Author:Philip Wilding

Love remains, though everything is lost

  Memories fall towards you sometimes, like brown leaves out of the blue of the sky. The thunder of drums coming through the wall backstage at a long defunct outdoor arena on the outskirts of Nashville. The eve of the R30 tour, myself, Alex Lifeson and...

In the teeth of winter

The wind comes in hard at your thighs, it makes little impression, but leaves your fingers numb. You've long given up on feeling your face as you stretch into your third mile, your tops are layered and from the waist up you're starting to overheat...

Red in the City That Burns

It seems odd to be poring over the bones of New York City in 1980 when I'm sitting on the slowly lifting and falling dock of a lake on a still Canadian morning. I'm not sure how many years it's been now since I started...

Spark To The Flame

A few years ago I tried to leave London (in truth, I think I was trying to get away from myself, but that's for another time). I gave away most of my books, my music, my DVDs (the Oxfam shop in Kentish Town, littered with...

Red: The World Burns…

What was it Bukowski said, the days run away like wild horses over hills?  I have a friend who sometimes chides me for my occasional dramatic flourish (I say occasional), but as the hours and days count down to the deadline for my second novel,...

Red Is Dead (Maybe)

Forty-five days in to the Unbound pledge campaign for The Death and Life Of Red Henley seems like a good time as any to marvel/recoil/reflect on the whole thing so far. At ninety days the thing goes dead, apparently, but, pleasingly, at the halfway mark...

A Few Words About Love (and Blood)

I finished my second novel (truly finished it after kidding myself it was completed a few months previously) and then watched it dwindle and die. My former editor had retired and wasn't taking on the number of books he once did and the new season...

The Fall of Rome (LA Edit)

It's nearly midday and the sunshine is scattering the shadows across the patio of my suite at the London West Hollywood. Someone is smoking dope on a balcony high above me, someone else is playing Nirvana and singing along. The low thrum in the near...