I will leave it to the Belle and Sebastian obsessives, of whom there are many around the world, to figure out which details in this debut novel by the band’s lead singer and main songwriter are made up. As far as I’ve been able to work out, just a few names have been changed, of people and cafes. Apart from that, Nobody’s Empire could as well have been published as a recovery memoir. So let’s agree to call it autofiction, and take the book on its merits – which are considerable.
If you’re familiar with Stuart Murdoch’s early life, you’ll know the plot. He’s talked about it in interviews. Belle and Sebastian were, he says, “a pop band that sprang out of infirmity” – that infirmity being ME or chronic fatigue syndrome. Although this was something Murdoch kept quiet about for years, partly due to the energy wasted in explaining, it reveals a huge amount about the band’s aesthetic and appeal – both of which come delightfully through into this version of that same life story.
Murdoch’s songs have always been populated by athletes and shut-ins; he experienced being first one then the other. On early albums such as If You’re Feeling Sinister, his short‑storyish characters are either “throwing discus / For Liverpool and Widnes” or giving themselves “to books and learning”. As the band have become better musicians, they’ve swapped their ramshackle junk shop charm for a smoother pop efficiency, but Murdoch’s lyrical concerns have remained consistent. With beautifully offhand accuracy, he describes his territory as “the cosy dusk and spotting rain-kissed marginals at the checkout queue of the Byres Road Safeway”.
The novel, like Murdoch’s 2014 film God Help the Girl, centres on a trio of rain-kissed marginals. There’s Stephen, who has gone from indie DJ, roadie and amateur athlete to “a free-floating vagabond of the state” after being sideswiped by chronic fatigue; there’s Richard, his noncommittal but supportive best friend; and there’s Carrie, his dedicated and supportive other best friend. All of them are surviving, rather than living with, ME. “Imagine having the first day of a cold or the flu every day of your life.”
When we join him, in the summer of 1991, Stephen has been dumped by his first girlfriend, Vivian. We follow him over the rough, cross-country course of the next two years as he seeks physical and mental recovery in the Clyde Valley and in California. Although at one point Stephen insists, “I have no plotline”, he is in fact following several very clearly defined narrative tracks.
The first, and most likely to be of greatest satisfaction to fans of Murdoch’s catchy and intricate music, traces Stephen’s shambling progress toward becoming a songwriter, performing musician and band leader. The second, intimately linked, explores his “journey with God”. This involves a moment of transcendent connection through music, followed by months of embarrassed prayer and fitful attendance at church services. The third main plotline follows Stephen’s troubles with girls. He’s down on himself throughout, not recognising his own charms, but when he finally gets together with American indie sweetheart Janey, she wryly nails him:
“I’m not a stray puppy,” I said with genuine surprise. “I don’t have that thing. At least, I don’t mean to.”
“Trust me, Stephen, you got the puppy thing. It’s like your paw is in a sling.”
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It’s the paw-in-a-sling aspect that puts some people off Belle and Sebastian, and that could easily carry over into the reception of Nobody’s Empire. Many are impatient with the band’s adolescent concerns. Oh, why can’t you just grow up and get over it? And Murdoch’s sticking with this territory of major crashes and minor crushes well into his sixth decade might seem a bit like Steve Lamacq or even John Peel’s dogged insistence on hanging with the indie kids.
However, there’s always been something more forceful than mere feyness behind songs such as The Stars of Track and Field and The State I Am In. Murdoch’s book brings this into the light as the basic Christian values of compassion, companionship, communion – plus the added bonus of groovy musical composition. Put simply, faith. Faith in oneself, and in the unearthly possibilities of friends and strangers. As Stephen says, one of his favourite bands, Pixies, “looked and felt like four average citizens, four newspaper readers who got lucky in each other’s presence. But that’s what made it magic.” They were, he insists, “ ordinary people touched by magic”. And he concludes, Murdoch speaking modestly but passionately through his alter ego, “I could be wrong about this but hey, this is my music. Give me the story, not the facts.” This is that story – radiantly written.