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A book to wish you love and deep personal peace, which will

A book to wish you love and deep personal peace, which will

Newspaper-columnist Hilary gets thousands for telling it like it is; Henry’s turning hospitals into carparks; Roddy’s selling art in return for sex; down on the farm Dorothy’s squeezing every last pound from her livestock; Thomas is making a killing on the stock exchange; and Mark is selling arms to dictators.In fact the Winshaw family are getting richer and crueller by the day. But once Jonathan Coe’s eccentric narrator Michael Owen uncovers their trail of greed, corruption and immoral doings throughout the ’80s the time seems ripe for their comeuppance …

'A riveting social satire on the chattering and all powerful upper classes'
Time Out

Yuri was my one and only hero at this time. My parents would save every photograph from the magazines and newspapers, and I fixed them to the wall of my bedroom with drawing-pins. That wall has been re-papered now, but for many years after the pictures came down you could still see the pin marks, dotted into a random and fantastic pattern like so many stars. I knew that he had visited London recently: I had watched the scenes on television as he drove through streets lined with welcoming crowds. I had heard of his appearance at the Earl's Court exhibition, and the knowledge that he had shaken hands with hundreds of lucky children turned me hot with envy. Yet it had never occurred to me to ask my parents to take me there. A trip to London for my family would have been as bold and far-fetched a proposition as a trip to the moon itself.

For my ninth birthday, however, my father proposed, if not a trip to the moon, then at least a tentative shot into the stratosphere in the form of a day's outing to Weston-super-Mare. I was promised a visit to the newly opened model railway and aquarium, and, if the weather was fine, a swim in the open-air pool. It was mid September: September 17th 1960 to be precise. My grandparents were invited on this trip as well - by which I mean my mother's parents, because we had nothing to do with my father's; had not even heard from them, in fact, for as long as I could remember, although I knew they were still alive. Perhaps my father himself secretly kept in contact; but I doubt it. It was never easy to know what he was feeling, and I couldn't say, even now, whether or not he missed them very much. He got on passably well with Grandma and Grandpa, in any case, and over the years had built up a quiet defensive wall against Grandpa's genial but consistent teasing. I think it was my mother who invited them along with us that day, probably without consulting him. All the same, there was no hint of a quarrel. My parents never quarrelled. He simply muttered something to the effect that he hoped they would sit in the back.

But it was the women who sat in the back, of course, with me sandwiched in between. Grandpa sat in the passenger seat with a road atlas open on his knees and that distant, facetious smile which clearly announced that my father was in for a hard time. They had already been arguing about which car they should take. My grandparents' Volkswagen was old and unreliable but Grandpa never missed an opportunity to pour scorn on the British models which my father, who worked for a local engineering firm, had a small hand in designing and bought out of loyalty both to his employers and to his country.

'Fingers crossed,' said Grandpa, as my father reached for the ignition key. And when the car started first time: 'Wonders will never cease.'

I had been given a travelling chess set for my birthday, so Grandma and I played a few games to while away the journey. Neither of us understood the rules at all, but we didn't like to admit this to each other and managed to get by with an improvisation that was something like a cross between draughts and table football. My mother, withdrawn and reflective as ever, merely stared out of the window: or perhaps she was listening to the conversation from the front of the car.

'What's the matter?' Grandpa was saying. 'Are you trying to conserve petrol or something?'
My father took no notice of this.
'You can do fifty miles along here, you know,' he went on. 'It's a fifty-mile limit.'
'We don't want to get there too early. We're in no hurry.'
'Mind you, I suppose this old crock soon starts to rattle if you try going above forty-five. We want to get there in one piece, after all. Hang on, though, I think that bicycle behind us wants to overtake.'
'Look, Michael, cows!' said my mother, by way of diversion.
'Where?'
'In the field.'
'The boy's seen cows before,' said Grandpa. 'Leave him be. Can anybody hear a rattle?'
Nobody could hear a rattle.
'I'm sure I can hear a rattle. Sounds like one of the fittings or something, coming loose.' He turned to my father. 'Which bit of this car was it that you designed? The ashtrays, wasn't it?'
'The steering column.'
'Look, Michael, sheep!'

We parked at the sea front. The wisps of cloud streaking the sky made me think of candy floss, setting in motion a train of thought which led inevitably to a booth by the pier, where my grandparents bought me a huge pink ball of the glutinous ambrosia, and a stick of rock which I put by for later. Normally my father would have said something about the adverse effects - dental and psychological - of granting me such favours, but because it was my birthday he let it pass. I sat on a low wall overlooking the sea and gobbled the candy floss down, savouring the delicious tension between its unthinkable sweetness and the slightly prickly texture, until I got about three quarters of the way through and started to feel sick. It was quiet on the sea front. Cocooned in my own happiness, I wasn't paying much attention to the passers-by, but I have a hazy impression of respectful couples walking arm in arm, and of a few older people striding past more purposefully, dressed for church.

'I hope it wasn't a mistake,' whispered my mother, 'coming on a Sunday. It would be awful if nothing was open.'
Grandpa treated my father to one of his more eloquent winks: in a moment it combined malicious sympathy with the amused recognition of a similar situation.
'Looks like she's dropped you in it again,' he said.
'Well, birthday boy,' said my mother, wiping my lips with a tissue. 'Where do you want to start?'

We went to the aquarium first. It was probably a very good aquarium, but I have only the palest recollection: strange to think that my family schemed so hard to provide these entertainments, and yet it's their own unplanned words, their own thoughtless gestures and inflections, which have clung to my memory like flies caught on flypaper. I do know, anyway, that the sky was already starting to cloud over as we came out, and that a vigorous sea breeze made it difficult for my mother to enjoy the picnic which we shared on the Beach Lawns, our deck-chairs clustered in a semi-circle: I can still see her bounding off in pursuit of stray paper bags, struggling to distribute the sandwiches amid the wilful flap of their greaseproof wrapping. There were plenty left over, and she ended up offering them to the man who came to ask for money for our deck-chairs. (In common with the rest of their generation, my parents had the gift of getting into conversation with strangers without apparent difficulty. It was a gift I assumed I would one day grow into - once the shynesses of childhood and adolescence were behind me, perhaps - but it never happened, and I realize now that the easy sociability which they seemed to enjoy wherever they went had more to do with the times than with any special maturity of temperament.)

'Good bit of ham, this,' said the man, after taking an experimental bite. 'Mind you, I like a bit of mustard on it myself.'
'So do we,' said Grandpa. 'But his nibs won't have it.'
'She spoils him,' said Grandma, smiling in my direction. 'Spoils him something rotten.'

I pretended not to hear, and stared so hard at the last piece of my mother's chocolate cake that she handed it to me without a word, putting a warning finger on my mouth in a mock display of conspiracy. It was my third piece. She never used ordinary cake-making chocolate: only real Dairy Milk.

It was getting to the point where I didn't feel I could wait much longer for the promised swim, but she told me I would have to let my food settle first. Hoping to walk off my impatience, my father took me out to the sea, which was at low tide, with a grey expanse of muddy snad stretched almost to the horizon and a few dogged toddlers trotting out like fledgling explorers, a shrimping net in one hand and a reluctant parent in the other. We wandered pointlessly for about half an hour, and then at last we were allowed to go to the swimming pool. It wasn't very crowded. There were a few people lying or sitting on deck-chairs and sun-loungers next to the waters: the minority who had chosen to swim were doing so very vigorously, with much splashing and shouting. There was a confusion of different musics. Watery orchestral pieces leaked out over a tannoy system, but they were in competition with a number of transistor radios, playing everything from Cliff Richard to Kenny Ball and his Jazzmen. The water shimmered and sparkled irresistibly. I couldn't understand why people preferred to lie on their backs listening to the radio when faced with the prospect of such liquid happiness. My father and I emerged from the changing cubicles together: I thought he looked easily the strongest and most handsome man at the poolside that afternoon, but to my memory's eye our thin white bodies seem equally childlike and vulnerable. I ran ahead of him and stood at the water's edge, relishing a tiny but priceless moment of expectancy. After that I jumped; and after that, screamed.

The pool was not heated. Why had we thought that it would be? A bolt of ice shot through me and at once I was numb with shock, but my first response - not only to the physical sensation but to the higher agony of pleasure anticipated and then denied - was to burst into tears. How long this continued I don't know. My father must have lifted me from the water; my mother must have run down from the spectators' gallery where she had been sitting with Grandma and Grandpa. Her arms were around me, everybody's eyes were upon me, and still I was inconsolable. They told me afterwards that it felt as though I would never stop crying. But somehow they got me changed, dressed and shepherded into an outside world which was by now dark with the threat of heavy rain.

'It's a disgrace,' Grandma was saying. She had given one of the pool attendants a piece of her mind, not something to be wished upon anybody. 'There ought to be a notice. Or a chart, telling you what the temperature is. We ought to write a letter.'
'Poor little lamb,' said my mother. I was still snivelling a little bit. 'Ted, why don't you run back to the car and fetch the umbrellas? Otherwise we're all going to catch our deaths. We'll wait for you here.'
'Here' was a bus shelter near the sea front. The four of us sat there listening to the rain hammering on the glass roof. Grandpa muttered 'Dear heart alive', and this - a sure sign that the day was taking a nose dive into disaster - was the cue for me to resume my wailing with twice the energy. When my father returned, carrying two umbrellas and a tightly folded plastic headscarf, my mother looked at him with silent panic; but he had clearly been giving the situation some thought and his resourceful suggestion was, 'Perhaps there's something on at the cinema.'

The nearest and biggest was the Odeon, which was showing a film called The Naked Edge with Gary Cooper and Deborah Kerr. My parents took one look and hurried on, although I lingered yearningly, catching the exotic scent of forbidden pleasures in the title, and intrigued by a card which the cinema manager had placed in a prominent position beneath the poster: NO ONE, BUT NO ONE, WILL BE ADMITTED TO THE THEATRE DURING THE LAST THIRTEEN MINUTES OF THIS FILM. FLASHING RED LIGHT WILL WARN YOU. Grandma took me roughly by the hand and dragged me away.

'What about this one?' said my father.

We stood in front of a smaller and less imposing building which announced itself as 'Weston's Only Independent Cinema.' My mother and Grandma bent down to peer closely at the lobby cards. Grandma's lips formed into a doubtful pucker and a gentle frown creased my mother's brow.

'Do you think it looks suitable?'
'Sid James and Kenneth Connor. Should be funny.'
Grandpa said this but his real attention, I noticed, was on a picture of a beautiful blonde actress called Shirley Eaton, who was the third star of the film.
'Certificate U,' my mother pointed out.
Then I shouted, 'Mum! Mum!'

Her eyes followed my pointing finger. I had found a notice which announced that the supporting film told the story of the Russian space programme, and was called With Gagarin to the Stars. Furthermore, the notice boasted, it was 'in COLOUR', although I for one didn't need this extra inducement. I launched into a routing of wide-eyed supplication, sensing even as I began that it wasn't really necessary, because my parents had already made up their minds. We joined the queue to buy tickets. When the woman at the ticket desk took a dubious look at me from her lofty enclosure, my hand gripping anxiously on to my father's, she said, 'Are you sure he's old enough?', and suddenly I experienced the same plummeting misery, the same emotional nausea that I had felt the second I jumped into the unheated swimming-pool. But Grandpa wasn't having any of this. 'Just sell us the tickets, woman,' he said, 'and mind your own business.' Someone in the queue behind us giggled. Then we were filing into the dark, musky auditorium and I was sinking deeper and deeper into my seat in a heaven of contentment, Grandma to the left of me, my father to the right.

Six years later, Yuri would be dead, his MiG-15 diving inexplicably out of low cloud and crashing to the ground during an approach to landing. I was old enough by then to have imbibed some of the prevailing distrust of all things Russian, to take notice of the dark mutterings about the KGB and the displeasure my hero may have incurred in his own country for having so charmed the cheering Westerners. Perhaps Yuri really had condemned himself the day he shook hands with all those children at Earl's Court; and yet it had been them that I wished dead at the time. Whatever the explanation, I can no longer recapture or even imagine the state of innocence in which I must have sat through that afternoon's artless, stentorian celebration of his achievement. I wish that I could. I wish that he had remained an object of unthinking adoration, instead of becoming another of adulthood's ubiquitous, insoluble mysteries: a story without a proper ending, I was soon about to find out about those.

Bella secretly married her childhood sweetheart, Stevie, over a decade ago; they were at university, two big kids playing at being grownups. When it all unravelled and reality hit, Bella simply got up and left. And the secret remained a secret.

Years later, Bella meets Philip and, despite her vow never to marry again, she can’t resist him. He is a catch. Funny, charming, interesting and kind. Only hitch is, she’s still (technically, anyway) married to Stevie. Bella, typically, just ignores the problem. And the moment to tell Philip never quite seems to arrive.

So Bella plans never to reveal her secret – after all, it’s just a silly piece of paper, lodged at a registrar’s office in Aberdeen, isn’t it? She hasn’t seen Stevie for years – probably never will again. Except that Bella’s best friend Laura has fallen in love, and when she introduces her new man to the gang it is none other than Stevie. Could things get any more complicated? Only if Bella and Stevie fall in love with each other again… 

Bella

'OK? I'll call you tomorrow, Amelie. You're OK, aren't you?'

‘Yes,' says Amelie with a sigh. Her tone isn't reassuring.

I press the red button on the handset and disconnect my lovely friend. I'm left with an overwhelming sense of inadequacy and grief. Grief is so lonely. It stains everything it touches and builds huge divisive walls. I should know, my mother died of cancer when I was nine. I will never stop feeling cheated. I'd wanted to say something meaningful, calming, consoling and true to Amelie but I couldn't. I've tried to find those words for nearly ten months now but they don't exist. Sighing with frustration I push my fists into the sockets of my eyes and rub hard. When Amelie called, I'd just finished my night-time round of pelvic-floor exercises and I'd gritted my teeth through eight reps of stomach crunches. I was mid my cleanse, tone and moisturize routine but now I can't find the emotional energy to continue. All that vanity stuff seems so pointless in the face of Amelie's pain.

Loving is such a risk.

I look at my husband, Philip, who has fallen asleep while I was on the phone. He's clasping a copy of The Economist. I turn on the bedside lamp and turn off the bright overhead light, ease the magazine out of his hand and kiss his forehead. I always love him even more after talking to my widowed friend; grief makes us selfish. I wish that every time I spoke to Amelie I didn't think, 'There but for the grace of God,' but I do. Which probably means I'm not as nice a person as I'd like to be.

I nip around to my side of the bed, climb in next to Phil and hold tight to his strong, bulky body. My breathing slows down and I can't feel my heart thud quite as furiously inside my chest. During my conversation with Amelie it raced so violently that I was convinced it was attempting an escape bid.

I often think my heart would like to escape.

Philip makes me feel safe. He's nine years older than me, which is undoubtedly part of it. He is kind, respectful and thoughtful, even after sex. The men that I dated before Philip had not often been these things, even before sex. We met not quite two and a half years ago - I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar, which makes me a tribute to a Human League song that I can barely remember but Philip enthuses about. An interesting dinner-party anecdote maybe, but working as a waitress in a cocktail bar is in fact a fairly grim existence. Philip is a highly successful City trader and while I'm not sure exactly what City traders do, I know that they get paid an awful lot of money to do it. So Philip charged into my life armed with the traditional gifts of dinners in fancy restaurants, flirty lingerie (wrapped in tissue paper and hidden in thick cardboard bags) and even the occasional meaningful CD and book. He also brought with him a new array of courtship tools. He was a grown-up. Philip talked about ISAs, pension plans and stocks and shares with the same passion as other men talk about football league tables, PlayStation and bottled beer. He remembered stuff I found difficult to retain, like when the hunk of junk I called a car needed to be squeezed through its MOT, or if my household insurance needed renewing, and his DIY knowledge actively turned me on.

When I met Philip I was, I suppose, a bit of a mess. The most substantial thing about me was my overdraft and my most meaningful relationship was with my bank manager. In fact, thinking about it, I hadn't actually met my bank manager, so my most meaningful relationship was with the girl at the call centre (probably in Delhi) who I rang regularly to explain my latest embarrassment.

It wasn't as though I squandered money on designer labels and expensive lotions and potions. I didn't own much; not a flash car or a property. Not even a shoe collection; hard to believe, when you consider that most women who have been brought up on a diet of Sex and the City and Friends think that a to-die-for shoe collection and wardrobe is, well ... to die for.

It wasn't as though I'd been idle. I'd worked pretty much every day of my life since I graduated with my middle-of-the-road degree. The problem was I hadn't been consistent in my career progression. I had been on the bottom rung of several career ladders but had never clambered to the top of any of them. The thing is, I don't know what I want to do or be. I try to view it positively that, after several years, I can confirm that I don't want to be an accountant (too many exams), a banker (I don't like wearing suits), a calligrapher (anyway there isn't much calling), a dental hygienist (other people's mouths - yuk), something in PR or anything in the music industry. I still think being a chocolate buyer for Selfridges might be good but the opportunity has never arisen.

In fact fewer opportunities arise as the years pass. On leaving university starting and failing to complete one graduate trainee programme is acceptable but after several years of failing to finish any trainee programmes, potential employers became wary of what they (rightly) identify as my inability to commit.

I'd been seeing Phil for nineteen months when he popped the question. I like to round up and say two years; it sounds more . . . appropriate. Actually, he sort of blurted it rather than popped, in a very un-Philip moment. If I was a betting woman I'd have put money on Phil being the type of man to propose in a controlled environment, like a restaurant or in front of some significant building or beautiful sunset. I'd have guessed that he'd buy a ring in advance, go down on one knee and recite a rehearsed speech asking me to do him the honour etc etc. In fact he yelled over gushing water (he was wearing Marigold rubber gloves at the time). I think his exact words were, 'We'd better get married before you cause any more trouble.' How could a girl resist?

 

Adele Parks, author of Husbands, talks about regrets, socks and Nicole Kidman’s legs.

Who or what always puts a smile on your face?
My son and my husband.

What are you reading at the moment?
Zoe Heller, Notes on a Scandal. I’m probably the last person in Britain to read this and it is a scandal that I’ve left it on my bookshelf for so long (I bought it many months ago) and it’s fabulous. I’ll probably finish it tonight.

Which author do you most admire?
Couldn’t pinpoint one. There are so many fabulous ones.

What’s your earliest memory?
I was about fourteen months. My father was lowering me into the bath and I still was wearing socks (he was fairly stressed out by the whole bath time experience and hadn’t noticed). I remember screaming at full pitch as I didn’t have the language to explain the situation to him. It’s considered unusual to have memories this early but I genuinely remember the steam, my panic, my dad’s rising horror.

What is your greatest fear?
Being locked up in a foreign jail for something I haven’t done. Other fears are unspeakable.

How would you like to be remembered?
Fondly, as someone who tried her best to be decent.

Have you ever done something you’ve really regretted?
Maybe I should have told more people I loved them along the way but generally, I’m not big on regrets. I have made mistakes and had to make amends and apologies as I go along.

How do you spoil yourself?
Reading a novel.

What’s your favourite word?
Oblivious is a word that makes everyone in our family laugh.

Who do you turn to in a crisis?
My husband, Jim, my parents, my sister and Tracy, Nic and Jo who are amazing friends.

What makes you angry?
Lies.

Have you ever had any other jobs apart from writing?
Lots. I started out as a teacher of English as a foreign language in Italy. I’ve worked as an account handler in a couple of bigwig advertising agencies (TBWA and BBH) and I’ve worked for Accenture, a large marketing consulting firm, I co-ordinated the advertising campaigns in Europe, Middle East, Africa and India.

Are you in love?
Unequivocally.

What’s your worst vice?
I worry too much, over just about everything.

What are you proudest of?
My son.

Where do you write?
At home, in a small windowless office. Not ideal.

Where’s your favourite city?
Paris.

When was the last time you cried?
Can’t remember exactly, within the last week, maybe. I cry a lot. Often with happiness or at movies, books, plays, the news.

One wish; what would it be?
Perfect health for my family.

Did you enjoy school?
I wasn’t too keen on primary school but I very much enjoyed my secondary school.

What's your worst habit?
Imagining I’ve offended people.

Have you ever broken the law?
Speeding and parking offences, I’m afraid. I don’t make a habit of it.

What quality would you most like to have?
Wisdom and I hanker after a singing voice as a talent.

If you could swap a physical attribute with someone else, what would it be and who would you swap it with? 
Nicole Kidman’s legs would be very fine. In fact I’d be happy with any part of her.

Have you got a party trick?
No. Do I sound boring?

Do you have any nicknames? 
Parky, Delly, Parksie. Nothing amazing just variations on a theme.

Do you have any unfulfilled ambitions?
I’d like to teach and take photographs on a professional basis at some point. I’d like my husband to work from home. I’d like to be able to swim better than I can.

What's in your handbag/bag at the moment?
Purse, notebook, pen, lip gloss, keys, two photos. I travel light.

What makes you mad!
On a micro level, the misuse of 'those' and 'them', people dropping litter, people who push in front of queues. On a macro level, the mindless consumption of our earth's resources.

• Lista utworów - Płyta CD 11. Fuzzy
  2. The Shining Hour
  3. Jupiter & Teardrop
  4. Stars 'N' Stripes
  5. Lone Star Song
  6. Mockingbirds
  7. Honey Don't Think
  8. Happiness
  9. Bethlehem
  10. Arousing Thunder
  11. Homespun
  12. Two & Two
  13. Truly, Truly
  14. Testimony
  15. My, My, My
  16. The Shallow End
  Płyta CD 21. We'Re Coming Down
  2. The Shining Hour (Alternative Acous
  3. Wish You Well (Alternative Acoustic
  4. Soft Wolf Tread (Alternate Acoustic
  5. I Will Take Him
  6. Let Go of My Hand
  7. Orpheus
  8. Goodnight John Dee
  9. Halloween
  10. Gold Chain Drag
  11. Crashing at Corona
  12. Mr Know-It-All
  13. Were You There
  14. Where Do We Go from Here
  
• Nazwa - STORM HYMNAL-GEMS FROM THE VAU
• Autor - Grant Lee Buffalo
• Wydawnictwo - WSM Best of
• Kod EAN - 0809274106421
• Rok wydania - 2001
• Nośnik - Płyta CD
• Ilość elementów - 2
• Podatek VAT - 23%
• Premiera - 2001-10-22

• Lista utworów - Płyta 11. Pinion
  2. Wish
  3. Last
  4. Help Me I Am In Hell
  5. Happiness In Slavery
  6. Get Up
  
• Nazwa - BROKEN
• Autor - Nine Inch Nails
• Wydawnictwo - TVT / Interscope
• Kod EAN - 0731451414725
• Rok wydania - 1996
• Nośnik - Płyta CD
• Ilość elementów - 1
• Podatek VAT - 23%
• Premiera - 1996-01-16

• Lista utworów - Płyta CD 11. Gave Up (Rmx by Coil with Danny Hyde
  2. Wish (Rmx by J.g. Thirlwell)
  3. Happiness in Slavery (Rmx by T. Rezn
  4. Throw This Away (Assembled by T.rezn
  5. Fistfuck (Rmx by J.g. Thirlwell)
  6. Screaming Slave (Reznor/vrenna/kenne
  
• Nazwa - FIXED
• Autor - Nine Inch Nails
• Wydawnictwo - TVT
• Kod EAN - 0731451432125
• Rok wydania - 1996
• Nośnik - Płyta CD
• Ilość elementów - 1
• Podatek VAT - 23%
• Premiera - 1996-01-16

• Opis - Na kim wzorował się Elvis Presley? Kogo naśladował Ray Charles? Kto był inspiracją dla Janis Joplin? 25 niezapomnianych utworów z oryginalnych, unikatowych 78-obrotowych płyt z lat 1923-1956 wybranych i opisanych przez Piotra Kaczkowskiego. Wyjątkowo bogata książeczka zawiera biogramy i fotografie artystów oraz reprodukcje wszystkich płyt. Wśród wykonawców: Bessie Smith, Eartha Kitt, Errol Garner, Delta Rhythm Boys, Billie Holiday, Albert Ammons, Mills Brothers, Sarah Vaughan, Sidney Bechet, Big Mama Thornton i Nat King Cole. W prezencie druga dodatkowa płyta - 18 wspaniałych nagrań Elli Fitzgerald i Louisa Armstronga - solo, w duecie i z przyjaciółmi. Łącznie, 43 utwory na dwóch CD, ponad 130 minut ponadczasowej muzyki. (4Ever Music)
• Lista utworów - Płyta 1CD1:
  1. Big Mama Thornton - Hound Dog
  2. Sidney Bechet - Petite Fleur
  3. Delta Rhythm Boys - Dry Bones
  4. King Cole Trio - (I Love You) For Sentimental Reasons
  5. Billie Holiday - Body And Soul
  6. Mills Brothers - You Never Miss The Waters Till The Well Runs Dry
  7. Delta Rhythm Boys - Ev ry Time We Say Goodbye
  8. Albert Ammons - Red Sails In The Sunset
  9. Bessie Smith - St. Louis Blues
  10. Delta Rhythm Boys - Take The A Train
  11. Bessie Smith - Down Hearted Blues
  12. Rosetta Howard - When I Been Drinking
  13. "Fats" Waller - Cash For Your Trash
  14. Errol Garner - Somebody Loves Me
  15. Mills Brothers - After You
  16. Nat "King" Cole - Somewhere Along The Way
  17. Sarah Vaughan - Experience Unnecessary
  18. Harry Belafonte - Jamaica Farewell
  19. Eartha Kitt - C Est Si Bon
  20. Earl Hines - Boogie Woogie On St. Louis Blues
  21. Nat "King" Cole - Mona Lisa
  22. "Fats" Waller - Your Feet s Too
  23. Mills Brothers - I Wish I Knew The Name
  24. Errol Garner - Six P.M.
  25. Ink Spots - Whispering Grass
  CD2:
  1. Louis Armstrong - Kiss Of Fire
  2. Ella Fitzgerald - Stairway To The Stars
  3. Louis Armstrong/Mills Brothers - Flat Foot Floogee
  4. Ella Fitzgerald/Mills Brothers - Dedicated To You
  5. Louis Armstrong - C Est Si Bon
  6. Louis Armstrong/Ella Fitzgerald/Sy Oliver - Dream A Little Dream Of Me
  7. Louis Armstrong/Gordon Jenkins - When Its Sleepy Time Down South
  8. Ink Spots/Ella Fitzgerald - Thats The Way It Is
  9. Ella Fitzgerald/Song Spinners - Tea Leaves
  10. Louis Armstrong/Sy Oliver - (When We Are Dancing) I Get Ideas
  11. Ella Fitzgerald/Louis Armstrong/Sy Oliver - Can Anyone Explain?
  12. Ink Spots/Ella Fitzgerald - Im Making Believe
  13. Louis Armstrong/Gordon Jenkins - Its All In The Game
  14. Ella Fitzgerald - Imagination
  15. Ella Fitzgerald/Ink Spots - Im Beginning To See The Light
  16. Louis Armstrong/The Mills Brothers - WPA
  17. Ella Fitzgerald/ The Song Spinners - My Happiness
  18. Louis Armstrong - La Vie En Rose
  
• Nazwa - Piotr Kaczkowski - Trzeszcząca płyta 5 (Digipack)
• Autor - Różni Wykonawcy
• Wydawnictwo - 4ever Music
• Kod EAN - 5907476693918
• Rok wydania - 2009
• Nośnik - Płyta CD
• Ilość elementów - 2
• Podatek VAT - 23%
• Premiera - 2009-10-30

• Lista utworów - Płyta 11. Terrible Lie
  2. Sin
  3. March Of The Pigs
  4. Something I Can Never Have
  5. Closer
  6. Reptile
  7. Wish
  8. Suck
  9. Burn
  10. The Only Time
  11. Down In It
  12. Dead Souls
  13. Help Me I Am In Hell
  14. Happiness In Slavery
  15. Head Like A Hole
  
• Nazwa - LIVE ON AIR
• Autor - Nine Inch Nails
• Wydawnictwo - Eastworld
• Kod EAN - 0803341333444
• Rok wydania - 2011
• Nośnik - Płyta CD
• Ilość elementów - 1
• Podatek VAT - 23%
• Premiera - 2011-02-14

Kup całą serię

Na kim wzorował się Elvis Presley? Kogo naśladował Ray Charles? Kto był inspiracją dla Janis Joplin? 25 niezapomnianych utworów z oryginalnych, unikatowych 78-obrotowych płyt z lat 1923-1956 wybranych i opisanych przez Piotra Kaczkowskiego. Wyjątkowo bogata książeczka zawiera biogramy i fotografie artystów oraz reprodukcje wszystkich płyt. Wśród wykonawców: Bessie Smith, Eartha Kitt, Errol Garner, Delta Rhythm Boys, Billie Holiday, Albert Ammons, Mills Brothers, Sarah Vaughan, Sidney Bechet, Big Mama Thornton, Nat King Cole. W prezencie druga dodatkowa płyta 18 wspaniałych nagrań Elli Fitzgerald i Louisa Armstronga - solo, w duecie, i z przyjaciółmi. Łącznie, 43 utwory na dwóch CD, ponad 130 minut ponadczasowej muzyki.

Na płycie: 1. Pinion 2. Wish 3. Last 4. Help Me I Am In Hell 5. Happiness In Slavery 6. Get Up

Na płycie: 1. Gave Up 2. Wish 3. Happiness In Slavery 4. Throw This Away 5. Fist Fuck 6. Screaming Slave

CD1:
1. Big Mama Thornton - Hound Dog
2. Sidney Bechet - Petite Fleur
3. Delta Rhythm Boys - Dry Bones
4. King Cole Trio - (I Love You) For Sentimental Reasons
5. Billie Holiday - Body And Soul
6. Mills Brothers - You Never Miss The Waters Till The Well Runs Dry
7. Delta Rhythm Boys - Ev ry Time We Say Goodbye
8. Albert Ammons - Red Sails In The Sunset
9. Bessie Smith - St. Louis Blues
10. Delta Rhythm Boys - Take The A Train
11. Bessie Smith - Down Hearted Blues
12. Rosetta Howard - When I Been Drinking
13. "Fats" Waller - Cash For Your Trash
14. Errol Garner - Somebody Loves Me
15. Mills Brothers - After You
16. Nat "King" Cole - Somewhere Along The Way
17. Sarah Vaughan - Experience Unnecessary
18. Harry Belafonte - Jamaica Farewell
19. Eartha Kitt - C Est Si Bon
20. Earl Hines - Boogie Woogie On St. Louis Blues
21. Nat "King" Cole - Mona Lisa
22. "Fats" Waller - Your Feet s Too
23. Mills Brothers - I Wish I Knew The Name
24. Errol Garner - Six P.M.
25. Ink Spots - Whispering Grass
TT:74:45

CD2:
1. Louis Armstrong - Kiss Of Fire
2. Ella Fitzgerald - Stairway To The Stars
3. Louis Armstrong/Mills Brothers - Flat Foot Floogee
4. Ella Fitzgerald/Mills Brothers - Dedicated To You
5. Louis Armstrong - C Est Si Bon
6. Louis Armstrong/Ella Fitzgerald/Sy Oliver - Dream A Little Dream Of Me
7. Louis Armstrong/Gordon Jenkins - When Its Sleepy Time Down South
8. Ink Spots/Ella Fitzgerald - Thats The Way It Is
9. Ella Fitzgerald/Song Spinners - Tea Leaves
10. Louis Armstrong/Sy Oliver - (When We Are Dancing) I Get Ideas
11. Ella Fitzgerald/Louis Armstrong/Sy Oliver - Can Anyone Explain?
12. Ink Spots/Ella Fitzgerald - Im Making Believe
13. Louis Armstrong/Gordon Jenkins - Its All In The Game
14. Ella Fitzgerald - Imagination
15. Ella Fitzgerald/Ink Spots - Im Beginning To See The Light
16. Louis Armstrong/The Mills Brothers - WPA
17. Ella Fitzgerald/ The Song Spinners - My Happiness
18. Louis Armstrong - La Vie En Rose

1. Gave Up
2. Wish
3. Happiness In Slavery
4. Throw This Away
5. First Fuck
6. Screaming Slave

1. Pinion
2. Wish
3. Last
4. Help Me I Am In Hell
5. Happiness In Slavery
6. Gave Up
7. Bonustrack 1
8. Bonustrack 2

1. Gave Up (Remixed By Coil With Danny Hyde)
2. Wish (Remixed By J. G. Thirlwell)
3. Happiness In Slavery (Remixed By T. Reznor And Chris Vrenna With P. K.)
4. Throw This Away (Assembled By T. Reznor And C. Vrenna With Butch Vig)
5. Fist Fuck (Remixed By J. G. Thirlwell)
6. Screaming Slave (Reznor / Vrenna / Kennedy / Beavan / Brumbach / Flanagan)

1. The Nightingale
2. Dreaming By The River In Spring
3. Song Of The Fishermen
4. Midnight Fragrance
5. The Maidens Of Alisan
6. Bengawan Solo
7. Happiness
8. Dahil Saiyo
9. Dark Clouds In The Sky
10. I Wish I Were A Swallow
11. Mending An Old Net
12. Flower In The Rainy Night
13. Peach Blossom Crosses The River
14. When Will You Be Back
15. Without You