✦ BOOK LAUNCH — THURSDAY 16 JULY 2026 - 7PM -LATE - FREE ENTRY✦ BBE STORE ARCH 376, LONDON E8 3SB✦ LIMITED 1ST EDITION PAPERBACK. ONLY 150 AVAILABLE✦ BOOK LAUNCH — THURSDAY 16 JULY 2026 - 7PM -LATE - FREE ENTRY✦ BBE STORE ARCH 376, LONDON E8 3SB✦ LIMITED 1ST EDITION PAPERBACK. ONLY 150 AVAILABLE
How Not To Be A Music Producer is a darkly comic fictional memoir inspired by real experiences inside the independent music world of the 1990s and early 2000s.
Told through the eyes of Harrison — a young musician obsessed with escaping ordinary life through music — the book follows years of chaotic studio sessions, disastrous business deals, strange encounters, tiny victories, and long stretches of self-doubt, all set against a backdrop of soul, rare groove, club culture and fading dreams of success.
Part cautionary tale, part survival story, the novel explores what it really means to dedicate your life to creativity when recognition, money and stability never quite arrive in the way you imagined.
There are no overnight success stories here.
No glamorous industry fantasy.
Just the reality behind the records.
Blending humour, nostalgia and brutal honesty, How Not To Be A Music Producer offers a rare look at the emotional cost of chasing a creative life for decades — and the strange beauty in refusing to give up.
Think Rocky... but without the win.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MORGAN W HOWELL
Morgan, also known as Soulpersona, is a UK soul and jazz-funk producer, songwriter, remixer and independent artist with a career spanning more than two decades.
His work has received support from stations including BBC Radio 6 Music, Jazz FM, BBC Radio 1Xtra and BBC Radio 3, while his productions and remixes have appeared in the US Billboard Jazz charts.
Alongside a catalogue of solo releases, he has collaborated with artists including Princess Freesia, Bryan Corbett and Carl Hudson, and has served as musical director for live shows featuring artists such as Leon Ware, Jean Carne and Shirley Jones.
How Not To Be A Music Producer is his first novel. Written with the same honesty and soul that runs through his music, the book draws heavily from years spent navigating the highs, lows and absurdities of creative life — offering an unfiltered portrait of persistence, ambition and survival in independent music culture.
EVENT
BOOK LAUNCH
How Not To Be A Music Producer
Official Launch Night.
Thursday 16 July 2026, 7pm - Late
BBE Store, Arch 376,
10 Helmsley Place, London E8 3SB
Join author and producer Morgan Howell for the official launch of his debut book How Not To Be A Music Producer — a darkly comic, brutally honest story about creativity, obsession, near misses and surviving decades in music without ever quite “making it.”
Presented in association with Soul Picnic and Walthamstow Rock ’n’ Roll Book Club.
The evening will feature:
✦ A live Q&A discussing the stories behind the book
✦ Readings and conversations about the reality of life in music
✦ A look behind the scenes at the creation and design of the novel
✦ Signed copies available on the night
✦ DJ sets inspired by the music and culture woven through the book
Hosted by Mark Hart with DJ sets from Dominic Mandrell and Soulpersona.
Free Entry
Thursday 16 July 2026
7PM – Late
A limited first edition paperback of only 150 copies will be available.
PRE-ORDER
PRE-ORDER EXCLUSIVE
LIMITED 1ST EDITION (SIGNED, ONLY 150 COPIES)
HOW NOT TO BE A MUSIC PRODUCER ✦ SNEAK PEEK
CHAPTER I
Daydreaming
A stick of chalk smashes into the side of my head. “WILLIAMS! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU STARING AT, YOU BLOODY IDIOT?!”
My name’s Harrison Williams, my friends call me Harry. I’m thirteen. Average height, blonde hair, fringe combed over to the right with a bit of a mullet at the back — a hairstyle I hate. That’s Mum’s choice. When I’m old enough, I’m shaving it all off.
I’ve got a few hobbies. Music’s the big one. I enjoy all sorts — Phil Collins is my idol and I want to play drums like him. I also found a tape in Dad’s car with Bob James on one side and a band called Koinonia on the other. The Koinonia stuff’s alright, but not as good as Bob James. I’m also into Frankie Goes to Hollywood, Curiosity Killed the Cat, Tears for Fears, and Level 42. I’ve been in love with Sheena Easton since 1981. It happened when I watched the opening title sequence for For Your Eyes Only at the cinema. Not only is Sheena the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, but the song itself is one of the most amazingly goosebumpy pieces of music I’ve ever heard — right up there with the Rocky theme. Which is weird, because I found out they’re both written by the same bloke: Bill Conti.
Another obsession: car brochures. Especially Fords. Dad’s about to get his first company car — a Sierra Sapphire, the first Sapphire model in our town no less. I’ve probably read the spec sheet a thousand times. Crushed velour seats, 1.6 petrol engine, adjustable driver’s seat, digital clock, illuminated cigar lighter, even a coin box for parking change. Plus a high-quality tape player with a revolutionary six-speaker stereo.
It’s also got a tilt-and-slide sunroof — wind it one way for tilt, the other for slide. Genius.
The downside? Dad’s getting the L model. Bottom of the range. So no electric windows in the back, no pull-out armrest, no rear headrests — just a basic back-seat setup. Gutted.
I’m hoping he gets a promotion soon so we can upgrade to the all-singing, all-dancing Ghia model: alloy wheels, power steering, electric everything, and most importantly… rear headrests.
When I’m not memorising car specs or listening to music, I’m usually out on my bike — sometimes alone, mostly with my mates. Girls? I’m not sure. I had my heart broken recently — got chucked because I didn’t know how to do a Frenchie. Harsh. I mean, I’d only moved to England from a tiny Welsh village three years ago — I’d never even had a girlfriend before.
When she asked me to give her a Frenchie, I said, “Bonjour.”
So now, after a few months of heartache, I’m single and slightly sceptical. Still, there are a few girls I fancy, but they’re way out of my league and mostly go for the lads who can grow wispy sideburns — something my hormones haven’t figured out yet.
Somehow, I’ve also ended up being quite good at arm wrestling, which is a ridiculous thing to be good at. Blame Sylvester Stallone. I watched Rocky and Over the Top, got inspired, bought a pair of dumbbells, and started copying his training routines like a man possessed. To my amazement, it actually paid off. I’ve taken down a few lads who had no business losing to someone like me.
As for school… I hate it. The only good reason to go is to see my mates. Lessons? I hardly pay any attention. Most of the time I just stare out the window.
Which is exactly what I’m doing right now.
CHAPTER I (CONT.)
The Classroom Face-off
Mr Etherington is glaring at me, face like a tomato about to burst. The whole classroom turns to watch the chaos unfold. Outside, it’s a blazing May afternoon in 1987. Inside, it’s the last lesson of the day — maths.
I was casually minding my own business, staring out the window, lost in a daydream about getting home and playing Easy Lover on my Sharp all-in-one hi-fi. Now I’m locked in a full-blown face-off with a teacher whose blood pressure could probably be measured in decibels.
Mr Etherington storms toward me, his patent leather slip-ons clicking across the floor like a ticking time bomb. His fists are clenched tight, knuckles white, and his thinning combover flaps slightly with each stomp. I can already smell him — sweat, stale coffee, cigarettes, and a generous splash of rage.
“ANSWER ME, BOY!”
A wet explosion of spittle sprays from his mouth. One droplet lands on my cheek. I want to wipe it away but don’t dare move. It’s bothering me — the thought of it soaking into my skin is driving me mad.
To make matters worse, I’ve just yawned a handful of fizzy cola bottles into my mouth — a stealth snacking technique developed among my mates. You pretend to yawn, palm cupped discreetly over your mouth, and toss sweets in undetected. Timing is everything. It’s an art form.
“Nushin’ shir,” I mumble, my mouth full of half-melted sweets and fizzing saliva.
“STAND UP, BOY!”
He yanks me up by the scruff of my blazer. My knees slam into the desk. Pens, pencil case, and workbook scatter across the floor. My chair clatters backwards into the desk behind me. A girl lets out a startled scream.
“ARE YOU CHEWING IN MY LESSON!?”
He’s inches from my face now, glasses slipping down his sweaty nose, eyes bloodshot, forehead glistening like a star chart. His breath hits me like a cocktail of regret: coffee, fags, and halitosis.
I swallow the entire fizzy mess in one gulp. “Nothing, sir!”
The fizzy sweets came from the local newsagent, lovingly stored in a white paper bag. But paper bags are noisy. So I pour the lot into my blazer pocket every morning — less noise, more stealth. Over time, the bottom lining has become a crusty ecosystem of sugar dust, paper, and sweet wrappers. Occasionally there’s a rogue boiled sweet welded into the fabric. If you’re desperate, you can lick a finger, dip it into the sugary sediment, and voilà — budget sherbet dip.
“GO ON, EMPTY YOUR POCKETS!”
Reluctantly, I reach into my right pocket and reveal a sticky handful of fizzy cola bottles.
He looks at them in horror, like I’ve handed him a pile of dog shit. His face deepens a shade of red as he slaps them out of my hand. They scatter across the room in slow motion like confetti. Some bounce off the window; others land near classmates who immediately start scoffing them behind his back.
That really pisses me off. Those sweets cost me 20p — that’s like £1.50 in today’s money.
“NOW THE OTHER POCKET. HURRY UP.”
This time, I hesitate.
CHAPTER I (CONT.)
Clive & The Pipe Dream
Inside my left pocket is something sacred: a folded-up newspaper clipping my nan sent me. An interview with a session drummer named Clive. I’ve read it hundreds of times. It’s creased at the folds and soft at the edges — like a treasured photo in a soldier’s wallet.
I reluctantly pass the article to Mr Etherington, who snatches it from my grasp.
Clive looks like the coolest bloke on earth — late twenties, haircut like the other guy from Go West. He’s wearing snow-washed Pepe jeans and a white sleeveless Frankie Says Relax tee that barely contains his biceps. He’s sat in the back of a London taxi, grinning like he’s just paradiddled his way out of a speeding ticket. In one hand, a battered pair of Vic Firths. In the other? A can of lager.
“Most people think it’s all sex, drugs, and snare fills,” Clive says. “But nah — some days you’re laying down drums for a toothpaste jingle and getting paid enough to buy a second-hand Capri. Other days, you’re miming on Top of the Pops while Sinitta grinds against a wind machine. It’s a mixed bag.”
He laughs, takes a swig.
“You’ve gotta be versatile, right? One minute you’re on tour with Heaven 17, the next you’re in a Croydon studio doing a reggae track for a bloke called Winston who only pays in weed and Jamaican Ginger Cake.”
When asked if he ever gets nervous working with big names, Clive grins.
“Nervous? Nah, mate. They call me the picture framer — ’cos I always nail it. My nickname’s Rolex, ’cause I’m always on time. And trust me, I’ve got more pocket than a pair of army trousers.”
And his advice to young drummers?
“Play in time, turn up early, don’t chat too much, and never, ever eat garlic before a gig — it seeps out of your hands, makes your sticks slippy, and one of mine once shot out mid-fill like a throwing knife, narrowly missing the bass player. Learned that the hard way. A dancer from Hot Gossip later said I smelled like a kebab.”
I was obsessed. Every line was a window into another universe — a place where people like me belonged. Not in classrooms being barked at by dried-up teachers, but in studios, tour vans, and green rooms — whatever they were. Clive didn’t just play drums; he was drums. And more importantly, he made it sound like the whole thing was brilliant.
Back in the classroom, Etherington rolls his eyes and starts reading the article aloud in a mocking voice. When he’s finished his little performance, he looks me dead in the eye.
“So you fancy yourself a bit of a drummer, do you?”
Sniggers ripple across the classroom.
“Williams here thinks he’s Ringo bloody Starr!” Etherington chuckles, scanning the room for approval.
“Now listen here, Williams,” he says, fixing me with that glare. “All this drumming lark — it’s a fool’s errand. Time you buck your ideas up and knuckle down with your classwork. Face it, the odds of you making a living out of banging skins are next to none. You want a future? Learn yourself a trade. Get a proper job. Not poncing about on Top of the Pops like some bleeding poofta.”
He crumples the article into a tight ball and tosses it into the metal bin. It pings off the side with a cold, metallic clang — the sound of a shattered aspiration.
“There’s your stupid pipe dream, you idiot. In the bin. And if I ever catch you eating in my classroom again, or reading rubbish like this, you’ll be in detention every lunchtime for a month. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Now sit down and pay attention.”
He scoops up the chalk, clicks sharply back to the board like a smug metronome, and resumes scribbling equations.
Inside, I’m raging. I want to smash his stupid smug face in and stab him in the balls with a freshly sharpened HB pencil. That article was my Holy Grail. I’d read it so many times I’d memorised it word for word. It gave me purpose. Having it in my pocket — right next to the sugary sediment — was like a secret promise to my future self.
He didn’t just throw away a piece of paper. He stomped all over my dream in his cheap slip-ons.
But looking back, I’m glad he did.
That moment lit a fire in me. It made me certain. From that day on, I wasn’t just dreaming of being a session drummer — I was one. I just had to figure out how to make the rest of the world believe it.
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