Mar. 2, 2025
45 is Bill Drummond’s sort of memoir, albeit one with a hazy memory of the events most readers (myself included) are likely to be interested in. Drummond is/was one half of pop-pranksters The KLF, but 45 barely mentions them at all. There’s a lot about before (e.g. managing Echo and the Bunnymen in late-70s and early-80s Liverpool) and after (various shenanigans in the art world and attempting to relate to his children), some of that writing is very interesting. Nevertheless the whole lacuna of his pop heyday seems to punches a hole through the entire book.
The book is structured with dated chapters, the date referring to when it was written. It’s almost a blog before blogs became a thing. Unfortunately, things get repetitive pretty fast. Entries ping back and forth between art dealers, the Aylesbury landscape and bizarre sojourns in Helsinki. Several entries are preoccupied with Drummond’s sleeve notes for an Echo and the Bunnymen reissue. There’s a horrible section about the K Foundation’s intention to hang some dead cows off a pylon overlooking the M25. In fairness to Drummond, the awfulness of the idea comes over in the (literally) visceral writing, and makes plain the psychological toll of going through with the idea. As with most of their truly bad ideas, they don’t actually go through with it.
Speaking of bad ideas, and one they actually went through with, screenings of “Watch the K Foundation burn a million quid” are liberally peppered throughout the chapters, but there is literally no reflection on that action. I guess the whole point of burning the money was to only talk about it at these screenings, to get people to pay money to hear why they did it. Isn’t the cost of a book enough? It is perhaps the ultimate satire of capitalism: burn a stack of money and encourage other to burn theirs in pursuit of understanding why.
Also, “I had lots of money and burnt it and now I do slash don’t sort of regret it” would probably be an even more boring chapter than the one about the 23 minute “F*** the millenium” event at the Barbican in 1997. Drummond has so little to say he pads out that piece with critical (and largely on the nose) reviews of the show before expressing his frustration that it was supposed to be like that.
Drummond is a far better writer about his enthusiasms, though he self-sabotages in these pieces too. One early entry about fighting the urge to paint a landscape is funny and touching, laced with self-deprecation. It’s about the only point - at least when I was still reading closely - where the age-related aspect of the book’s title is hinted at. Another piece about not interviewing his favourite contemporary artist is brilliant. Drummond sabotages the possibility of the interview by suggesting a rather strange format to the publication, one that only involves asking Richard Long their favourite drink, their favourite colour, and their favourite contemporary artist. This was to come at the end of a brilliant piece about how Drummond came to appreciate Richard Long’s work and what it means to him, all apparently unfolding while he travels to Bristol to see one of Richard Long’s new works. Instead, the questions are asked of the taxi driver that drives Drummond home after he misses the last bus. The answers leave the piece hanging with a new perspective.
45 is a decent book despite the caveats. You can’t argue with Drummond’s relentless urge to be creative and meaningful, nor can you help but emphasise with his frustration that things don’t turn out the way he’d like. But it does feel like it would all be more meaningful if he were to acknowledge that many of us share these frustrations, no matter how mundane our creative actions are, and that a little solidarity rather than sabotage might energise ones endeavours far more than any invented leyline.