It’s really hard to find novels about the music industry that aren’t entirely populated by sleazy scumbags you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemies. Disconcertingly, the more you read about the reality of the industry, the closer to the truth these dirty back-stabbing characters seem to get. The question is, what’s a nice husband and wife song-writing team like The Sundays doing in a low-down nasty place like the music biz?

Well, just getting on with it, for one thing. Taking their time. Releasing an album only when they’re ready, when life’s other commitments can step aside for long enough.

Far too nice. I probably wouldn’t want to read a book based on their recording career, I suppose, as I imagine they got up at a reasonable time, headed into their home studio, and laid down tracks over tea and biscuits. I’m pretty sure that’s how it would have gone. Boring to read about, perhaps, but at least it demonstrates that you don’t have to be a complete git to get by.