A Portrait of the Author as a Young Man

How a sold-out NME led to my career in music journalism

Seeds of my obsession get sown in 1972. Mine centres exclusively upon the New Musical Express. A Neapolitan boy who plays in bands, holds a copy in his hands one break time at school. Never seen such a thing before. I bug him about it. ‘What is that Enzo?’ ‘What is it?’ ‘It’s a what?’ repeated ad infinitum. Finally, his patience snaps. He shoves the paper at me. ‘You read it.’

I do, and my life path opens up in front of me. Except - I have no idea that it has. All I know, as I turn pages, is that this is what I want to do in life. Not teaching. Not insurance. Not a library assistant. But this.

I am fourteen years old.

I live in a children’s home. The things I love all put me in the present, the space where a deeply troubled past and a frightening future are temporarily removed from my soul.

When I read, when I immerse myself in music, or play football, my mind is cleared for take-off, and these demons no longer scar and scare me.

In the present moment, all my troubles seem so far, far away and that is how I like it.

I become an NME disciple.

I develop crushes on the writers. Charles Shaar Murray, in particular. For a period, I too wear a leather jacket, smoke black cigarettes and wear a black signet ring on my fourth finger.

As I grow into the NME, a belief is born inside of me.

I become convinced, deep, deep down in my being, that if I can just get to work for the NME, all my problems will simply disappear. My lack of confidence? My deep insecurity? My self-loathing? All of it destroyed by the NME, and there I am, the renewed man, the music writer, made absolutely glorious by the NME.

Such are the stuff of my daydreams. The pictures of the NME writers I avidly study every week in the paper are to blame. As I gaze upon them, I imagine office conversations. Cool stuff. ‘Hey, loved your piece this week, man.’ ‘Yours wasn’t so bad either…’

I imagine a family of us, brought together by music, pure sacred music, which bonds us all, destroys all prejudice.

But the work of the writers in question, whilst it enchants and grips me, and throws me onto flights of fancy, it never allows for the real possibility that I can one day stand next to them, that I can one day, be them.

Until 1976, when Tony Parsons arrives. I notice him because out of all the writers, he knows how to spell Sta-Prest correctly. I read about his background. Working class, factory worker, and now here he is, top of the heap, exactly where I want to be.

I follow all his recommendations. I buy The New Journalism Anthology (still got it,) and read every Tom Wolfe book that I can access in a Woking book shop.

Parsons’s writing style captivates me, but more, much more than that, his presence at the NME means that if he can make, well, so can I. That is such a valuable piece of knowledge.

My obsession moves up several gears.

That is why, at age twenty-one, I move to London.

I go to Polytechnic. I write for the student paper. I interview bands who play the Poly, I review records, and I wonder if I am any good. I ask but get no answers. And then the discovery that changes everything for me. Camden Tube Station newsagents sell the paper on a Tuesday lunchtime.

Jubilation.

Every week, there I am at midday, coins in hand. Eager, so eager…

Until one week, the best thing ever happens to me. The NME is sold out.

‘No mate, sold out.’ ‘What?’ ‘Sold out. Got Melody Maker.’ ‘Melody Maker? I want the NME.’ ‘Told you, sold out.’ ‘You got nothing out back?’ ‘Told you, sold out.’ ‘But how?’ ‘People bought them, now they are gone. Sold out.’

‘You haven’t got one copy out back?’ ‘Look, mate…’

I buy Melody Maker, staid, old-fashioned, very non-hip. Melody Maker. Can’t get heroin, get methadone is my thinking.

I take it home, open the first page. Advert. Young Writers wanted. Unexpected development. Pause for thought. Then, into action. Cut out student paper reviews. Write a letter, post it to the Editor. Two days later, a phone call with an invite.

Friday night, I enter editor Richard Williams’s office. I sit down and look up. Behind him, a huge poster of the 1970 Italian football team. ‘Do you like football?’ I ask.

Half an hour later, we are still on that subject. Interview successful.

I get another call. I am offered my first review. A Mod Weekender at the Marquee. I get there early. I wait for the first band. They come onstage. They are called Squire. And who is their bass player?

You remember the Neapolitan boy at school who first gave me the NME? Him. Enzo Espositio.

And the world is a magical place.