Paperbacks: Ginger Geezer Playing to the Gallery William Burroughs: El hombre invisible How to Stop Time: Heroin from A to Z The Lost Messiah

This excellent account follows the strange trajectory of Vivian Stanshall, frontman for the incomparable Bonzo Dog Band, who, despite twin addictions to alcohol and Valium, managed to keep his career afloat for the next 30 years through his verbal genius and passion for the absurd. Stanshall was an undisciplined perfectionist. Always determined to be the centre of attention, he could be both irresistibly charming and stupendously rude.

Ginger Geezer by Lucian Randall and Chris Welch ( Penguin, £7.99, 275pp)

This excellent account follows the strange trajectory of Vivian Stanshall, frontman for the incomparable Bonzo Dog Band, who, despite twin addictions to alcohol and Valium, managed to keep his career afloat for the next 30 years through his verbal genius and passion for the absurd. Stanshall was an undisciplined perfectionist. Always determined to be the centre of attention, he could be both irresistibly charming and stupendously rude.

The first section about the Bonzos, a group that won more affection than success, is often laugh-aloud funny. Stanshall's off-stage antics were even wilder than his act. The authors retell a legendary jape involving Stanshall and Keith Moon "testing" trousers in branches of M&S. Each tugged at a leg apiece until the garment ripped apart. "Well, they're not very strong," Stanshall would observe, when in would hop a specially hired one-legged actor. "Just what I'm looking for," declared the newcomer. "I'll take two pairs."

Though wildly erratic, Stanshall's post-Bonzo output was far from negligible. The authors single out his LP Teddy Boys Don't Knit (a reference to his youth as a crocheting Ted in Southend), the audio version of Sir Henry at Rawlinson End and the first production of his show Stinkfoot on a boat in Bristol (not to be confused with the houseboat-home that Stanshall sunk). Having scuppered two marriages, the ailment-plagued Stanshall died in 1995 at 51, apparently as a result of a fire caused by his own carelessness. Substantial, sensitively written and often hilarious, his story is utterly unmissable.

Playing to the Gallery by Simon Hoggart (Atlantic, £7.99, 278pp)

Despite a captive shooting gallery of stuffed shirts, it can't be easy being a parliamentary gagster, but Hoggart manages the task with aplomb. For example, he gets much mileage from the horrible colour of Gerald Kaufman's suit: 'like the deep, luminescent pools that bubbled to the surface after the eruption of Mt St Helena'. But straight observation works best, like his detailed account of Bob Marshall-Andrews goring a stroppy constituent. This collection will be obligatory reading for any putative parliamentarian, though fainthearts may skip the column devoted to Nicholas Soames's gruesome manicure technique.

William Burroughs: El hombre invisible by Barry Miles (Virgin, £9.99, 280pp)

Barry Miles, top chronicler of the Beats, declares that he was 'privileged to know' Burroughs for 32 years. Such a privilege carried certain risks, notably for Burroughs's wife Joan, shot through the forehead during a drunken 'William Tell act' in 1941. Later, Burroughs claimed that her death made him a writer: 'It brought me in contact with the invader, the Ugly Spirit.' While deftly exploring Burroughs's dark oeuvre, Miles finds room for unexpected revelations, such as the influence of Denton Welch and Burroughs's successful psychic campaign against the Moka Coffee Bar in London's Frith Street.

How to Stop Time: Heroin from A to Z by Ann Marlowe (Virago, £7.99, 297pp)

In polished, lucid prose, this cool, elegant New Yorker takes us deep into the world of junkiedom. We learn that bags of heroin come with logos and brand-names (Elevator, Body Bag, Silver Bullet), that heroin is as likely to make you fat as thin, that making love on dope is 'like changing a tyre underwater', that skin problems get worse, that time becomes 'harmless' and, finally, that heroin 'rules out the possibility of something AMAZING happening that will change your life forever'. This makes for a powerful anti-drug conclusion, but, unfortunately, many lives are remarkably barren of amazing events.

The Lost Messiah by John Freely (Penguin, £7.99, 275pp)

Inspired by a discovery in a Borgesian bookshop in Istanbul, Freely pursues the story of Sabbatai Sevi, a 17th-century rabbi and mystic from Izmir, who declared himself to be the Messiah. Throughout the diaspora, Jewish children were named after him and thousands flocked to join him. Many didn't cease believing even when Sabbatai, threatened with death by the Sultan, converted to Islam. Soon after, he died in mysterious circumstances, but a few scattered adherents still hold the faith. Freely's brilliantly researched tale transports the reader through a host of wonderfully arcane locations.