Some Reviews of Chris Twomey's book - XTC: Chalkhills And Children

David Hepworth - Q Magazine

The involvement of the word "definitive" in the title implies that XTC have attracted numerous biographers in the past and that finally the band are about to be dealt some justice. The problem is that most rock biographies deal with commercial success, how to get it and how to deal with it, and commercial success is something XTC have only the briefest aquaintance with. Since the beginning of 1982, when Andy Partridge walked out on an American tour and they turned their back on touring, XTC have had an odd relationship with the music business, selling records in quantities respectable enough for a young band breaking through college radio but insufficiently exposed to attract new fans. Twomey's account of the group's golden age in the late '70s when they coat-tailed punk despite their birth certificates and musical predelictions is worth a skim but as soon as we arrive at the mid-'80s, it's largely the same recurring story of "any ideas for producers?". One is left admiring Partridge's single-mindedness but sympathising with his long-suffering colleagues, stuck at home when they could be out making some noise.

2/5

Andrew Harrison - Select Magazine

Do we really want a book about XTC? Sure, we want a new LP and another refreshingly sensible single, and we want Andy Partridge being smarter and more likeable than the average pop star in the media now and then. But a band biography? And one like this?

XTC would be the first to admit that their story is not the Apocalypse Now of pop. It goes something like this: band forms in Swindon, makes some good neo-punk records, Andy Partridge cracks up and swears off touring forever, band continues to make good records.

It's an amiable but not very inspiring tale, and Chris Twomey remains faithfully uninspired throughout the telling of it. Though there are moments of top period comedy (roadie Steve Warren's diary, January 1977: "I'm sure Andy looks a bit like Johnny Rotten." As if!) Twomey opt for the grim trainspotter's history tour of hotels, recording sessions and gigs in Mooseknob, Ontario. Gripping it isn't.

What hammers the final nail in is that the book seethes with cliche. If you want adept drumming, whimsical concepts, quirky Englishness and a general crateload of wheezing worn-tread rock hackery, then Chalkhills is your thing. Perhaps the XTC book should have been left unwritten.

Peter K Hogan- Vox Magazine

Swindon's finest have been producing quirky, intelligent pop for the past ten albums, a decade and-a-half's work. For their pains they've been largely ignored by the masses in their native land, had apalling managment problems, seen some half-a-million quid of their earnings get stuck to fingers other than their own, and had their sanity nearly destroyed by the endless tour/record/tour treadmill.

This account of their erratic career is factual and workmanlike - but also dull, dull, dull. While Twomey is scrupulously thorough - interviewing family, friends and colleagues - about investigating the band's history (especially their roots), there's very little indication as to what actually stirs the cogs of a true pop eccentric like Andy Partridge.

Though he's described as being "obsessed with Amercian comics" (his first band was named Clark Kent), no futher details are forthcoming, and his other well-documented obsessions (military history, toy trains) receive nary a mention.

More sadly, given that Partridge posesses one of the driest wits in rock, there a few examples of anecdotal humour on display here, other than the pre-XTC tale of would-be band member Spud Taylor trying to impress Andy with his home-made synthesizer - a metal box which made a mere two noises ( agurgle or a buzz).

"I was really disappointed," recalls Partridge. "I thought: there's no place in this band for someone with a model of the tomb of Lenin that gurgles."

All original work is acknowledged as being the copyright of the originator.