With his Daltrey-like good looks, Rick Buckler could be mistaken for the frontman of The Jam, rather than the glumly reticent Weller. Certainly, his role in the group, laying down the drum patterns for tracks like Funeral Pyre, should not be underrated.
He comes across in this memoir as a genial, unpretentious, if at times prosaic character. Racy rock’n’roll revelations are thin on the ground: The Jam didn’t really do drugs, their paths didn’t cross with other bands, though Buckler once met Boy George (“we just talked”), doing TOTP wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
Money matters loom large; their meagre first advance, the £2,000 he put down on his first house, while his dismay at Weller breaking up The Jam is largely down to the fact that they were about to earn some real dosh.
It’s unlikely the group will reunite – Weller and Buckler haven’t spoken since 1983. But there’s no bitterness here./o:p
