world. As autobiography, it is very light on personal story. The worst chapter for this is the last one, 78/79. Having built up a sense of jeopardy by outlining his descent into greater drug use, and his homelessness, by the time I reached the last chapter I thought there would be some kind of climax, yet Kent himself doesn't really appear until the last few pages - which for a memoir is a bit bizarre.

I agree with the criticism that it could have done with a stronger editor on board, someone who would have pulled Kent back from merely using himself as a device to simply talk about music. There are also times when he seems to fall into the typical trap of list making: talking about key points in music history because he feels he has to. A prime example being Altamont; he wasn't there, it's common knowledge, yet Kent still seems to find it necessary to regurgitate the same old facts about what went on - like we need to hear them AGAIN. When I read his page on Altamont I almost felt like starting some kind of campaign to have mention of the gig banned, simply because it's been mythologized to death.