Languishing on the dole on an East Kilbride council estate in the early 80s, neither the Jesus and Mary Chain’s William Reid, nor his younger brother, Jim, could grasp why no one had yet combined 60s girl-group melodies, the nihilist drones of the Velvet Underground and top notes of screeching feedback. It seemed an obvious, genius move to them: violently sandblasting a core of yearning sweetness.
The brothers formed a no-frills band, wearing drainpipe trousers and black leather, accessorised with stormcloud fringes and casual misanthropy with which they baited early audiences. Naturally, the Mary Chain would have a standing drummer (a position that rotated so much – including a stint by Bobby Gillespie – this joint memoir should come with an “other guys” spreadsheet). Clearly, their gigs would be endurance tests. Of course they would find their people, even if they got beaten up along the way.
The internet has now made it far easier to find your tribe – at least virtually. But coming of age as an outsider is a defining experience for many creatives, not least these two cuckoos in the nest of an undemonstratively loving Glaswegian working-class family. Both William (mostly guitar) and Jim (vocals, because he lost a coin toss) confess to not quite understanding how their aesthetic germinated in this funny, rueful memoir of their band and relationship, one studded with more low points than the ocean floor.
The young Reids were uprooted from tenements in Glasgow to the outskirts; the portrait of their childhoods feels almost as distant as the postwar rubble of Keith Richards’s 2010 memoir. William, older by three years, and Jim, shy and scrawny, were autodidacts who grabbed whatever wisps of countercultural content they could from public libraries or the few TV channels there were. Their mother compares her sons to Niles and Frasier Crane.
The two Reids developed a hive mind in their teens, then fought dramatically through their 20s. Liam and Noel Gallagher are more famous warring rock brothers, but in the 80s, the Reids were a kind of amuse bouche for Oasis in the 90s and on the same label, Creation, run by Alan McGee. He signed them after witnessing a fight. “Talk about validating destructive behaviour patterns,” deadpans Jim.
It’s no spoiler to say that the pressures of success, drink and drugs destroyed the Reids’ bond. After a particularly bleak physical altercation on tour in the US in 1998, the band went on hiatus for nearly a decade. For some of those years, the brothers did not speak at all, the Atlantic Ocean acting as a demilitarised zone. Then gradually came détente, more sobriety, and a reunion in the late 00s. Scarlett Johansson sang with them at Coachella. The Mary Chain’s most recent album was Glasgow Eyes, released this year.
This memoir was written with seasoned music journalist Ben Thompson, presumably charged with factchecking what are often very blurry and contradictory reminiscences. Fittingly, the two brothers’ versions of the band’s story are given in different fonts, with the two sometimes providing varying, though often just as dry, recounts of the same events.
The clue may be in the title, but it’s worth noting that Never Understood is aimed less at the general public than at interested parties; this is an oral history with no contextualisation. Nonetheless, it provides a little bit of everything that anyone with a grasp of this extraordinary band, or their era, could want: candour, trivia (an early single and one of their guitars features Jackson Pollock-inspired paint spatters, possibly influencing the Stone Roses). There are cringe-inducing cameos from the Reids’ idols – Iggy Pop, David Bowie.
The post-match analysis of what went wrong, professionally and personally, is illuminating. The pair deeply regret turning down premier indie label Rough Trade in favour of Blanco Y Negro, a Warner offshoot, where the Mary Chain were absolutely not a priority, even though the same music exec – Geoff Travis – was brokering both deals. The group were ambitious – pop with “strychnine in it as well as a cocktail umbrella” (William) – and just as disdainful of indie underachievement as most indie bands were about selling out.
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The sibling politics here are both painful and hilarious, as well as unexpectedly moving. William’s hurt feelings that Jim would never just jam with him on their guitars is only one touching, vulnerable note.
Never Understood is, mostly, an underdog tale of two misfits who dodged dead-end factory destinies to become both an influential and sizable band. Nevertheless, you emerge from this full immersion in Reid-world relieved that they were spat out of the spin cycle of addiction and rancour not just alive, but still in possession of a vicious sense of humour – and a burning righteousness that their artistic path was true.