Justin Currie's diary of a somebody: a brisk, irascible record of rock 'n' roll life

A diagnosis with Parkinson's colours the del Amitri singer's reflections in his memoir, The Tremolo Diaries

Justin Currie: Photograph by Colin Constance

I’ll start at the top.

I read Justin Currie’s book a couple of months ago, and did a short review of it for Uncut. That didn’t stop me thinking about it. A sharp book, its angles are acute. It’s unforgiving. It’s not bullshit. This last thing is a rarity in a rock ’n’ roll memoir, because rock ’n’ roll is in the business of bullshit elevation. Currie doesn’t do that. He has his reasons, and we can talk about them. The main reason, I think, is temperamental. It’s not him.

If I was to employ the language of the elevator pitch, Tremolo Diaries is like a cross between Ian Hunter’s Diary of A Rock ’n’ Roll Star and … what? Hang on, consults notes. Well, what I said in the elevator was Karl Ove Knausgaard. I don’t know if that’s true, and it’s problematic because so many people have an idea of old Karl based on not reading his books. (This is true of all writing about books, including the reviews. Nobody reads at all, especially the reviewers. It’s all for show). When I mentioned Karl Ove, I wasn’t referring to his recent fictional excursion into death metal faith opera. I meant the novels - we have to call them novels - in which he told the story of his early life, a mundane thing that was rendered in exquisite, excruciating detail. There’s a flatness to Knausgaard that presents as honesty. It’s mundane, but relatable. It feels true. It feels powerful.

But don’t forget the Ian Hunter bit. I read Ian Hunter’s Diary at an impressionable age. He was my pre-punk hero. I loved his lyrics. I loved the drama of his music. I knew so little that I didn’t know he was massively indebted to Bob Dylan.

So, look. I haven’t read that Ian Hunter book since I read it. But I read it at the time of maximum impact. I was teenaged and open for business. I was inviting fresh information. The book has disappeared, along with my copy of Queen’s Sheer Heart Attack, my signed Kenneth Anger catalogue, and my 7 inch of White Mice by the Mo-Dettes. Not that I’m keeping score. What do I remember about Ian Hunter? His book was more diary than it was rock ’n’ roll. Yes, there were bits about calling in to Graceland to try and meet Elvis, a great many visits to pawn shops to look at guitars, and several references to the ingestion of “mandies”, or Mandrax, which helped flatten out the unpleasant extremities of the rock ’n’ roll lifestyle. But mostly it was about plodding on. Nothing was glorified.

I’ve interviewed Justin Currie and del Amitri a couple of times. I can’t quite remember the where and when of the first time. I took pictures at Valhalla in Aberdeen, and they had very short hair, angular guitars, and a kind of fractious melodic intensity. I liked them. They were my new thing for a while. I think the interview took place later, when they were playing with the Fall. (I also tried to interview Mark E Smith, but he was lying on the floor at the time, apparently unconscious.) That del Amitri interview appeared in my fanzine with the headline More Intelligent Young Men With Guitars. I was planning to quote from that story, but I seem to have lost all copies of that issue of the fanzine. I imagine they are in a nest with Kenneth Anger and Freddie Mercury.

Setlist from early del Amitri show at Valhalla, Aberdeen

Later, when del Amitri’s hair had grown, I interviewed them for Vox magazine, and hung out with them at the Barrowland in Glasgow. I think maybe that piece was more boring than informative, as I was trying to act like a grown-up. But I remember one thing Justin Currie said; about the difficulty of coming off tour, returning to an empty flat, and discovering that daily life was no longer arranged according to a schedule, the fridge was empty, and there was no one to take care of your laundry. He wasn’t complaining. He was just saying.

So, Tremolo Diaries. I made notes. The book is about an American tour supporting a band who Currie is refreshingly rude about. As tours go, it’s a slog. This is followed by some European dates, which are more fun.

How does it feel? “No one seems too excited,” Currie writes, describing the gig-going experience. “We’re all too long in the tooth. We know what happens. We watch this shit and go home and pretend we’ve enjoyed ourselves. We did once; now it’s just habit.”

There are reflections on boyhood. There is a sense of fucks not given. Of ennui. He wanders through a parking lot. “If you like a lot, there’s lots to like.” He is brisk, irascible, angry, uprooted; due to travel, age, illness, habit. He speculates idly about taking up heroin as a hobby, on the basis that addiction would add some structure to the day. He reflects on the alienation of touring, and “the desperate need to feel part of the places you visit”.

And, since this is a tour, the pattern repeats. “Without alcohol to ameliorate, the entourage gets suffocating. You begin to resent people you love. You begin to resent yourself.” He meets fans, and talks about “getting selfied”. It is, he says, “a pathetically feeble impersonation of intimacy”. Surprisingly, as del Amitri are a band who have always been accessible and appreciative of their fan-base, he observes “fans aren’t friends, no matter how supportive.” It’s true, of course.

Looking at my notes again, they are bleak. There are idle thoughts of suicide, the notion of “not being. It’s a fantasy that keeps me from true despair.” (Ivor Cutler said a similar thing to me once: He said. “Suicide has always been a good friend to me. It is, for me, something very comforting. The notion that it’s available, and also the notion that it’s extremely difficult without doing yourself an injury.”)

Why the long face? Well, as is now widely known, Currie has been diagnosed with Parkinson’s, a condition he calls the Ghastly Affliction, and whose unpredictable influence he gives the name of “Gavin”. His partner is also suffering the after effects of a stroke. In the diary, he’s depressed. A note of insouciance is excusable.

So, yes. This is a book about a musician with Parkinson’s. Possibly that’s a new thing. It’s certainly a valuable thing, because it shines a light on a medical condition that exists in the shadows, and could use more understanding, more money and more research into its cause, its effects, into possible cures. But I don’t think that’s all The Tremolo Diaries is, and I don’t think it would be fair to Currie to view him as the stenographer of his symptoms. He’s always had a bleak sensibility, coupled with an ability to make it ring melodically. There’s a reason del Amitri’s compilation album was called Hatful of Rain. Their big hit was Nothing Ever Happens. Let’s acknowledge what Currie says on Day 40 of the tour. “My life is fucked.” And let’s pay him the courtesy of appreciating Day 41 as well. “I don’t want to be remembered for being unwell.”

The Tremolo Diaries is published by New Modern, £22.

Flyer from early del Amitri show