The Electrical Storm

Otherwise known as "Tall Tales & True" or "Grunge: My Part in its Downfall". Being a collection of short stories in the style of William Saroyan attempting to recollect a life probably best forgotten, the life of music critic Everett True. Sad racy stories. Downbeat enthusiasm. Funny, cruel, clever, brutally honest...once you've read this, you will never be able to read music criticism with a straight face again.

Every story recounted (or barely remembered) is accompanied by suitably sardonic illustrations from the pen of the reclusive French genius Vincent Vanoli.

What We Need & What You Get

We need at least £5,000 to bring our book into life. We'll need to cover all the financial aspects that go into publishing a book, as well as paying our lovely contributors (Everett and Vincent) for their hard work. What we hope to achieve is something so attractive you'll want to have it on your coffee table and so funny you'll read it time and time again.

Risks & Challenges

People value transparency, apparently.

Now you have the chance to be in at the start of a brand new project alongside one of the world's greatest* music critics. However, Everett True is an impatient man, and he wants to publish the book sooner than yesterday. That ain't possible, not without money. So we've set ourselves a more realistic target of 30 days**. We really need your help in making this book as great as we know that it can be! Go look at our perks and see what you can get in return for your help.

*Some might disagree.
** Some might definitely disagree.

PayPal

If for any reason you are unable to donate via this page, then please visit our website www.rejectedunknown.tumblr.com where you can donate via PayPal. Make sure you state which perk you would like in response to your donation.

Other Ways You Can Help

If you can't afford to pledge, there are still things you can do to help! Get the word out, and share our funding page on Facebook, Twitter etc. If you're a reviewer, ask for a PDF.

And stop listening to such bloody terrible music.

Illustration © 2016: Vincent Vanoli

Sample Story

She starts screaming my name.

I’m standing near the back, taking a breather. The shots are expensive but I’m on expenses. Punters walk round wearing homemade “Fuck Everett True” T-shirts, most of them coloured by reprinted quotes. Everyone knows Thurston wants to rip my head off. My friend Delia – she’s tiny, but furious when roused – has spent most of the concert kicking at the ankles of territorial men grotesquely lurching from side to side. The singer leaps – tumbles, rather – off the stage in a spirited imitation of Mark Arm, seemingly oblivious of the territorial men and hence straight into their lurching, grotesque arms.

She starts screaming my real name.

The arrogant shithead men lift her above their heads, hands inside her dress and her knickers, clawing and fingering and feeling. Apparently, women don’t stage-dive. Apparently, women need to be taught a lesson. A lesson that only scummy indie boy/men can teach them. My female friends – and many of my male friends too – are near apoplectic, kicking out and scratching.

She’s screaming my name.

Later, everyone’s looking for us. She’s hidden underneath the dressing room table, refuses to come out unless someone finds me. I’m confused, conflicted. Not by what’s just happened – there’s no confusion there – but by the storm of emotions swirling round in my thickened, smoke-filled head. Get me a fucking drink, I command. Someone does.

Someone always did back then.

Later, everyone’s looking for us. No one knows what’s going on. There’s a rumour going round we’re having sex in the bathroom. There’s a rumour we’re making out underneath the dressing room table. She gives me a ring to wear on my middle finger. It breaks three days later. It’s a crackerjack ring. She lets me try on her lipstick. No one know what’s going on. There’s a rumour she had to run to the hospital. People are banging on the locked door but it won’t open.

It’s been barricaded.