Meeting John Niven

I charge into the John Niven book signing just as interviewer and music journalist Dave Haslam is ploughing through the introduction. I’m late due to local idiots setting off fireworks last night, leading to me falling asleep in the afternoon. With half an hour to spare, still in trackies, I’ve fought through Oldham Road’s traffic and bumbled into Waterstones Deansgate 20 minutes late, and I gather we’re talking about the movie Jaws, a film that terrified Niven at 10 years old. 

His daughter, at a similar age, did much better. At his first viewing, Niven himself, however, had to leave the theatre in tears, much to the hilarity of his classmates, who he then realised made up a good portion of the cinema’s audience that day. 

Wounded. 

Today, Tuesday 29th August, the emphasis is on Niven’s upbringing, and his memories of his brother Gary. In 2010, at the age of 42, Gary took his own life after years of ill mental health. This is the subject of Niven’s new memoir, O Brother. 

As Haslam puts it, Gary was a popular guy, but one who just ‘couldn’t do adulting.’ 

Niven recalls the days of the generation above, when men would come back with pay packet and the wife would take over the responsibility of finances. Frequently, the mortgage and bills are more than a man can take care of. 

Haslam asks about the theme of drugs running intermittently through Niven’s life and work. 

“Gary was part of the first generation to get into rave music and drugs,” explains Niven. “Serotonin depletion was like coming out of the marine service. Dad wasn’t down with the Utah Saints. He was like, ‘What the fuck is this?’ My brother felt that Dad was angry at him.” 

The arguments with Gary, Haslam claims, were the hardest to read, along with the scenes of Gary in the coma in hospital. “The chaos you mentioned was plain to see. There’s a scene where you found a samurai sword.” 

 “I found my brother's house was cold and damp,” says Niven. “Gary was on an electric key and was paying a scandalous amount on electricity.” 

“Gary had headaches,” explains Haslam, “like (Joy Division frontman) Ian Curtis.” 

“It’s a very rare neurological condition,” tells Niven. “It’s not migraines. It affects 0.1% of the population, but Gary had it too. He went doctor and found out sleep causes it. Sleep becomes your enemy.” 

Niven then reads the death scene from his book, in which his brother was taken off ventilator. In Waterstones, there’s only the distant hum of traffic 2 floors down, and Niven’s voice, as he describes the hospital scene: the equipment, the nurses’ formalities, and Gary’s death rattle. His mum’s cries. Her last words to Gary. 

Niven closes the book. “There are also a lot of wanking gags,” he tells us. 

O Brother, Haslam tells, takes us through Niven’s life: his literature, his music. “Every time you meet Gary, he mocks you. ‘Bender.’ Was that important to you?” 

Niven says he “felt no desire” to tell every detail. “Everything that happens to you is in this bastard book. We’re not one self cradle to grave. When I was younger I wanted to join the RAF, then a friend introduced me to The Clash, and that was it.” He agrees with Haslam that he’s “not an endearing character” in the book, “like an ageing Ted,” he admits, both in paisley shirts, Gary the much smarter brother. 

This brings up the issue of family, and what they make of the book. 

“In the book,” Haslam tells, “your mother gets the help she deserved.” 

“Gary was more recognisable to mum than to me. They watched some TV shows, listened to some music. When Gary died she lost her cultural ally. Now…” Niven sits up a little. “I promised you some wanking gags.” 

Niven, picking a good a time as any to lighten the mood, then reads a section of his book featuring a funny sexual encounter from his teen days, before we hand over to the audience for questions. 

AQ: When you think of your journey as writer, is this a better book now you’re a better writer? 

“I hope so. I was always a writer. You have ‘camera eye,’ watching, detached. Having worked in the music industry, I knew publishing would be the same. (On publishing his first book) trying and failing would be less miserable than not trying. This became Kill Your Friends. A book becomes a story that then becomes an event.” 

AQ: Can things get better? 

“I hope so.” Niven tells of how, after Gary’s passing, the Niven family found that Gary had been in debt to the energy companies, yet Gary’s house was still cold. His sister was putting money on the key, but the heat still wouldn’t come on. 

AQ: Can you tell us of the audio book you recorded? 

“I was dragged kicking and screaming to do the audiobook of Kill Your Friends. I hate the sound of my own voice. I think I sound like Carey Grant, then I listen back and I’m more like Begbie.” 

Following up, the audience member asks, did he get anything out of it? 

“No, but we’ve sold a phenomenal amount of audiobooks. It’s mostly guys who buy them.” 

 A final audience question to round off the night: Could Gary have found peace in life? 

“If we could have got him through that one night? People have their eccentricities. I mean, it wouldn’t have got better. The only one who could know isn’t here. Sometimes you can’t answer. (O Brother) is not a self help book. If you’re coming to me for self help, you’re fucked!”