Tim's Reviews > Coal Black Mornings

I always liked Suede more than Oasis, Blur or Pulp. David Bowie was more of a presence in their music, look and lyrics. Suede also looked more like me and came from the same background. The bands we identify with as teenagers are such a powerful force in moving us away from the oppressive fume of our parents and environment. They give us another world to live in, a world where it's easier to find and know ourselves.
This book is the singer's account of his early life before fame arrived. It's a depiction of the dead-end suburban world he seeks to escape. It's quickly evident that, like me, he grew up reading NME and writers like Paul Morley who rarely used one word when he could use three. Every sentence swarms with adjectives and lyrical glitter. It's interesting that he still has a tendency to sees things from inside the bubble of his fame and has an inflated notion of Suede's importance in the grand scheme of things. He doesn't shy away from blowing his own trumpet. His mother dies before he has recorded a single song and that is the great sadness haunting the narrative. That she will never know what he achieved with his life. He wrote the song "The Next Life" about her which along with "Europe is our Playground" is my favourite Suede song.