True to say, I went about with a song in my heart during the six years it's taken to put together my latest book, Cover Story. True, also, to say that these songs were written, played and recorded by the New Zealand musicians whose stories make up Cover Story. True, furthermore, to say it was the happiest book I've ever worked on, happier even than my 2008 birdwatching book, How to Watch a Bird – I hadn't thought it was possible to meet a birdwatcher who was anything less than funny, generous, and warm, but actually I met one guy who was such an asshole that I nearly scrapped the entire project. All the musicians I interviewed were friendly and lovely. And yet it's also true that Cover Story is the saddest of my books.
It's an illustrated book featuring 100 record covers. I spent six years collecting about 750 New Zealand LPs purely for the joy and wonder of their album covers, and along the way I interviewed as many musicians as I could and talked with them about their covers but also their lives as entertainers who brought joy and wonder to countless New Zealanders. The records were made from 1957 (the year of the first New Zealand LP, South Sea Rhythm by Samoan-born steel guitar player Bill Wolfgramm and his band) to 1987 (the year records stopped being made here, when the vinyl pressing plant in Lower Hutt was stripped for scrap metal). Thirty years of music, recorded between 30 and 60 years ago ... I talked to a lot of quite old musicians. Old age is beset with many problems, chief of which is the closeness of death. Quite a lot of the musicians who I talked to have died.
And so for all its brightness, and the fact it presents as a gallery of 100 strange and startling images that adorned record covers of brass band music, accordion music, Christian music and sometimes really good music, Cover Story is also a book of the dead. All history is the story of one dead person after another and Cover Story is a history of New Zealand culture, packaged and designed as the 12x12-inch frame of LP covers.
There are record covers by Peter Posa. He was a household name – the beauty of his Dalmatian surname didn't hurt – in the 60s, when he recorded numerous instrumental albums of guitar music. But he was so unhappy. I interviewed him in 2018, at his home on the edges of Te Awamutu, and he talked openly and candidly about his lifelong struggle with depression. He was such a gentle, brave soul. He wore a lilac shirt and was in considerable pain from arthritis. He'd suffered a massive stroke. He'd found God, and love: his wife Margaret looked after him, and they sat together holding hands, looking out the window at a walnut tree. He died the following year. He was 78.