Photo by Lawrence Watson
When I tell people that I have a book coming out their first assumption is that it must be a kiss and tell romp through the hotel corridors of acid house excess. I quickly move to disavow them of that belief, pointing out that such a book would be crushingly dull.
Excluding a few notable years of experimental chemical exploration, some months supressing the tedium of touring or smothering the pain of loss with booze and potions, I’m an ‘early bath’ type of disc jockey. Don’t get me wrong I have enjoyed the occasional bought of youthful intemperance but have generally avoided more lurid expressions of intoxication. I did however once throw the batteries of a television remote control out of a hotel window (which I later rather sheepishly retrieved when it became apparent the TV was redundant without them).
Such stories do not lend themselves to a rollicking page turner, nor are they likely to enter the pantheon of rock and roll legends any time soon. Instead, I decided to conjure up a novel of supernatural goings on in the mysterious knot of nature, where the twitching curtains of suburbia are torn asunder by vengeful spirits, but where also redemption can be found in the roots.
It’s part J.G. Ballard, part Hammer Horror and, I guess, reflects the dark side of the green belt that I fancied lurked behind the doors of Metroland where I grew up. This is the soundtrack to that weird interzone.
Justin Robertson’s debut novel The Tangle is out now via White Rabbit. To begin reading his Baker’s Dozen, click the image of him below
