An Odd Boy - Volume One

By Doc Togden

Volume one of an odd boy is a memoire of an eccentric aficionado of Bach and Blues, poetry and painting. A portrait of the artist as a lad, set in the experimental cultural ferment of the late 1960s. It is a coming-of-age adventure, both surreal and innocent, humorous and poignant, depicting an era when the Arts set a generation’s imagination on fire. The author’s life is a rare roulette wheel of childhood wonder and tragic debacles; a debilitating stammer and a powerful singing voice; bad luck and fierce good fortune. At 16 he’s travelled far in human experience from the midnight expedition he made to the crossroads at the age of 12.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aro Books worldwide
• Release date: Jul 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781898185222

Book preview

An Odd Boy - Volume One

an odd boy

Doc Togden

2011

Aro Books worldwide

P.O. Box 111

Aro Khalding Tsang

5 Court Close, Cardiff

CF14 1JR

Wales, UK

© 2011 by Doc Togden

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Ebook Edition 2018

ISBN: 978-1-898185-20-8 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-898185-21-5 (hardback)

ISBN: 978-1-898185-22-2 (ebook)

http://aro-books-worldwide.org/

odd dedications

To my wife Caroline Togden; to my son Robert E Lee Togden and my daughter Ræchel Renate Tresise Togden; to my mother Renate, father Jesse, and brother Græham.

To the lads: Steve Bruce; Ron Larkin; Jack Hackman.

Also to John and Pauline Trevelyan; Rodney Stillwell Love; Clive and Betty Bruce; Ernest Preece; Michael and Sandra Blenkinsopp; John Morris; Dereck and Susan Crowe; and all my marvellous mentors.

To all my comrades-in-arms and guitars; to the heroines of Art who have flittered—like fairies or valkyries—through my life, to show me the shine on the passing moment.

odd acknowledgements

Everlasting thanks to my dear and wonderful wife Caroline for unending patience with an odd husband who lived in a parallel reality whilst writing an odd boy.  She joined me on planet odd boy on many evenings – reading chapters, in order that I could hear the voice in which the book was speaking.  I needed to make sure the voice was congruous with the texture of memory.  She let me know when I’d given too much information about guitar technicalities and Blues history.

The accuracy of date references vis-à-vis music in an odd boy are all due to gZa’tsal – the incomparable cowgirl and heroine who researched them.  She ironed out many anomalies with regard to where I was and when.  This was not easy – because I had contradictory memories of where and when I might have been.  That however, was her smallest contribution.  The major work she undertook was an exceptional feat of architectural editing.  She took a morass of riotously random information and turned it inside out.  The original 170,000 word essay on the Arts—on which this book was based—was an idiosyncratic stream-of-consciousness informational harangue.  It was peppered with hilarity, bizarre incidents, haphazard anecdotes, and whimsical personal accounts – and few would have had the patience to read it.  gZa’tsal took this misbegotten mangrove of miscellanies and defined its narrative skeleton.  She connected dem bones, dem dry bones and provided copious advice as to how the viscera could be appended.

The ‘Lady of Literary Creation’ prompted her ersatz Ezekiel as to where the various vital organs should be placed – and ensured that veins and arteries of dialogue connected them.  Finally she made sure that the nervous system—my ideas about Art—developed in such a way as to enable the corpus literati to move as a living entity.  The result is far more handsome than Frankenstein’s monster – and far more affable.  A person could well be delighted to meet this unlikely assemblage on a dark night, or in a Blues Club in Montana . . . .  Thanks also to Missin’ Dixie Dé-zér—the other incomparable cowgirl and heroine—who contributed vastly to the musical references – as well as teaching me some mighty fine bass riffs.  She and gZa’tsal are now majorly involved in producing the Savage Cabbage album that never was.

Without gZa’tsal’s assistance an odd boy would have been a less frequented ward of Bedlam.  She persistently questioned my extravagantly oblique references and interminable asides.  She thus enabled me to breathe life into the vague personalities who populate my tale.  She encouraged me to increase the dialogue and to deepen its resonance with those I remembered.  My keyboard thus became a Ouija board – summoning up a gaggle of apparitions, all talking turkey.  Streams of conversation re-emerged—out of nowhere—and for a while I lived partially within that other time.

Thanks to Big Mamma Métsal for her assiduous proofreading—many valuable suggestions—and for being an exemplary Blues vocal student.  One day she’s likely to be second only to Bessie Smith.   Thanks also to Nor’dzin and ’ö-Dzin for final proofing of the text and for pushing this extravaganza forward into the domain of published reality.

Thanks to Don Young of National Resophonic Guitars for friendship, enthusiasm, lively correspondence concerning subjects too wide to enumerate, wonderful instruments, and for building me the 12 string resophonic guitars about which I previously only dreamt.

Thanks to Lindsay Berry née Goolding—my old school friend—who graciously provided suggestions, valuable insights into the historical odd boy, and information on events and dates pertaining to Netherfield School.  She pressed me for the further chapters and provided frequent encouragement.

To Elaine Pierce for kindly availing me of thirty odd songs I’d written between 1966 and 1972.  I’d not seen these songs since October 1972 – when I discarded my own copies.

Lastly—and by no means leastly—thanks to: Græham and Jill Smith for hospitality, humanity and hilarity in times of adversity; Melissa Troupe for accomplishing the almost impossible task of teaching me to canter; Linda Donegan for antiquarian Western-wear; Craig Donegan for profound Telecaster advice and many a jam session; Richard—Mad Dog—Simon for backing harp on many past and future vocals; Mad Og—the Trappist—Sinister Minister of Tympani, for percussion, and introducing me to the wonders of wah-wah bagpipes; Bronco Sally Yon supreme couturier and tailor-in-chief of my burgeoning personal wardrobe; Big Mamma Yeshé for unwithheld enthusiasm for my ‘Speaking with Ravens’ paintings; Small Mamma A’dze for her sheer vocal flair on many a night at the Blues Barn; Shoe-Shine Shardröl for tinkling the ivories; to Rig’dzin Dorje and David Chapman for reading the entire text of an odd boy aloud on several occasions; to ‘Killer’ Carl Grundberg and Ngakma Zér-mé, and finally to Seng-gé Dorje ‘the Cholesterol Kid’ for guitar enthusiasm.

I’ve been a poet and text writer – so narrative and dialogue were previously not my forté.  I’ve come to love the métier however – and can only wonder what I shall do once an odd boy has been put to bed.  I can hardly write another such book – unless I tackle some other part of my life.  My Life as a Camel Driver in the Gobi Desert?  A Street Sweeper in Ely Tells All?  Fear and Loathing in Littlehampton?  Maybe not.  Maybe I might venture into the Himalayas . . . who can tell.

impressionism: an odd preface

So many fantastic colours; I feel in a wonderland / Many fantastic colours makes me feel so good. / You’ve got that pure feel, such good responses.

Bruce/Brown—Cream—SWLABR  Disraeli Gears—1967[1]

These are the facts: there are no facts.

Even if there were facts – why would anyone wish to read of my juvenile disgruntlement with the black vinyl furniture that replaced the fine old horse-hair couch and armchairs of my family home?  Who’d care one way or another about my unaccountable imperative vis-à-vis blackening the neighbour’s concrete gnome?  I’d urinate on that wretched gnome under cover of darkness whenever the opportunity presented itself.  Concrete turns black if persistently sprayed with urine. 

I am not—as you can see—concerned to avoid presenting myself as an idiot.  Only an idiot would take pleasure in blackening a gnome.  It’s not an interesting topic.  I’d not even wish to spin-doctor the situation into an anti-establishment

Art-statement – because I don’t believe that Art should revel in belligerence.  At the age of 13 however, I considered gnomes to be the gargoyles of the bourgeoisie – the worshipful emblems of suburbia.  As such they required righteous indignation – and I smote them, in my mercy.

I’d spontaneously rearrange people’s wrought iron gates.  They were easy to lift off their hinges and I’d creep up and down the street at night moving the gates. 

In the morning everyone would come down and find they had someone else’s gates.  Could I call this My Struggle Against Suburban Values.  Situation Art?  Environmental Installation Art?  No – I was merely a whimsical wag bent on buffoonery. I grew out of it.  I became an urbane spaceman rather than an amateur urban guerrilla.  I grew into a gentler version of the antagonistic early adolescent I’d been.

I’m the urban spaceman baby, I’ve got speed / I’ve got everything I need / I’m the urban spaceman baby, I can fly / I’m a supersonic guy.

Neil Innes—Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band—I’m the Urban Spaceman—1968[2]

I need to write with enthusiasm.  Where there’s no enthusiasm – there is nothing to write.  Writing about the wild dimension of the Arts is more interesting by far, than providing tedious details of the childhood of a stuttering dullard.  My enthusiasm has always been inspired by the dimension of sensory experience.  The fact that I have senses and that those senses can explore the nature of reality has always inspired me to be creative.  Artistic creativity is a natural response to life – it’s a communicative dance.  The schools I attended never seemed to provide avenues of joy in relation to reality.  I had the sense of living in a bank vault stuffed with incalculable wealth – but where I was being instructed on the ways in which one could arrange money in piles rather than spending it.

You never give me your money, / you only give me your funny paper / and in the middle of negotiations you break down.

Lennon/McCartney—Beatles—You Never Give Me Your Money—Abbey Road—1969

The world is a fantastically exciting situation.  The Arts pervade everything.  They take a direct line into the nature of reality, so when I discuss the Arts – I’m discussing the nature of reality.

I have an idea to present: everyone is an innate Artist.  That seemed so obvious in the 1960s – and you didn’t have to be some sort of philosopher to grasp the notion.  So what do we do now, short of time travel?  Time travel—as it’s portrayed in science fiction—is not currently feasible – but there are other possibilities.  If you want to time-travel to the 1960s – you just need to open your eyes and allow your senses to function ever-so-slightly outside conventional parameters.  You don’t have to ingest psychoactive substances.  You don’t even have to don headphones and close your eyes.  You merely need to let your senses do what they do rather than following the dictates of codified societal legislation.  You have to look at what is there.

If you look at the colour, texture, and sound of anything—anywhere—you’ll observe the fabric of reality begin to glitter.  Maybe glittering won’t be the word you’ll use to describe what you perceive – but it won’t be a regulation societal term.  Just take the time to stare—with all your senses—into life.  There’s a cosmology of sound constantly performing.

Alice: I wonder if I’ve been changed in the night?  Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning?  I almost think I can remember feeling a little different.  But if I’m not the same, the next question is ‘Who in the world am I?’  Ah, that’s the great puzzle!

Lewis Carroll—Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland—1865

Volume one of an odd boy contains Part I—the crossroads—which is simply the story of my attempts to be an artist in the world of the Arts.  The story runs from 1957 to 1968 – from the age of 5 to 16.  As my reminiscences began to evolve into a book, an uneasy notion stole over me: whilst I have the right to tell my story – I have no right to tell anyone else’s story. 

However, because everyone’s history is woven into the annals of others – I couldn’t avoid revealing aspects of those inter-connected lives.  So . . . should I pour praise on everyone?  No . . . that would make tedious reading, but I wouldn’t wish to disparage anyone either – especially those who may be quite changed by time.  I’m a dyed-in-the-wool subjectivist when it comes to appreciation of the past – and what happened in that exotic foreign land.  I’m also a mythologist.  I believe the best of those who illuminated my past with their creative presence.  I believe the best of them because I chose them as my friends, heroines, heroes, and mentors.  Why dwell on that which they themselves might choose to forget?  Faced with this conundrum I decided that personal names and places would be changed except for the Artists I mention.  Where severely negative statements had to be made the settings and events have been disguised.

Give thy thoughts no tongue.  Nor any unproportioned thought his act.  Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.

William Shakespeare—Hamlet (I, iii)

It was through Bob Dylan’s book that I realised it was possible to write autobiographically – without writing an autobiography.[3]  Volume One of an odd boy is autobiographical in nature – but the theme is: the Arts as I’ve known them.  I write of memories which relate to the Arts – but my notion of what constitutes the Arts may seem perplexingly broad and chaotic.  Life itself is Art.  The ethos of time and place is Art – if you happen to be touched by it.  I don’t pretend to be representative of the ’60s—I’m not presenting carbon-dated fact—I’m simply describing the chaotic epoch that rings in my mind – even though 40 years have elapsed.  As Bob Dylan said ‘I accept chaos.  I’m not sure whether it accepts me.’

an odd boy

---

[1] SWLABR – the title of the song is an acronym: She Was Like A Bearded Rainbow.

[2] Produced by Paul McCartney under the pseudonym ‘Apollo C Vermouth’

[3] Chronicles: Volume One, 2005

part one – crossroads

december 1957 – june 1968

chapters one – thirteen

If you want to learn how to make songs yourself, you take your guitar and you go to where the road crosses that way, where a crossroads is.  Get there be sure to get there just a little ’fore 12 that night so you know you’ll be there.  You have your guitar and be playing a piece there by yourself . . .  A big black man will walk up there and take your guitar and he’ll tune it.  And then he’ll play a piece and hand it back to you.  That’s the way I learned to play anything I want.

Attributed to Tommy Johnson: Tommy Johnson—David Evans—London: Studio Vista—1971

Robert Johnson?  No, I didn’t know him, personally. / I stone got crazy when I saw Son House run down them strings with a bottleneck.  My eyes lit up like a Christmas tree – and I said I had to learn that. / That Mississippi sound, that Delta sound is in them old records.  You can hear it all the way through. / Of course that was my idol, Son House.  I think he did a lot for the Mississippi slide down there. / Man, you don’t know how I felt that afternoon when I heard that voice and it was my own voice.

Muddy Waters

I didn’t look back.  I couldn’t.  Such is life, imaginary or otherwise: a continuous parting of ways, a constant flux of approximation and distanciation, lines of fate intersecting at a point which is no-time, a theoretical crossroads fictitiously present, an unstable ice floe forever drifting between was and will be.  The Adventure called and I followed with my thumb like a character being written by an intractable author.  Which, of course, I was.

Sol Luckman—Beginner’s Luke—page 85 of Book 1 of the Beginner’s Luke Series

"There was a crossroads not that far from my home—in a flat stretch of largely uninteresting farmland—and there was a thing I had to do there that defies description even today.  I went there late one night to meet Legba – but there was nothing there but fields that ran up right onto the road in every direction.  It was far too cold for Mississippi—and far too cold for me—but it looked pretty similar from what little I can remember.  I came away with the shivers – but I played my wretched four string plastic guitar there for an hour and it sounded worse than hell.  It seems it’s been that way ever since – but, it was one hell of a ride."

Farquhar Arbuthnot

. . .  good times, bad times, only thing I wanted anyone to say is: "He could really play – he was good."

character ‘Willie Brown’ from Crossroads—1986

alice in wonderland

december 1957 – june 1959

When logic and proportion have fallen sloppy dead, / And the White Knight is talking backwards and the Red Queen’s: Off with her head!

Grace Slick—Jefferson Airplane—White Rabbit—Surrealistic Pillow—1967

Scent of wild strawberries.  Grasshoppers performing arpeggios on the unripened wheat-husks of their legs.  Sunflowers gazing down with undisguised curiosity in an acre of garden emboldened by handsome chestnut trees.  Alice and I played there all day in the Summers.  It was almost as much my home as hers.  My father didn’t mind me being away for unusual stretches of time – as I wouldn’t be making a nuisance of myself in his vicinity.

Alice and I would often wander in Weyflood Woods.  There was a small meadow a short walk through the trees across the River Weyflood.  We imagined no one else knew that it was there.  The Weyflood is called a river but it’s no more than a stream.  We could jump it with ease at the age of 5.  We’d sit in our mystery meadow wordlessly observing butterflies.  There were an inordinate number of butterflies in the late 1950s: red admirals, purple emperors, green hairstreaks, peacocks, tortoiseshells, green fritillaries, painted ladies, cabbage whites, brimstones, meadow browns, swallowtails, small heaths, Adonis blues, and all kinds of skippers.  An extravaganza surpassing the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album sleeve.  We felt it cruel to try to catch them as they were too easily damaged.  We found, if we sat still—and if we were absolutely quiet—they’d come near and flitter around us.

The meadow was a visually fascinating space in which light emanated upward.  The colours were unusually vivid.  We enjoyed watching the changing shades of green in the grass far more than television.  There was a pond which teemed with tadpoles in the Spring and we watched as they slowly turned into frogs.  There were newts, too – and once we saw a greater crested newt resplendent with a fire-freckled belly.

Alice Trevelyan was my early childhood companion – and my future wife.  We made that decision as 5 year olds during the Yuletide of ’57 – as snow drifted out of the deep grey, making marvellous mollescent mystery of the world.  Who needs sunshine, when the sunshine of your love lives a short walk away?

I’ll be with you darling soon, I’ll be with you when the stars start falling. / I’ve been waiting so long to be where I’m going in the sunshine of your love.

Bruce/Brown/Clapton—Cream—Sunshine of Your Love—Disraeli Gears—1967

Alice and I arranged our wedding celebrations, in detail.  The marriage of Alice Rosalind Trevelyan and Victor Howard Simmerson would be followed by a grand reception – at which several different courses of ice-cream would be served with a selection of delicious berries.  Each guest would create a collage to be displayed in the reception hall.  I was to wear white.  Alice had seen a man dressed in white in a film.  She’d liked it.  The film was probably ‘The Man in the White Suit’ – a satirical comedy starring Sir Alec Guinness.[4]  Alice was going to dress in green.  She’d have a long velvet cape and a hat like Robin Hood’s adorned with a long pheasant feather.

Alice agreed that marriage was the only sensible course of action – because we were obviously made for each other.

We never had an ill-tempered word.  We agreed on everything.  Whatever childish greed and wilfulness existed in us must have been sublimated.  Kindness and generosity could only be met in equal measure.  We were just as we seemed, to each other – however we were elsewhere.  Once we’d agreed on marriage Alice said "Now you should kiss me."

I felt slightly nervous about that – alluring though the prospect was.  "Don’t we have to be married first? " I asked, hoping she would know the answer – and that it would be ‘no’.  My father had expressed such outrage if anyone kissed on television—no matter how briefly—that I’d come to think that it was a highly shocking activity.

Alice laughed "Of course not.  It’s just—babies—that come after you’re married – didn’t you know that? "

Well no – I had no idea.  So I leant forward and kissed her.  "Can I kiss you every day? " I asked.

"Yes! she replied Every day for ever! "

Alice lived in a large late-Georgian house in Weyflood.[5]  It was one of two houses on an unmade cul-de-sac leading into Weyflood Woods.  Their garden had two entrances from the cul-de-sac.  The entrance closest to the house was the drive and her parents’ two cars often stood there.  I don’t know what kind of cars – but they were much larger than our family car.  They had leather seats and walnut dashboards.  They had a good smell to them.  Her father’s car was deep grey and had shiny dials on the dash – and I liked the look of them excessively.  They looked like the dials you’d find in the cockpit of an æroplane.

I’d seen a film about WWII—The Dam Busters—and the æroplanes had instruments like that.  I think one of them must have been a rev-counter—unknown on most family cars until the late ’80s—so I imagine that Alice’s family must have been relatively affluent.

Mr Trevelyan got us a book about butterflies so that we could identify them.  There were caterpillar and chrysalis times too.  It was miraculous that such creatures existed – and we were entranced by their colours.  It seemed entirely curious that this life was just happening for no evident reason.  It made us think that there was no evident reason for us either.  We were just there – and all those colours and shapes were just there too.  Adults generally didn’t see themselves as colours and shapes.  They took themselves very seriously – as fundamentally different from caterpillars, chrysalises, or butterflies.

One day we saw a shrew sitting by the side of the Weyflood washing its whiskers.  Alice said "It’s the loveliest creature I’ve ever seen."  I agreed but secretly noted that Alice was lovelier by far.  Just looking at Alice made me smile.  She was the cleverest most beautiful girl in the world.

We wished we could talk with animals – in order to ask them what the world looked like being so small or flying or burrowing, or whatever.

So many fantastic colours; I feel in a wonderland / Many fantastic colours makes me feel so good. / You’ve got that pure feel, such good responses.

Bruce/Brown—Cream—SWLABR[6]—Disraeli Gears—1967[7]

Animals were fantastic – and, they were free.  They didn’t have to obey laws of any kind.

There was no church, school, overbearing parents or police to force them to do anything they didn’t want to do.  Some of them ate each other—that was true—but then some people ate each other.  Apart from the chance of being eaten – being an animal seemed a good situation.  Being eaten hardly seemed a bigger risk than being killed in a war – and human beings were having wars all the time.  Huge horrible wars happened.  Thousands of people died for no intelligible reason.  The worst thing was that you’d be killed whether you wanted to be part of the war or not.  At least animals could run away or hide from wars.  In human life people killed each other – even when wars weren’t going on.

It occurred to me that our supposed superiority made little difference.  We were supposed to have ‘intelligence and civilisation’ and animals were supposed to be ‘the lower order’. I didn’t see it like that.  The whole thing made no sense.  I thought that if we lived as animals lived, there’d be far fewer problems in the world.  Alice thought I was right – and that this was a really interesting idea.

So many out-of-the-way things had happened lately, that Alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really impossible.

Lewis Carroll—Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland—1865

The next time I saw Alice, she told me she’d told her parents about my idea.  I went cold.  I asked her—anxiously—what they’d said.  I was utterly surprised when I heard her answer

"My parents said you were ‘a most unusual boy’ and it was ‘remarkable thinking’ for your age."

They told Alice that people could be civilised however – and that those human beings who were truly civilised were trying to make the world a better place.  They hoped that we would be people who would try to make the world a better place.

I couldn’t imagine my father reacting in this way.  That I was capable of ‘remarkable thinking’ was somehow perplexing.  It was perplexing for two reasons.  Firstly I was not sure what ‘remarkable’ meant.  Alice thought it meant ‘something good and clever’ – and I was relieved about that.  Secondly I was confused as to why the Trevelyans thought I was clever, while my father thought of me as an idiot.

Alice laughed at that and said "The answer is as plain as your nose.  Your father is the idiot."

I was a little stunned – mainly because she thought it was so obvious.

Alice: Your Majesty, indeed, why you’re . . . just a fat, pompous, bad-tempered, old tyrant.

Lewis Carroll—Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland—1865

It was queer to feel ever-so-slightly defensive of my father – but I didn’t let it trouble me for more than a few moments.  It was better to accept her parents’ view of me than the one my father espoused.

Alice told me that her parents thought my father was just a little old fashioned.  He was quite old to have a son my age – and . . . he probably wasn’t always quite as patient as he could be.  I was amazed that Alice had actual conversations with her parents – and, that they told her what they thought about the world and the people they knew.  My parents never discussed anything of a personal nature at home – or if they did, I was not supposed to ask questions.

If everybody minded their own business, the Duchess said, in a hoarse growl, the world would go around a great deal faster than it does.

Lewis Carroll—Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland—1865

It was none of my concern.  Children had no business asking questions about adults or the adult world.

This was not entirely true however, as Alice could have conversations with her parents – about anything at all.  Alice always seemed so wise.  She knew so much about the world and how it worked.  There were many things that I found utterly incomprehensible – which Alice understood without difficulty.  She had insights into the adult world that I lacked entirely.  Her parents seemed to want her to understand things.  My parents—or my father at least—seemed to want to keep the world a secret from me.

My mother tried her best – but what she was prepared to tell me, depended on how far she thought she could stretch my father’s tolerance.

Alice: I wonder if I’ve been changed in the night?  Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning?  I almost think I can remember feeling a little different.  But if I’m not the same, the next question is ‘Who in the world am I?’  Ah, that’s the great puzzle!

Lewis Carroll—Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland—1865

In the cold weather Alice and I played mainly indoors.  Sometimes Mrs Trevelyan would read to us from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland or Through the Looking-glass – and I enjoyed these stories.  I loved the strange language and the way Lewis Carroll played with words.  I loved the idea that lessons were supposed to get shorter all the time and that they were called lessons because they lessened.  Alice was extremely fond of these books especially because they were about a girl called Alice.  She thought it was a shame though that there was no boy called Vittorio to keep Alice company on her adventures.  Alice called me Vittorio because it was Italian.  They’d been to Italy on a skiing holiday and she had mentioned my name to the waiter because he asked her why she looked sad.  She said it was because Victor was not there.

The waiter answered "Ah Vittorio – Vittorio iss a good-a name!  Me-be he like-a Vittorio Giannini! "  Mrs Trevelyan told me the part of the story about Vittorio Giannini because Alice couldn’t remember his name.  Vittorio Giannini was an Italian composer – so I liked the association immensely.  I was happier being called Vittorio – because maybe I would become a composer.  The Trevelyans thought that was amusing and took to calling me Vittorio.

My mother advised me not to mention it to my father.  She advised me not to mention Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland either – as it might annoy him.  Adventure stories about a girl were not something of which he would approve.

Playing with Alice in the Winter months – I remember a large box full of fabric scraps.  I think her mother must have been a keen seamstress.  There was an emerald green piece of which I was inordinately fond – and a red piece with white polka dots.  The emerald piece was a wonderfully deep colour – almost but not quite verging on blue.  It’s hard to find a good emerald green.  The red polka dot piece was a real ruby red – and it’s also hard to find that colour.  Greens usually tend toward yellow, olive, or viridian.  Reds either tend toward orange or maroon. I had quite an awareness of

Reviews for An Odd Boy - Volume One

[jw72085 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

an odd boy: volume 1 by Doc Togden, is really a fascinating read. Why? Because it lets you peer into the author’s mind as he flashes back through his upbringing and the man it made him. If you enjoy momentary diversions from the text to take in interesting tidbits of information, you will love this book. It was easy to read and quite humorous, though sometimes it may not have been the intention of the writing. I had a lot of fun reading this book and have recommended it to other likeminded persons who have a love of blues, jazz, and a really story. It is truly a great human story.

[wtshehan · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This book grabbed me as I love both Blues and Bach. The tone of the book was erratic and quirky yet fun. Sadly the author has more interest in the details of the instruments than developing the story. I did learn somethings I did not know but if I want that I will buy a book or take a class on the instrument.

[alvaro77_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The book starts out telling a sweet story about an odd boy named Victor and his friendship with a girl named Alice. It also covers the difficult relationship with his father and his discovery of "the blues". Up to this point the story is interesting and, at times, funny. When Victor begins his years in school the story takes a bad turn. The author focuses too much on "the blues" and the story becomes dry and at times unreadable. I skimmed most of the quotes that were sprinkled throughout the book because there were too many. The detailed descriptions of music and instruments became tiresome and the ending was a big let down.

[mausergem_1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

In the music industry for every band which makes it big there are a thousand failures. This is the story of the lead singer of one such band who did not make it to the big scene.Victor Howard Simmerson or Farquhar Arbuthnot or Doc Togden was born in 1953 in England of a English father and a German mother. This is his story till he reached 17 years of age. As a child growing up he has a strict father and an adoring mother. He is introduced to Blues music quite early in life and falls in love with it. From an early age he decides to be a Blues musician. As he grows up he develops friendship with Ron, Steve and Jack, who are his other band members, the band being Savage Cabbage. Victor has many interests like painting, poetry and of course music. There is a brief description of his love interests. He is a great admirer of the Arts in all forms. He is averse to drugs and indifferent to sex. The book end with the band performing gigs in small venues and with the future looking bright. The book has many flaws. To begin with the writing is amateurish. The author expresses thoughts and ideas which are quite mature when he is just 8 or 9 years old. Either the author was a precocious kid or just confabulating. The author is too full of himself and presents himself as all intelligent and all knowing soul. We expect a musician to be wild but the only wild thing that is described is when he applies to a all girls school when his grades are not good enough to get him in to any other school. There is also too many foot notes. The author thinks that the general public is stupid and does not know what The Kremlin is and so he put a foot note to tell us. There are too many lyrics inserted which breaks the continuity of the narrative.In conclusion this is not a good book and really he is not an ‘odd’ but an ‘ordinary’ boy.

[karo0606 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

An Odd Boy volume 1 by Doc Togdenis is a music lover’s memoire. The main character VictorHoward Simmerson walks us through different stages of his life including his passion for blues,classical music, painting and poetry. This is a story of an odd boy who always dreamed of musicwhile composing and performing his own musical creations. We witness his struggle to escape adebilitating stammer by finding refuge in his singing voice. As Victor says, “Singing Blues—oreven speaking it—was my salvation from stammering. My breath never faltered with Blues.“In Odd Boy Togdenis presents the reader with clash of two cultures by illustrating the contrastbetween conservative and modern parents. Throughout the book, the author struggless to defineorthodoxy, “What was normal and what was expected? These were imponderable vagaries. Whodecided what was normal? Who were these people who were expecting something? It could onlybe people who knew me who could expect anything of me. And those who knew me—if theyknew me—would surely expect me to like the colours I liked. Why would they wish me to beother than I was?”This is a novel for readers who want to follow dreams of a young boy set apart and distancedfrom his school mates. The prose and writing style is not demanding. It is however a refreshing,humorous and easy to read novel. I really enjoyed the author’s references to Alice’s Adventuresin Wonderland.

[redbowlingballruth · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I recieved this book through the LT ER-program.When Victor discovers Blues music at the tender age of eight-years-old his life is forever changed. He falls deep and hard in love with music and art, and from that day on all he wants to be is a bluesman. Victor has been deemed an odd boy all his life, and his newfound passion for music and art only makes people think him even more weird. An Odd Boy follows Victor on his journey to fulfill his dream and passion of becoming an Artist and a Bluesman. I thought the novel had an interesting premise, and I loved Victor's passion. However, the story dragged at times - especially during several long philosphical rants about the definition of Art and what it means to be an Artist. I also felt Victor was quite preachy, something I didn't care for.Over all, an interesting read.

[lbmillar_1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I had a difficult time getting into this book - I just couldn't identify with the characters. A fan of the Blues, I enjoyed the references to it and see if from another's eyes.

[kresslya · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

There were a few very nice passages in the book. I particularly liked the little boy sitting in the tree listening to the music from the cottage. The way the author inter- wove quotes from Alice and Wonderland and song lyrics into the text was interesting, they added interest to the novel. I found the story a bit hard to follow and kept waiting for resolutions to present themselves for the situations in the novel ,but it never happened.

[rosa_saks · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Having brushed through the (more or less) uninteresting preface and the first couple of pages, I was actually optimistic. I though the language was good, the story promising, and initially, I even enjoyed the many, many refrences. Sadly, this early fascination did not even last into the second chapter. The refrences are too many, and I started to find the language a tad too self-indulgent. And I didn't manage to get a good grasp on the story. The result was that I just couldn't manage to conjure up enough will-power to finish this book. Disappointing.

[angelil60 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

--The blurb--"Volume one of an odd boy is a memoir of an eccentric aficionado of Bach and Blues, poetry and painting. A portrait of the artist as a lad, set in the experimental cultural ferment of the late 1960s. It is a coming-of-age adventure, both surreal and innocent, humorous and poignant, depicting an era when the Arts set a generation’s imagination on fire. The author’s life is a rare roulette wheel of childhood wonder and tragic debacles; a debilitating stammer and a powerful singing voice; bad luck and fierce good fortune." --The review--With its intriguing premise and a title that seems deliberately designed to provoke an "I'll be the judge of that" reaction from would-be readers of this autobiographical debut, it is perhaps not difficult to see why people might be inclined to pick up a copy of An Odd Boy, especially since it is available in the convenience of ebook format first and foremost, following the increasing trend of today's book market. However, it is perhaps more difficult to see how or why readers might justifiably continue reading, given how far the novel is littered with minor irritations. The disjointed and patronising preface could probably be ditched altogether, and its tone of pretension unfortunately sets the tone for the rest of the book, with the text continually interspersed with quotations from various famous personages. Even naive young potential university students are not advised to write their personal statement in this way - in most cases, readers just want to hear the author's own words. Irrelevant information is often given, content is at times unoriginal (I did wonder if he was just trying to bring out his own version of Jonathan Coe's Rotters' Club, and failing), and the author is inclined to tell rather than show, making characterisation at times rather one-dimensional.The narrator also tries to portray himself as a victim, but since he is too pretentious to be taken seriously, sympathy is in short supply. While his assessment (and others' assessments) of himself as an "odd boy" may well be correct, I'm not sure that his eccentricities merit an entire book on the subject. It is narcissistic; the portrayal of malapropisms used by others is unsuccessful in terms of trying to amuse; and, furthermore, the author also seems to think name-dropping will make up for his own (and his book's own) shortcomings (it doesn't). But this is not the worst of it: the entirely unnecessary footnotes are full of patronising remarks, such as the consideration that readers may not know who Evelyn Waugh was, what various British slang words mean, what the BBC is, or what 78s are. It is not, in my view, an author's job to explain the vocabulary that they use - rather, it is the reader's job to grab a dictionary or encyclopaedia and find out for themselves.Perhaps worse is the sheer amount of typographical, geographical, and other types of error that permeate this book. Punctuation and italics are often poorly used, spelling mistakes include misspelling the name of the band Dire Straits (which is more than a little ironic considering how much music is supposed to mean to the author) and the word "whet" in the phrase "whet whistles", and grammatical errors include such horrors as "had forbade". The geographical mistake mentioned is in fact crucial to the narrative being presented - given that Borehamwood, Berkhamsted and so on are in Hertfordshire, not Herefordshire as maintained by the author, perhaps this explains why his searches for Alice were in vain?It is clear from this, and especially also from chapter four, that significant cuts to this book are required, which makes it extremely surprising that ISBN numbers are provided on the book's flyleaf for both paperback and hardback editions of the book, as well as for the ebook. None of this does anything to help the ailing reputation of e-publishing (which suggests that there is still a lot of work to be done on the industry as a whole before it can pose a genuine future alternative for readers the world over). In spite of all of the criticisms above, however, An Odd Boy is not a totally unenjoyable read. While the idyllic image with which we are presented in chapter one is on the schmaltzy side, it brings with it something slightly portentous: the union of the two people described surely cannot be as perfect as we are led to believe or presumably there would be no book, so the perfection described is perhaps intended to signal a future deficit thereof. It is amusing in places, especially when it comes to discussions on the topic of God and religion, the bond between the author and Mr Love is genuinely touching and meaningful, and the author's excitement at being introduced to the Blues is clearly palpable (and not only that, but infectious, making the reader want to start listening to this music just as obsessively).The work of Doc Togden is certainly much more engaging when he is showing us a more relaxed or honest view of his personality, rather than when he is trying to project a superficial and pseudo-intellectual version. Even though the text becomes at times egotistical and over-venerated, the interspersions get worse (with terrible teenage poetry added), and he tries to dress up his objectification of women as being somehow noble (when in fact he's just being a normal red-blooded male), the novel is infinitely better once the author gets over the illusion of his own precocity, and it is an easy read which is increasingly engrossing as the characters become more developed.An Odd Boy therefore certainly has potential, even if it is as times badly expressed by a man who has clearly been told all of his life that he is brilliant and intellectual, only to never realise that there are others in the world who are just as intelligent (and, indeed, even more intelligent) than he is. All in all a satisfying read which ultimately feels unfinished; an editor needs to take a red pen and some scissors to it, and quickly.

[mrn945_1 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

I have read some odd books in my time and this is certainly one of them. My biggest problem with the memoir is that it was simply trying way too hard. I never got a feel for who the author really was, and to be honest, I really didn't care. It's sad to say, but I just never got engaged in the novel. I struggled through and if I hadn't received it with the obligation to review, I would have quit very quickly. I would have to echo some of the other reviewers - this needs some serious editing. I would add that it needs a bit of a style change too. The language was clunky and stilted. It just doesn't work.

[sueo23 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

This book was one of the worst pieces of prose it has ever been my misfortune to read. I persevered with the preface hoping that once the book proper started I would be able to connect with it. Alas, I was wrong. I read the first 30 pages or so and then could stand no more. Most of what I read consisted of the writings of other people (presumably as a window into the writer's life/mind?), but it just irritated me. I still have no idea who this person was or why they have written a 317p volume 1 (you mean there is more of this drivel in store?), because I could just not be bothered finding out. I am usually loathe to post a brickbat review, especially for an Early Reviewer book, but in this case it is well deserved. I will remember this book forever - because it should never have seen the light of day.

[susanjeanstevens · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Although I generally like the genre of memoirs, this was not my cup of tea. And although I usually save memoirs for lazy afternoons when I can float through a book, this one would be much better if it were about half as long. Perhaps I think this because I don't find much to identify with in the book. However, if you're having trouble going to sleep . . .