Saturday, 17 June 2017

Waiting for rumors of thunder

So there's this feisty little publisher here in Los Angeles which has begun charming its way into the hearts of readers of discernment all over the globe. Shadowridge Press technically started up several years ago but really began throwing its weight around just in the last twelve months or so. They boast books by Sarah Pinborough & F Paul Wilson, Tracy L Carbone, Stephen Woodworth, and Gardner Goldsmith among their catalog and have recently embarked on the ambitious project of bringing all of Dennis Etchison's collections back into print in attractive uniform editions.

Clearly, they've been doing everything right. So it must be in the spirit of the master carpet makers of ancient Persia -- who routinely introduced a deliberate flaw into their otherwise perfect creations so as not to offend the gods -- that they decided to slip a bit of Atkins into the mix.

In what is both the first American print edition and -- astonishingly, at least to me -- the twentieth anniversary edition, they've dressed my novel BIG THUNDER up in a stylish trade paperback and sent it back out into the world. It's "a neglected masterpiece", says Glen Hirshberg. And the fact that I have certain photographs in my possession shouldn't make you doubt his word.

Refusing to learn from their mistakes, Shadowridge are also unveiling the first USA edition of my short story collection, RUMORS OF THE MARVELOUS, previously only available -- as I'm sure you loyal blog readers remember -- as a rather lovely signed limited edition from the magnificent (and now award-winning) Alchemy Press in the UK. That edition was of course called RUMOURS OF THE MARVELLOUS because ha-ha you Brits are so funny and quaint.

Along with a bunch of my Shadowridge stablemates, I'll be at Dark Delicacies in beautiful downtown Burbank on July 8th at 4pm ready and willing to sign these books and, as usual, anything else you might care to put in front of me (local bylaws permitting). Please swing by and say hello if you can. And if you can't, I'm sure those nice people at Amazon would be happy to sell you the books anyway:

"It's all well and good, repackaging your old neglected masterpieces, Pete," I hear the less pleasant of you mumble. "But haven't you got anything new for us to neglect?" Well, as a matter of fact I have, Mr and Mrs General Public, as a matter of fact I have. So pipe the fuck down. Come this October, THE LOVECRAFT SQUAD: WAITING will hit the shelves of the fourteen brick and mortar bookstores left in the continental United States and will feature -- among sterling work by Angela Slatter, Brian Hodge, Reggie Oliver, Michael Marshall Smith, Steve Rasnic Tem, Richard Gavin, Jay Russell, Thana Niveau, Stephen Baxter, and Kim Newman -- a new novelette-length contribution by yer 'umble servant called "The Stuff that Dreams are Made of". The book is the brainchild of the illustrious Stephen Jones, not only one of the most respected editors in our field but a mate of thirty years standing. We contributors had a lot of fun working on this one and I hope you all might enjoy it too. To whet your appetite, check out this fantastic pulp-throwback cover from Doug Klauba:

Friday, 20 January 2017

But Enough About Me #9

Two or three years back, I marked the occasion of Dennis Etchison's seventieth birthday by reprinting here my introduction to his FINE CUTS collection, leading no doubt to a massive upswing in sales for the lucky Mr. E. I am ashamed to say that this time last year I neglected to do the same favor for another then-brand-new septuagenarian, my dear old mate and living-fucking-legend, the great Ramsey Campbell.

Well, Ramsey turned seventy-one a couple of weeks ago and as seventy-one is the new seventy, or so I'm reliably informed by those who make the decisions about these things, it seems that it's not too late for another bit of burrowing through the archives.

2008 marked the twentieth anniversary of Ramsey's magnificent novel The Influence and Jerad Walters of Centipede Press was both wise enough to publish a superbly designed anniversary edition and kind enough to ask me to scribble down some thoughts about it and its author.

I'll inflict said thoughts on you in just a moment, but first ...


I was browsing the bookcase in a thrift store a year or two ago and, stumbling upon a copy of the american edition of Ramsey's collection GHOSTS AND GRISLY THINGS, I was charmed by (and a little envious of) a lovely christmas-gift inscription from a sweet old grandmother to her beloved grandson.

In case you're reading this on your phone and are too dumb to zoom, it says: "Noah - Hope this book will scare the shit out of you. Love, Grandma". Wherever and whoever you are, Noah's Grandma, we love you.

A visit to centipede press is always a good idea for lovers of fine books and creepy shit and a search through their backlist might reveal a copy or two still available of their beautiful edition of The Influence. In the tiny hope it may drive some traffic their way, I offer the following:


You know that guy who can’t tell a joke to save his life?  You know who I mean.  He’s either a relative or somebody who works with you or went to school with you or whatever.  You know, that guy.   We’ve all got one.  Let’s call him Jim, for now.   Jim’s the idiot who, two minutes into the joke and half a sentence away from the punchline, suddenly pauses, has a little think, and then says “Did I mention that the Bartender only had one leg and the dog was blind?”  Yeah.  Jim.  We hate Jim.
Or then there’s that other asshole, Jim’s mate Fred.  Fred’s the one who wouldn’t know a spoiler if it bit him in the bollocks.  The one who, upon recommending, say, Citizen Kane to someone who hasn’t yet seen it, will open with “It’s about this kid who’s got a sled called Rosebud . . .”
Well, writing an introduction to a novel as wonderfully constructed and as full of secrets and surprises as The Influence places one at risk of being one or the other of those two morons.  You feel, on the one hand, obliged to convey certain pieces of narrative or thematic information in order to celebrate it properly and, on the other, constrained from giving too much away in order not to rob the novel of some of its power.
All of which means only this: Caveat Lector.  Reader Beware.  If you are lucky enough to be coming to The Influence for the first time, you might want to consider reading the novel itself before reading this introduction.  I won’t be offended, I promise.  Go on.  Off you pop.  I’ll still be here when you get back.

The Influence was first published in 1988 and was Ramsey Campbell’s eighth novel under his own name (there’d also been a couple of very good novelisations of old Universal monster movies, written under the house name Carl Dreadstone, and The Claw, written as Jay Ramsey*).  There have been another fourteen novels since and the books divide, fairly evenly, into those that are tales of psychological suspense and those that are stories of the supernatural.  The Influence is one of the latter and is, in my opinion, one of the very best, not just of Ramsey’s but of the field as a whole. 
The novel is set in the author’s native Merseyside and tells the story of a significant year in the lives of the Faraday family – Alison and Derek and, particularly, their young daughter Rowan.  In some ways the book could be described as a “domestic”, a tale of small lives and small dreams.  It is the story of one family in one provincial town and takes place in relatively few locations.  It is, of course, much more than that and the novel announces the scale of its secret ambition very early.  There is a moment – one could call it passing, even throwaway, were one foolish enough to assume that Ramsey Campbell doesn’t always know precisely what he’s doing – on the very first page.  Let’s enjoy it:
(Alison) fought her way along the narrow street beneath sodden embers of sodium lamps.  Darkness several stories high carried windows past the end of the street, as if Queenie’s house had floated loose from its foundations.  It was a ship beyond the dunes, and the dark bulk from behind which it had sailed was Queenie’s house, towering massively over its neighbors.
Isn’t that great?  It’s at once a specific moment, a real moment – eerily and poetically described, perhaps, but accurate to the realistic circumstance that birthed it – but at the same time evocative of so much more.   The careful reader is right there (on page one, for Christ’s sake!) put on notice that the darkness in which our characters will find themselves is vast, and that within it move things of enormous power – things barely glimpsed and less understood.
          Curiously, transcribing those sentences from the novel, I find that, out of context, they actually seem clearer – and a little less powerful because of it.  Which just goes to show that deconstruction or decontextualisation is no friend to Art – because, in context, they are gloriously disorienting; although Alison knows where she is (a street that faces the River Mersey), the reader, as yet, does not and thus the dark mass sliding past the end of the street is even more disturbing and mysterious to us than it is to her.  It is a part that presents, in microcosmic prefiguring, the ultimate meaning of the whole.  Like a fractal kaleidoscope endlessly revealing itself, it is a moment in which the literal and the metaphoric, the present and the prefigured, exist simultaneously, time and timelessness mutually infecting each other.

          The simple** professionalism of the first two-thirds of the book – the careful and clever ways in which the author builds and structures his story with chapters from alternating viewpoints, the quietly gathering menace, the laying out in completely convincing character sketches of the variously damaged descendants of Alison’s extended dysfunctional family – does more than it appears to do.   While plenty of scary shit happens – more than enough, in fact, to satisfy the limited ambition of lesser writers – it deliberately under-prepares us for what is to come.  It lowers our narrative defenses (though never, for the Campbell fan, our expectations) so that when we move – unknowingly at first – into what is the heart of the book we are rendered even more breathless.  The bravura thirty pages (comprising chapters 24, 26, and 28) of Rowan’s return to Liverpool constitute an astonishingly sustained tone-poem of the weird, of the macabre, of the secret nature of the dark.  Rowan’s strange journey is broken up by two interstitial chapters from the viewpoints, respectively, of her father and her mother.  Given what we are beginning to suspect has happened to the child (worse, is still happening), it is tempting to consider these breaks as being acts of authorial mercy.  But they’re not.  Instead they cleverly wrong-foot us, allowing us to maintain the illusory belief that time is passing for Rowan in the same way that it is passing for her parents, and rendering the moment when she finally reaches home even more devastating.
What happens to Rowan is due to the machinations of her Great Aunt.  Queenie, an old woman already dying when we first meet her, is the cruel and controlling matriarch of the whole family and her will to dominate survives even her death.  The whole novel could be seen as a dialectic between reduction and expansion.  The world in which this family lives is getting smaller generationally, its hopes and expectations ever more trammeled, and Queenie – clinging to the memory of her own father and to a past that she sees as superior – rages against these reduced circumstances, seeing them as a failure of the will and the spirit.  “You married beneath you,” she says to Alison, “just like your father.”
Whatever sins one could accuse Queenie of, failure of the will is not one of them.   And she’s not about to be reduced by anything, not even death – which she transforms into an opportunity to dominate her relatives even more thoroughly than before.  The death at her metaphoric hands of Alison’s cousin Lance (a man who struggles with pedophile tendencies and who is bravely drawn by the author as a somewhat sympathetic character) is a nasty little lesson in the strength gained by surrendering to the dark side:  Lance, a man who is doing his troubled best to contain his demons, is effortlessly led to his destruction by Queenie, a woman who has embraced hers and revels in the power she has gained from so doing.
Alison’s Aunt Hermione also falls victim to Queenie’s deathless will to power, literally ending up beneath her in what was Queenie’s grave.  Hermione’s death, in fact, could be seen as a kind of literal prefiguring of Rowan’s spiritual displacement.  You will replace me in the soil, Queenie might be saying to Hermione and, to Rowan, You will replace me in the dark.  Death, far from putting an end to Queenie’s hunger, has merely made manifest in the realm of the metaphysical the need to be above everyone else that she demonstrated consistently in her physical life. Consider her name.  Remember how her house (which, as in any good ghost story, effectively is Queenie) was seen “towering massively above her neighbors”.
Queenie’s appetite is apparently sated by her bizarre and posthumous return to the family but the implication is clear that any satisfaction is temporary at best, that her need to dominate, her desire to swallow up those around her, is ultimately insatiable.  Ramsey has proudly freed himself philosophically from the Christian Brothers who helped educate him but – as another of the lapsed – I can’t help but hear a ghostly whisper of Isaiah 5:14 hovering behind all this: “Therefore Hell hath enlarged herself, and opened her mouth without measure, and their multitude . . . shall descend into it”. 
The most significant of Queenie’s acts of dominance in the novel, of course, is her terrible triumph over Rowan.  And the difference between the fate to which she believes she’s sending the child and what Rowan actually sees is part of the undoing of that triumph.  Narratively, the saving of Rowan hinges on an act of irrational (and, to Derek and the other adults, disturbing) faith on the part of her mother, but it is Rowan’s personal glimpse of what might wait beyond the fields we know that gives her spiritual ammunition for her long-term salvation.
Rowan’s later interpretative understanding of what happened speaks directly to the central idea of the novel.  The Influence is, of course, like any good piece of fiction, considerably more than its “idea” – ideas are way overrated as fictive engines – but this idea is a particularly intriguing metaphysical notion as to the nature of the afterlife; that our last dying dream is a prime determinant of our post-death experience, along with whatever other imaginative luggage we may have packed for the trip.  Late in the book, Rowan has an insight into the different “darknesses” experienced by Queenie and herself.   “If that bare scoured dark was Queenie’s, the place Rowan had passed through . . . must have been her own,” she realizes and, a little later, “Whatever was waiting at the end of her life, surely it needn’t be what she had already gone through, unless she gave in to the fear that it would.”  From a writer justly celebrated as a master of the dark, The Influence is ultimately a spiritually optimistic novel.  Though it implies no free ride to the Elysian Fields, it dares to offer a hope that, like chance, like nature, supernature favors the prepared mind.  Our karmic reward or punishment at the moment of our transition is the darkness – or, by implication, the light – that we have prepared for ourselves and into which we fold ourselves forever.
The re-publication of this marvelous novel would be cause enough for celebration at any time, and is made even better by the fact that this year (2008) marks the twentieth anniversary of its first appearance.  Further, thanks to the diligence and enthusiasm of Jerad Walters and his Centipede Press, this is the first appearance of the book as its author originally intended, the first edition to contain the full quota of the splendid and disturbing illustrations created for it by Ramsey’s friend, the extremely talented J. K. Potter.  
If, in closing, I may shift from the analytic to the personal; it’s very moving to me to see these pictures again.  This year also marks the twentieth anniversary of my friendship with Ramsey and his family and I have fond memories of first seeing these pictures as framed prints on the walls of the Campbell family manse (which, by the way, takes a pretty good stab at towering massively over its neighbors).  The pictures feature, as Rowan, Ramsey and Jenny’s daughter Tammy (or Ms. Tamsin Campbell, as I suppose I should call her now that she’s, you know, a grownup and everything).  Tammy and her brother Matty (sorry – Mr. Matthew Campbell) were, and remain, dear to me, as do their parents, and seeing the pictures again reminds me of the time when I was first fortunate enough to enter their lives.  A sweet memory and an example, perhaps, of the things we all have and continue to accrue, the things we will take with us when the time comes for each of us to choose our dark and that which will illuminate it.

*The Claw is great. The nom de plume, though, is the kind of thing at which the Literary Criminologist takes a little puff on his Meerschaum Calabash and says “This, my dear Watson, is a man who wants to be caught…”

**Simple? You try it, Sparky.

Monday, 15 February 2016

Back to the Boneyard

Much to the surprise of many of you, I'm sure, last July's launch into the ether of some of my deathless prose (see the earlier post "A Graveyard Ballet in Cyberspace") apparently destroyed neither the reputation nor the finances of the publisher, Cemetery Dance. In fact, tempting Fate though they almost certainly are, they've been kind enough to keep me at the Boneyard Ball a little longer by exhuming several examples of out-of-print Atkinsiana, buffing them up to a fine electronic shine, and letting them trip the dark fantastic one more time.

Three novels and a couple of stand-alone short stories (or as they call them -- thrillingly to an old 45rpm nerd like me -- 'singles') have already been thrust upon Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, and iBooks and are available right now.  Let's pause for some eye-candy, shall we:

Those are the novels, all at the so-cheap-you'll-hardly-notice-your-money's-gone price of $2.99. And here -- at Macklemore's favorite Thrift Shop price of 99c -- are the singles:

(I'm delighted by all the covers but I have to say that that last one makes me grin the most. It's the work of the lovely Lynne Hansen, the better half of the equally-lovely Jeff Strand, who's one of my stablemates in that aforementioned CEMETERY DANCE SELECT series that was launched last summer.)

Once the product pages for the five titles are up at Cemetery Dance's own website, I'll come back and edit this sentence till it resembles nothing so much as a shameless link. In the meantime, stop being so lazy and go type a few words into an e-tailer's search button, why dontcha?

[E.T.A. 3/4/16. And here I am back a mere couple of weeks later with the link in question: That will take you to the main announcement page from where you may click away on the direct purchase buttons until your little hearts are full and your little wallets lighter]

Speaking of said search buttons, by the way, [which I was, before I popped back in Time to interrupt myself] reminds me of how useful it is to have a name like Algernon Blackwood if you're going to be an author. No wikipedia-style 'disambiguation' likely to be needed there, is there? Nor, I'm guessing, for more contemporary but still unique-ish names like Kaitlin R Kiernan or Laird Barron. But Peter Atkins? Common as fucking muck, apparently. There are, far as I can tell, at least five (FIVE!) Peter Atkinses out there who've published books. And I think four of them should stop. But as that's unlikely (and very unreasonable of me), let me instead just reconfirm for you that I am neither an Anglican Bishop nor a Chemistry Professor with famously atheistic views and that if you come across books written by Peter Atkins which involve either molecules or the Liturgy the possibility of them having been written by this Peter Atkins is surprisingly low*.

*(Yes. Thank you. Fully aware that that might be a plus. Hilarious. Now piss off.)

Tuesday, 29 December 2015

But Enough About Me #8


My friend the great George Clayton Johnson died on December 25th. The date, being Rod Serling's birthday, suggests a kind of hand-picked and narratively-appropriate closure to George's long and accomplished life. There are heart-felt and eloquent tributes all over the web and, rather than try and compete with them, I thought I'd mark his passing not with any words of my own, but with some justly-celebrated ones of his:


Mother, give me your hand

Looking at him, seeing the quietness in his eyes, her expression softens. Her hand trembles toward his. She tenses herself for a shock as her hand touches his. Nothing happens. She looks questioningly at him.

You see? No shock. No engulfment. No tearing asunder.
What you feared would come like an explosion is like a
whisper. What you thought was the end -- is the beginning.

Beldon smiles warmly ...


In BACKGROUND, we see Wanda turn to Beldon eagerly. The LIGHTS go down in the ugly room as they pass through the door into the white, bright sunlight beyond. The door cuts a blazing hold in the blackness.

There is nothing in the dark that wasn't there when the light
was on. Proven in part by this brief excursion through the
strange geography of The Twilight Zone.

And we:


(From The Twilight Zone episode "Nothing in the Dark" by George Clayton Johnson, 1/5/62)

George, me, Ramsey Campbell, Dennis Etchison

(back row) George, Dennis, me, Ashley Laurence, Mark Carducci, Paul Clemens.
(second row) Roberta Lannes, Christa Faust, Nancy Holder, Steve Jones.
(sitting) S P Somtow, David J Skal, David J Schow, Lisa Morton.

George, me, William F Nolan. (This is outside Mystery & Imagination and is the second-to-last time Bill and George, the co-authors of Logan's Run and friends for fifty years, saw each other.)

Thursday, 15 October 2015

"So How Bad at Math ARE You Guys?"

Okay, nobody's actually been rude enough to ask that question directly. But I see it in their eyes (at least the eyes of the ones who can add up) whenever I carelessly refer to the upcoming Rolling Darkness Revue extravaganzas as our Tenth Anniversary shows.

And their disdain is thoroughly justified. The RDR started in 2004. So, etymologically, we don't have a leg to stand on because 'anniversary' comes from 'annus'* which, as your classically educated friends will tell you, means 'year' and it's been eleven years, not ten, since then.

(*Get your mind out of the gutter, you appalling little degenerate. And learn to spell.)

Perhaps we're trying to skate by on a technicality: The 2004 shows didn't feature new stories and didn't have a tie-in chapbook, so maybe we're celebrating ten years of chapbooks. Well, that'd be fine, but the problem is, this year's chapbook is the ninth, not the tenth. Here, take a scroll down the entire run:

See? Nine, not ten. So if it's eleven years and nine chapbooks where the hell do we get 'tenth' from?* While I'd love to tell you it's all due to an anomaly in the space-time continuum ('cause wouldn't that be exciting?), the truth, sadly, is much more mundane. There was no RDR in 2011 and 2014. So 2015 marks the tenth time (if not year) that we've put the show up.

(*No, we didn't pull it out of our annuses, you sniggering perv.)

Hey, while we're traipsing down Memory Lane, here's a look at the very first show we did. 2004, at Dark Delicacies. Dennis was still with us and Glen and I, not yet smart enough to have roped in Jonas and Rex to provide the music, were doing it ourselves. I'm at the back, almost lost in the dry ice, complete with shaved head and trusty Telecaster and Glen's manning his Korg up front while Dennis reads.

Interestingly, though Jonas wasn't yet part of the Rolling Darkness Orchestra, it was he who snapped that atmospheric little pic. Man of many talents. Go check him out at

Anyway, whether it's the ninth, tenth, or eleventh anniversary, it's next weekend -- Friday October 23rd and Saturday October 24th -- and we'd love to see any or all of you there.

The Missing Piece Theatre
2811 West Magnolia Boulevard,
Burbank, CA 91505

8:00 pm curtain

$12 admission (including free chapbook)
Cash on the night or PayPal at

Saturday, 3 October 2015

Keep That Darkness Rollin'

All aboard!

God knows how it happened, but apparently it's October already. Which means Halloween's just around the corner. Which means it must be time for Atkins & Hirshberg to put on their fancy hats and suspenders*, assume their secret identities as Algy Black and Artie Mack, and venture once more into the dark.

(*Relax, England. Doesn't mean what you think it means.)

It seems Burbank City Council couldn't get the restraining order together in time and that The Rolling Darkness Revue will in fact be back at the Missing Piece Theatre on Magnolia Boulevard the weekend before Halloween. Stories will be read. Schtick will be shamelessly schticked. Songs might even be sung.

Once more aiding and abetting Alge & Art in their latest shenanigans will be the great Kevin Gregg, the magnificent Jonas Yip & Rex Flowers and, making her second appearance with the Revue, that lovely chip off Glen's block, li'l miss Kate Hirshberg.

This is the paragraph where, for the sake of any new customers at the Atkins Bar & Grill, I should attempt to explain just what the hell the RDR is. But here's the thing, beloved and most welcome new customers, our regulars will get so bored if I do that again, that I'm going to ask instead that you cast your eye to the side of this column and, from the exhaustive list of labels you will find there, click on the one that says Rolling Darkness Revue and take a quick butcher's* at the relevant older posts that'll show up. All will become marginally less murky.

(*Sorry, America. Butcher's hook. Look.)

I should confirm though that, once again, our valued off-stage partners Paul Miller and Deena Warner have provided a beautiful chapbook that will be given free to all attendees of this year's show and will, in a couple of weeks time, be available at ridiculously low cost from Paul's yard -- -- for those unfortunates who live out of state. Deena's fantastic cover is framed within the show poster above, but let's give it its own well-deserved moment in the spotlight, shall we:

The Stella Noctis is slipping harbor. All ashore who's going ashore. The rest of you, welcome aboard. We're so glad you could join us on Die Reise der Toten*.

(*Apologies, sad mono-linguists. That's The Voyage of the Dead to you.)

Thursday, 16 July 2015

A Graveyard Ballet in Cyberspace

I've never been what the tech media refer to as an early adopter. Didn't have a VCR until well into the eighties (and even then it was a second-hand Betamax), never had an iPod, still don't have a smart-phone, and only signed up for Netflix streaming about a year ago. Sad, I know. So you'll hardly be surprised to learn, my lovelies, that the Atkins oeuvre has heretofore been available only in the form of those relics of the last century, books-on-paper.

Well, strap me onto my HoverBoard and beam me up, Scotty, because we're about to make the jump into hyperspace. Fuck opening the pod bay doors, Hal, check this guy out:

That's right, droogies. It's an e-book. No shit. Thanks to the folks at Cemetery Dance Publications, and specifically the great Norman Prentiss (who, when he's not busy being an award-winning author in his own right, spends his time as editor of CD's e-book line), your Uncle Pete was invited to be one of the initial batch of scribblers in their brand-new series, Cemetery Dance Select.

These mini-collections, retailing (oh, I'm sorry, e-tailing) at $2.99 per, contain four or five stories hand-picked by the author, along with a never-before-published afterword explaining just where they get off inflicting their crap on you how and why these particular masterpieces were written.

The initial series is so new that there's not even a splash-page up on CD's own site yet. You should instead get thee to an online bookstore of your choice (Amazon, B&N, Kobo, iTunes) and type 'Cemetery Dance Select' into their search window. This will open up a panorama of all 11 of the Select titles available and allow you to hesitate before springing for my book. "Oh, wait a minute," you'll be able to say. "They've got Michael Marshall Smith? And Lisa Tuttle*? Fuck you, Atkins. Maybe next month." 

*And Jeff Strand. And Lisa Morton. And Bev Vincent. And Lee Thomas. And Terry Dowling. And Kealan Patrick Burke. And John R Little. And Kaaron Warren.

Should, however, you have the remarkably good taste to already possess every word ever written by my ten team-mates then you can settle for mine, wherein you will find a quartet of my Liverpool-set stories: "Between the Cold Moon and the Earth", "The Mystery", "Intricate Green Figurines", and "Postcards from Abroad". Here's the link, kids --  -- and remember to channel your inner Ringo or Sir Paul for the narrative accent for each of the tales. They should also, needless to say, be played at maximum volume.