View From A Hill

“The Chameleons’ dark, thrilling music is treated like a religion in their hometown, where they command the same devotion as their fellow travellers Joy Division. They were on the verge of breaking internationally when it all unravelled, and at last the whole story is told, in a compelling writing style and with a unique pop culture perspective that reveals who, how, and why they are such a key band. View From A Hill is the last great untold story of the Manchester post-punk era.” John Robb, Louder Than War

"View From A Hill is a deeply personal and insightful account of the life of the main force behind one of post punk’s most overlooked, but influential, bands." Hayley Scott, The Quietus

View From A Hill is the story of Mark Burgess, singer, bassist and founder member of legendary Manchester cult heroes The Chameleons. The band were catapulted to the forefront of the post-punk scene when John Peel awarded them a much coveted session after the band had played only a handful of low-key gigs. Mark takes us through four decades of pop culture as he charts The Chameleons’ development, as well as their cruel treatment at the hands of a corrupt music industry. Amidst intrigue in the Middle East, expeditions in search of the Loch Ness Monster, and acid trips that inspired the band’s language and sound, there are myriad music industry anecdotes that will make your jaw drop. Moving and hilarious by turns, View From A Hill is a highly entertaining rollercoaster ride of a rock memoir.

There follows a charming excerpt about Mark's journey to see the Sex Pistols play their final UK show in

Very early the following morning I made my way up to the junction of the motorway. During the night it had been snowing quite heavily, so I augmented my usual leather and mohair Punk attire with a borrowed hippie Afghan coat turned inside out against the freezing cold. Little was moving on the motorway, and the clothes certainly didn’t help, but eventually a car stopped and I got in.
The elderly man driving the car got it into his head, for some reason I was never able to fathom, that I was a soldier making my way home on Christmas leave - perhaps he thought only soldiers desperate to get home to their families would be mad enough to hitchhike on Christmas Day.
“So where are you going?” he asked me.
“I’m on my way to Huddersfield to see the Sex Pistols.”
“Oh that’s nice. So where are you stationed?”
“Pardon me?”
“Where is your unit stationed?”
"No, I’m not in the forces, I’m going to see the Sex Pistols.”
“My son’s in the Air Force, you might know him.”
“It’s unlikely. I’m not in the Air Force.”
“Oh you’re in the Army then are you?”
“No, I’m on my way to see the Sex Pistols.”
“Oh yes? So how long is your leave then?”
“Erm, I’m on a forty-eight hour pass.”
This kind but dim gentleman took me all the way to Huddersfield - “No I’ll take you all the way in, I insist, I mean if you have to report back to your C.O. in forty-eight hours that doesn’t leave you with much time to choose your next pistols...”

And what happened next? Well, that's where the story really begins...