Rock’s debut novel legend Pete Townsend came out in Bulgarian

« Anxious Years » – Rock Legend’s debut novel Pete Townsend, is already on the Bulgarian book market, Kumibri Publishing House reported. The translator is Zdravka Bukova and the artist of the cover is Stefan Kasarov.

Pete Townsend (80) is a co-founder, leading guitarist and songwriter of one of the most influential rock bands of the 20th century. – « DU HU » (« hu »). Publishers say that the book is a carousel of unforgettable characters, visions of paradise and hell, and reflects on creativity, genius, madness and anxiety in modern life.

The rocker starts with the idea of ​​an opera, but eventually turns the plot into a psychological novel. Each of the characters has a heavy burden – a former rock star lives as a hermit and draws apocalyptic paintings, a drug dealer has visions caused by drugs, a young composer receives auditory hallucinations.

Townsend does not forget the female images. « They are all strong, beautiful and capable women who defend their place alongside and separately from their elect. And one of them, a young Irish woman, has attacked her father in the years to protect her sister, » the Hummingbird said.

Peter Dennis Blandford Townsend, Known as Pete Townsend, he is also the author of rock operas, exciting radio broadcasts, articles, essays, scripts, stories. In the years when rock and roll unfolds in a new mature form of art, along with musicians such as Bob Dylan, Beatles and Rolling Stones, he woves in his texts philosophical messages in his pursuit of everyday topics, exciting young people, to offer and answer many questions.

Dnevnik publishes an excerpt from « anxious years » provided by Hummingbird.

From « anxious years » by Pete Townsend

Chapter 1

Light. Blisfining white light. With our backs, there is a man with his hands spread. It’s naked to the waist. His hair is golden, curly, reaching his shoulders. We don’t see his face. We slowly approach and his body gradually blocks the light. The sun sets. The man’s hair is flooded like a halo. Suddenly he jumps forward and we fly with him, tolerate in the sky, over the blue-green landscape towards the sunset.

Something was fluttering under the spoon, as I sat in my eagle nest on this June night, a few days before my sixty -seventh birthday in 2012. I’m Louis Doxteder and that’s my story. I am in the highest room in a house, landed on the hill above a lively road in the immediate vicinity of the dusty hilly town of Maganosk in southern France. The house is rented and is managed by a rather pleasant but eccentric clairvoyant who invited me to visit her for the summer. I pay all the bills, and she takes care of me so I can write.

She is the only one aware of why I want to tell this story. She knows my secret because she was her witness, so to speak, and understands how important it was for me to reveal how wonderful events came from something I did a long time ago and for which I am deeply sorry. I do not want to receive forgiveness; I want to get a sense of balance. I can’t change the past, but I can’t even allow a former misunderstanding to change the future. Once you hear my story, you will be able to judge for yourself.

From here, from the high, where I sit in front of a small desk, I have views of the Mediterranean and the distant bay of Cannes, the port of La Papul. In the valley is the nearby city of Grass, famous for the perfume factories. Very few of the scents that are produced there reach me, but sometimes there is a pine breath from the mountains separating the valley from the slopes.

Docsteader, my last name, is probably Dutch in origin, but my great -grandfather was actually from Norway, and I myself have been living in Britain since I can remember. Edward, my father, usually called Ted, was named after Edward Munk, the artist, painted the « cry ». Somehow a gloomy and significant thought in my childhood, she probably influenced my shaping as a person, as it would become clear, I hope.

Munk was still alive when my father was born; My grandparents knew him and were very impressed with his personality.

My father Edward moved to Britain between the two wars and remained in this country after the outbreak of World War II. My mother claimed that he worked as a spy for the military department during the war, after the capitulation of Norway before Germany. He was appointed near the Nortolt Royal Nortolt west of London, from where he was sent to flying missions in Norway.

He married my mother Claire, with English and Jewish roots, in the last years of hostile actions, and I was born just when Germany was forced to give up on his imperialist concept.

I started spending a long time with my godfather Walter when he made friends with my daughter Rhine. From the small, the two went to the same schools, and were born in December and August 1966 respectively.

Walter is a musician. Another eight -year -old was constantly inflating a harmonica, often stuffing his head into a plastic bucket with the idea of ​​boosting the sound and isolated from the outside world. I was close to his parents and I was directly worshiping the orchestra in which his father played.

You will probably be interested in learning how Walter Karel Watts got his second name. Harry, Walter’s father, is a supreme classic musician, but at the same time a passionate lover of science fiction. Karel Chapek is a Czech playwright, author of « RG: Rosuma Universal Robots ». In fact, Chapek’s brother invented the word « robot », which in Czech means a backer. Harry had great plans for Walter, and it was for this reason that he gave him a second name, inspired by the insightful play of Karel Chapek from 1921 about how intelligent machines conquer the world. In the eyes of his father, Walter was destined for scientific grandeur. Instead, the son chose to play harmonica.

Even before he turned twenty, Rhine became a journalist and Walter enrolled to study crop production. In the end, Walter focused on the music that is produced with the mouth and the relevant instruments. He played at establishments and clubs and began to win well while he and Rhine were students. Walter became part of the so -called fourth wave of rock, which appeared in the nineties with groups such as « Nirvana », « Pearl Jem » and « Smashing Pumpkle », but Walter’s music was a return to the years of the late seventy: Doctor Filgud, Strav, Strah, Strai Edmonds Bend. It was a simple, sincere music that Walter wanted to revive and honor. Whatever led him, in my eyes Walter K. Watts was and remains a rocker of the pubs of the fifties in the twenty -first century. This is a confused statement. I tend to express myself this way.

As much as I am sad, I have to admit that as a middle -aged father, I succumbed to drugs in the early eighties. I fried my brain and if there was no miracle, I would probably have died in full poverty. Pamela, my wife, left me, saying that she would look for shelter in a monastery, and for many years I had no idea where she was. It may sound implausible, but he left the Rhine of my care.

Which turned out to be a smart move, at least from my point of view. The responsibility of taking care of the Rhine, which, like Walter, still learned, probably saved my life. In my area, I did no worse than Walter.

I say this because today my baptist is a famous rock star, and I am a popular and respected merchant in the field of so -called outsider art. In the circles of the somewhat snobber galleys in New York, they call it – imitating the French, who, of course, have erupted the term – Art Brut, raw, unrefined art. These are drawings, paintings, sculptures, threads and writings of creators who think differently, in fact, and live differently.

Some of their works are naive, others seem to be alone, but there are some that are incredibly exquisite or detailed. Usually behind such creativity is one idea, a system. You also happen to come across a revelation, vision or spiritual explosion, underlined by a work, whose author feels possessed or even obsessed. Some hear voices, just like schizophrenics, and believe that external power directs them. Others believe that God leads them.

The miracle I mentioned and which actually saved my life was – probably because of what I had caused to my brain – in the ability to discover the value in the works of these complex spiritual artists. I was one of the first in Europe to go to the outsider art. At least outside France and New York.