Every summer I try to read a music autobiography. Last year it was Jah Wobble's "Memoirs of a Geezer"; the year before Kim Gordon's "Girl In A Band". Both are interesting books - this is much better. Who knew Steve Hanley, the quiet engine room of the band, had such a wicked sense of humour? His description of The Mission applying self raising flour to their faces to achieve a more ghostly aspect, and that technique not working so well for afternoon gigs in the hot sun had me laughing out loud for 5 minutes, whereas his account of Karl Burns launching fireworks from stage left at support bands is both laugh out funny and hair-raising in equal measure.

What we have here is Steve Hanley's account of 20 years doing what he considers to be a job - playing bass in The Fall. At times he has to find other jobs; helping in his dad's pie shop, working as a janitor, training to be a chef. And his band mates have to too; because life in The Fall is short on a lot of things you need as a married adult with a family to support - like regular wages and a secure income

Hanley's is funny but honest about his journey; from the sheer awe of playing with Mark Smith (as Hanley always calls him), to the joy of playing in your favourite band with your best friend (Marc Riley) through the early years of glorious creativity, the almost- but- not-quite pop star Brix years, to the collapse and chaos of the 90s. But he stops when he leaves his job - and so there is no coverage of the surprising late period creativity and the even more surprising late period band stability.

Of course Mark Smith doesn't come out of it well; he progresses from eccentric, speed addled, almost genius to abusive, manipulative, alcoholic, deranged arsehole. You only wonder that Hanley sticks it for so long as bandmates come and go, the music deteriorates, and he goes from bass player to tour manager and co signatory to The Fall's extensive tax debts. Perhaps its simply, as he says, that he couldn't think of anything else to do - and a refusal to admit defeat

In the end its all a bit depressing - but its a fun ride at least for the first 15 years. There is so much here to enjoy not least the trials and tribulations of band life (smuggling speed in a baby's nappy anyone?), and Hanley's devastating pen portraits of his colleagues. Scanlon as grumpy git, Brix as Hollywood ingenue transported to the anti-Oz of Prestwich, Bramah as the rock god in the wrong band, Wollestonecraft as the nearly man - nearly in The Smiths, nearly in The Stone Roses, ending up in the Fall. Hanley lampoons Brix so mercilessly that it's a surprise they are apparently friends, and working together now

But pride of place must go the one and only Karl Burns - drummer, pyromaniac, constructor of home made explosives, terror of the groupies and general lunatic. If anyone in this book makes Mark Smith looks relatively normal, its Burns

Its rare that the blurb for this type of book rings true. But as the blurb says, you don't have to like The Fall to like this. You don't even need to like music. Its a treasure ( )