Chaise Longue

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To an extent Baxter was collateral damage. His father is rehearsing when he is born, drops him the first time he holds him, and makes it clear that no matter how much he loves Baxter and his sister Jemima, priority-wise they will always come a poor second to himself. When Dury made the album, which explores life as an adolescent with a celebrity father, few were aware of the phrase ‘nepo baby’. Now, it has become a major cultural talking point, and as we are all likely aware, it’s used to label the children of nepotism, most frequently in the arts. Some spellbinding showman takes his place. Draped from head to toe in combat clothing, stalking the stage like a snake, slides through the desert. A ringleader with no top hat, but a military helmet in its place. Scars concealed by camouflage. Big beige boots British army body armour. A man held up by some invisible puppet strings and with each twist and turn and fitful twitch, managing to captivate the crowd as soon as new single, DOA, from newly announced best of, Mr. Maserati: Best Of album from 2001-2021, shakes the room in a blaze of grime-inspired, razor-sharp street-smart lyrical agility to slice open the twilight with the grills on show, and the jewellery dangling heavy. Dury, Baxter (15 January 2010). "Baxter Dury: 'My dad was lovely, bubbly ... and annoying' ". The Guardian . Retrieved 17 October 2017.

Mine is, I suppose, unavoidably sad in some ways. We were forced to swim around the memories more than most because living in the vacuum that is a famous parent there are various events and things that seem unreal. You rely on those, even anecdotally, to slightly impress people around you, and you end up regurgitating almost constantly your life, or at least your early life. Without you realising it, it becomes a bit of a byproduct. I went into much greater detail in the book, of course, but then I’m probably more likely to talk about my life than other people. Maybe by writing it, I’m hoping to qualify the nonsense I’ve come out with in the past, or maybe it’s to create new nonsense!” Methods of parenting and education have progressed in recent years, especially compared to some of the more casually experimental routes inflicted on children of artistic professionals in the 70s and 80s. One experience that would take some beating is that endured by Baxter Dury. Dad also decided to offer Strangler a room in the flat, which meant I had to move out of it. I was transferred on to the decaying Victorian daybed or, as Dad referred to it, to make it sound more glamorous, the chaise longue in the front room. In a forced bonding exercise – or maybe Dad just wanted us out of the way – Strangler was told to take my friends and me out nightclubbing. Six of us managed to fit into the Nissan with the smallest in the boot. Strangler gave us a few cans of Tennent’s Super to share. The aftermath? The aftermath was an acceptance on behalf of a young Baxter that ‘I was marginalised by his need to do what he wanted first, and then be a father later’. It’s the dark, sullied heart of these half-lies and the shimmering soul of these half-truths that makes Baxter’s world a fascinating one to get a brief glimpse into; always surprising, the scene within the story with new arrivals of destabilising detail and brain-derailing character profiles that work so wonderfully well when captured in these socially relevant oddities, these acidic snippets of history as it happened, or has happened, or will happen.About him, and also not about him, it hovers a lens maximised to inspect at the predictably bohemian elite prowling around the subterranean art dens that only enable entrance with a membership, whilst also questioning why he all of a sudden finds his vulnerability with its boxers around its ankles and a cig between the lips, wincing at existence, fixating with fitting it, yet always somehow falling out of something. As a creation of a different version of events, the confirmation of the characters that dramatise them, and then the eradication of any evidence that those events took place, the new album from Baxter Dury dips in and out of typically bizarre scenes from an indie sitcom written by an English bohemian whilst also tilting at least half his director’s cap to the contemporary princes of hip hop to deepen its rich, dark, psychedelic trip into a tapestry of madness. Strangler appeared more frequently over the next few months, helping Dad on different errands. He would accompany him on his daily walk through Richmond Park wearing silk skating shorts that revealed too much thigh and a pair of second world war binoculars. Dad would walk at a meditative pace and it would take them a few hours to complete three or four miles. Dad would smoke a big joint and discuss the mating habits of the great crested grebe while Strangler pretended to listen. The album itself is produced by Paul White. In Baxter’s words “a freethinking dude, very relaxed, and a peaceful dude to be around”. It was White (Danny Brown producer and half of Golden Rules) who gave Baxter a kind of permission to create the record, whilst also becoming an architect hired to build the correct kinds of structures and platforms for Baxter to bounce off. “I had a lot of songs but he can make beats breathe and feel quite natural. He’s good at just letting things be. He doesn’t overthink it”. He has one son, Kosmo Korda Dury (born 2002), whose mother is the granddaughter of Zoltan Korda. [2] Discography [ edit ] Baxter Dury discography

I think I didn’t know how I’d gotten through the journey before. I also think I’d gotten to a point in my musical career where I started to relax, to feel more secure. And then what happens in that situation is, the better you are, the better the people are that hang around you. I just got some really good managers and one of them happened to be really, very academic and that helped a lot. Him being my manager and really academic was quite a reassurance. An old journalist; been to Oxford. It was just a good mood. I was guided through it a little bit. Oh yeah. I’m a tiny improvement but not that much. I actually shared the same account that my dad had. He had no bank account whatsoever. I have one debit card. Which I’ve lost. I don’t know where it is. Still pretty primitive which works to my advantage, that small amount of money that I had was not quite accessible. I live in quite a strange way. Ultimately, I tried to write a book about a child that lived in imbalanced circumstances. I skipped over Dad’s music because the book is more about the consequences of being his son.”

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This is many different things containing many diverse themes. In parts a book about making sense out of imagined realities. But equally it’s a book; a confessional book , a psychological travelogue, a psychoanalytical constellation, a fascinating piece of work. Does he ever get cynical? Cynical at what’s happened to where he came from? “There’s a sort of pastel-jumpered culture here. West London is slightly deprived of what it was”, he says. But when it comes to music, he’s anything but. He understands there is more to the pastel-jumpers, the indie kids, and the art schools than meets the eye. “I mean I’m pretty open-minded and encouraging. Especially music. If it’s a kid making music I’d never, ever say anything about that. I’m never dismissive about anyone else’s music I find it a bit too cruel”, he admits. Every sentence blooms with possible illuminating song titles. An irrepressible flash of the catch when swimming through the consciousness stream, inspired by the notions of the written word as a device to deliver what one day the mind will fail to serve. Baxter Dury (born 18 December 1971) is an English indie musician, originally signed to Rough Trade Records. [1] Early life [ edit ]

Ultimately, I tried to write a book about a child that lived in imbalanced circumstances. I skipped over Dad’s music because the book is more about the consequences of being his son. It’s a patchwork of foggy memories, some of which are over- and under-exaggerated, and I’m hoping it doesn’t offend too many people.” I Thought I Was Better Than You could almost be a concept album, Baxter scratching closer to the surface of himself than ever before, using voice, music and instruments as way of expression, freeing himself of complication through play and creativity, and making a record that sounds good. Baxter Dury, your instinct is always right, don’t change a thing and question everything.

It’s in the nature of any beat poet to be able to investigate what lurks behind the doors of perception. In the nature of those kinds of writers, Baxter included as our own distinctive class of that, a bizarre beatbox full of cryptograms graffitied to the surfaces of Ladbroke Grove to interrogate the other side. By blurring together the semi-autobiographical vignettes that colour in our existence, with a strange, self-inflicted pseudo-psychological method unheard of on this whirling earth, he accomplishes telling a story about himself and everyone else, things about nothing, things about everything. It’s a nice little party both Baxter Dury and Cooper Clarke have wound up attending together. Bumping into each other as they daringly venture into the unknown. The kind of unknown that calls upon them, compelling their Hyde to smile, pulling on their heartstrings as though it plays them like serenading the warm night with cocaine-man confidence on a vintage acoustic guitar, their id invited to sample the supplies of the buzzing night, the blinding lights, a banquet of delicious entrapments. Maserati is a gas. A laugh. A voice. Of lunacy and reason.