A Cure for Gravity

A Cure for Gravity

A Cure for Gravity

A Cure for Gravity


A renowned composer and one-time pop star's charming, funny, inspiring memoir of becoming--and evolving as--a musician.


I'm sitting in a Transit van in Basingstoke, a battered once-blue Transit van full of drums and amplifiers, in a dirty white concrete car park under a dirty white sky, and I'm thinking: What am I doing here?

The rest of the band has gone for a walk, in search of civilization, and I'm keeping an eye on things. Pretty soon I'm dozing, though it's too cold to sleep. It's the sort of useless gray Saturday when everyone should just stay in bed with a good book. a blank on the calendar. Christmas and New Year are gone, and 1975 is having trouble getting started.

I'm having some trouble getting started myself. Last night's gig was a late one and I have a lingering hangover. Not a pounding-head, churning- guts kind of hangover, but the kind where you feel sort of ok as long as you do everything slowly. I'm not sure I feel like doing a gig tonight. But if we must, I wish we could get on with it. This happens all the time: We're told to show up for a gig at, say, five o'clock, but the place is locked, silent, deserted. Eventually, around six or seven, a minion will appear, rattling a bunch of keys like some ghoulish jailer. He will eye us suspiciously. He'll ask if we're the band, and one of us will say, No! We're just four long- haired youths who like to hang around in empty car parks for hours on end in a van full of drums and amps and guitar cases. Or something to that effect. Grudgingly, the minion will open up and we'll get to work.

In the meantime, I'm dozing and thinking. of course I can't sleep. I was blessed and cursed with a hyperactive brain. I ask myself age-old and . . .

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