"The Artificial White Man" is Stanley Crouch's most recent collection of essays on all things American, artistic and political. Crouch is a curmudgeonly New York writer that I first encountered twenty years ago in his arts writing for the Village Voice. I'd never read anyone who combined indignation, rage and what seemed like a heavy dose of common sense before. My own views were only starting to coalesce into traditional conservatism I tend to favor these days and finding a liberal who wasn't simply vomiting up the standard liberal lines on the arts and culture was enlightening.
I admit I also loved his thick style awash in seemingly endless trains of adjectives. Again, I'd never read a style like Crouch's up till then. I even got a subscription to the New Republic because he was listed as an associate editor at the time. Unfortunately he never wrote a piece for it during the years I got it.
Over the years as my reading scope widened I saw the verbal bloat that Crouch suffers from. I also realized that too often his essays are limited by his pugnacity and strong prejudices. I still enojyed his newspaper columns but I didn't buy his novel when it came out.
So why did I buy "The Artificial White Man"? I've come to the conclusion that I love essays. I like their succinctness and tight focus. Too much non-fiction I encounter is crushed down with minutiae that I don't care about and I can barely imagine the authors even have regards for.
I started reading the Atlantic Monthly because it features some of the best non-fiction writing I'm aware of. People like Christopher Hitchens and Sandra Tsing Loh are regular contributors. Robert Kaplan, Mark Bowden and all sorts of amazing authors regularly write great dispatches on the wars.
That's a long way of saying I'll always grab a book of essays that looks interesting when I'm in need of something new to read. Crouch's book seemed to fit the bill.
The book is a mishmash of determinedly provacative essays on white justifications and fetishizations of black social patholgies, the unwillingness of American writers to confront race (as well as anything outside of their immediate social zone) and paeans to some artists who happen to do all the things Crouch wants them to.
Can you tell I thought the book was a little too much? I mean it only cost me about $13 (thank you little beige Barnes&Noble member card - absolutely worth the $25 per annum if you buy more than three of four books a year) and he does have an interesting take on things. Race is still the monster underpinning and undermining so much of what goes on in this country these days and we don't really discuss it.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Thursday, April 26, 2007
"Hostage" - Robert Crais
I'm a pretty solid Bruce Willis fan and will check out most movies with him (okay, I will not see "Perfect Stranger") and one night I stayed up and watched "Hostage". There's not all that much to it but it's an entertaining enough hour and a half.
Sometime later Otto Penzler strongly recommended the original book and wrote pretty emphatically that its author, Robert Crais, is one of the best hard boiled writers around. So, ever the ready fool, I took Penzler's advice and rushed out and found a copy in the increasingly disorganized stacks of books at the Barrett Book Trader.
Yeah, well, I know Penzler's one of the most knowledgable fellows around when it comes to the history of crime and mystery writing. I love his weekly column in the New York City Sun and would actually pay to own them in a bound collection someday. I don't, however, think I'll fork over money for another book he pushes quite so quickly anymore.
"Hostage" is pretty much, well, it is entirely nothing special. Grizzled hostage negotiator burns out and moves out of LA and becomes the chief of a small town police force. A group of young punks invade a house and unintentionally take a mob accountant and his kids hostage (work that title). When the mob gets wind they force our hero to devise a way to get their records out of the house without any one finding out.
The book reads like a slick Hollywood treatment from the start and reeks of high concept and no originality. There isn't a character or a situation that doesn't feel old and tired. The villains might as well be twirling long mustaches. Crais needed to find a way to hide the neon "I'M THE VILLAIN" signs hanging about their necks.
No, this is not a good book for even whiling away mass transit time or laundry time or any sort of time you have to waste on potboilers. There's plenty of good crappy thrillers out there (can you say Preston and Child?) to spend money on instead of "Hostage"
Sometime later Otto Penzler strongly recommended the original book and wrote pretty emphatically that its author, Robert Crais, is one of the best hard boiled writers around. So, ever the ready fool, I took Penzler's advice and rushed out and found a copy in the increasingly disorganized stacks of books at the Barrett Book Trader.
Yeah, well, I know Penzler's one of the most knowledgable fellows around when it comes to the history of crime and mystery writing. I love his weekly column in the New York City Sun and would actually pay to own them in a bound collection someday. I don't, however, think I'll fork over money for another book he pushes quite so quickly anymore.
"Hostage" is pretty much, well, it is entirely nothing special. Grizzled hostage negotiator burns out and moves out of LA and becomes the chief of a small town police force. A group of young punks invade a house and unintentionally take a mob accountant and his kids hostage (work that title). When the mob gets wind they force our hero to devise a way to get their records out of the house without any one finding out.
The book reads like a slick Hollywood treatment from the start and reeks of high concept and no originality. There isn't a character or a situation that doesn't feel old and tired. The villains might as well be twirling long mustaches. Crais needed to find a way to hide the neon "I'M THE VILLAIN" signs hanging about their necks.
No, this is not a good book for even whiling away mass transit time or laundry time or any sort of time you have to waste on potboilers. There's plenty of good crappy thrillers out there (can you say Preston and Child?) to spend money on instead of "Hostage"
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
"The Grave Tattoo" - Val McDermid
Val McDermid's the author of the "Wire in the Blood" series of serial killer books that I haven't read but I have watched a lot of the BBC movies based on them. They were sort of okay. Pretty much run of the mill in these days of CSI and its tiresome ilk.
"The Grave Tattoo" chronicles the adventures of a low level Wordsworth academic searching for the connection between a two century old tattooed corpse in an English bog, Fletcher Christian of HMS Bounty fame, and William Wordsworth, long winded, now deceased, poet laureate of England.
The reviews made the book sound pretty cool, I swear it. But it wasn't. McDermid threw in so much ancilliary crap (such as a clever mixed race tough girl with a penchant for poetry, conniving gay male friends, untrustworthy ex-boyfriends and jealous brothers) that none of it really helped move the story along and kept it from ever really achieving any sort of depth. In the end it felt like a sort of politically correct Agatha Christie singleton with none of the true cleverness the old dame brought to a mystery.
"The Grave Tattoo" chronicles the adventures of a low level Wordsworth academic searching for the connection between a two century old tattooed corpse in an English bog, Fletcher Christian of HMS Bounty fame, and William Wordsworth, long winded, now deceased, poet laureate of England.
The reviews made the book sound pretty cool, I swear it. But it wasn't. McDermid threw in so much ancilliary crap (such as a clever mixed race tough girl with a penchant for poetry, conniving gay male friends, untrustworthy ex-boyfriends and jealous brothers) that none of it really helped move the story along and kept it from ever really achieving any sort of depth. In the end it felt like a sort of politically correct Agatha Christie singleton with none of the true cleverness the old dame brought to a mystery.
"Every Secret Thing" - Laura Lippman
I was reading an article about "The Wire" and discovered that series creator David Simon's wife, Laura Lippman, was a writer of mysteries set in Baltimore. Since becoming a fanatic regarding the show and slightly addled and obssessed about all things Baltimore I decided to check her out.
I quickly learned she has a series detective character and a batch of standalone books. The latter are more concerned with the psychology of people involved in tragic, violent events. I went for one of the second group.
"Every Secret Thing" opens with two mismatched young girls who are not really friends being kicked out of a birthday party. On their way home they find a seemingly abandoned baby in a carriage. The next thing the reader knows is that the baby is dead and the girls are convicted of her death.
Seven years later the girls are released from juvenile incarceration and returned to their families in Baltimore. Soon their are new incidents involving young children being temporarily taken from their mothers. Eventually all the people involved in the past murder begin to converge around each other again.
There are the two girls, the deliberately bohemian mother of one of them, their public defender, the cop who discovered the body of the dead girl and the victim's politically connected mother and a reporter. Soon all are weaving around each other trying face the past or their inability to do so.
The book's not really a mystery. It's similar to Ruth Rendell's Barbara Vine books. Lippman's opening up the minds of two broken young women and the people who's lives they changed. There actually is a question of what really happened on that day the baby was found but it's important only as to unveil the deepest nature of the girls.
"Every Secret Thing" is a despairing book with damaged characters unable to staunch the flow from their wounds. There's nothing happy here and nothing heroic. There is a good book about wounded minds and the weight of murder and revenge.
I quickly learned she has a series detective character and a batch of standalone books. The latter are more concerned with the psychology of people involved in tragic, violent events. I went for one of the second group.
"Every Secret Thing" opens with two mismatched young girls who are not really friends being kicked out of a birthday party. On their way home they find a seemingly abandoned baby in a carriage. The next thing the reader knows is that the baby is dead and the girls are convicted of her death.
Seven years later the girls are released from juvenile incarceration and returned to their families in Baltimore. Soon their are new incidents involving young children being temporarily taken from their mothers. Eventually all the people involved in the past murder begin to converge around each other again.
There are the two girls, the deliberately bohemian mother of one of them, their public defender, the cop who discovered the body of the dead girl and the victim's politically connected mother and a reporter. Soon all are weaving around each other trying face the past or their inability to do so.
The book's not really a mystery. It's similar to Ruth Rendell's Barbara Vine books. Lippman's opening up the minds of two broken young women and the people who's lives they changed. There actually is a question of what really happened on that day the baby was found but it's important only as to unveil the deepest nature of the girls.
"Every Secret Thing" is a despairing book with damaged characters unable to staunch the flow from their wounds. There's nothing happy here and nothing heroic. There is a good book about wounded minds and the weight of murder and revenge.
Sunday, April 1, 2007
"The Road" - Cormac McCarthy
"The Road" is somehow Oprah's new book club selection. I'm curious how her fans will take to one of the grimmest reads I've encountered in a little while. Simply, "The Road" details the journey of a man and his son from Tennessee to the Gulf Coast in an America devastated by nuclear winter and beset by marauders, cannibals and encroaching doom.
As a genre fan by birth, I'm always wary of non-genre authors trying their hands at basic sci-fi tropes. They usually are ignorant of other work and write like they've come up with something new that says "I'm important" in loud, pretentious tones. They also always seem to insist that they're not writing science fiction (witness Margaret Atwood).
Nonetheless, something about the reviews of this book made me want to actually envision reading it one day. With its paperback release that day has come.
I tried to read McCarthy's "All the Pretty Horses" some years ago and couldn't get into his style. There's limited punctuation and lots of pure dialogue. In "The Road" it served the story beautifully. It conveys the personalities of the man and boy struggling to hold onto their souls and lives as the world disintegrates around them exquisitely.
The book is filled with descriptive passages of icy beauty and black terror. I've read everything McCarthy wrote in "The Road" in other books but never with such perfect prose.
As a genre fan by birth, I'm always wary of non-genre authors trying their hands at basic sci-fi tropes. They usually are ignorant of other work and write like they've come up with something new that says "I'm important" in loud, pretentious tones. They also always seem to insist that they're not writing science fiction (witness Margaret Atwood).
Nonetheless, something about the reviews of this book made me want to actually envision reading it one day. With its paperback release that day has come.
I tried to read McCarthy's "All the Pretty Horses" some years ago and couldn't get into his style. There's limited punctuation and lots of pure dialogue. In "The Road" it served the story beautifully. It conveys the personalities of the man and boy struggling to hold onto their souls and lives as the world disintegrates around them exquisitely.
The book is filled with descriptive passages of icy beauty and black terror. I've read everything McCarthy wrote in "The Road" in other books but never with such perfect prose.
Friday, February 23, 2007
The Straw Men Trilogy - Michael Marshall
The first book in Michael Marshall's Straw Men trilogy is called,aptly "The Straw Men". While never as great as I hoped it would be it's a great idea with some solid writing. Great, crazy plots, towering demonic villains and dark secrets in the background that aren't too easy to figure out are all in there.
The first book opens with a series of seemingly random acts of violence: mass murders in a fast food joint, girls abducted from the street and car crashes. We promptly meet our protagonists; a cop who retired when his own daughter was abducted several years before the novel's opening, a CIA employee who's parents die in a that car crash and LAPD detective. Within pages we are shown connections and intimations of motives linking the events and characters.
In the ancient past, all humanity was given to indulging its violent desires. There was no moral imperative to rein in such impulses. Then came the infection. Most of humanity was infected with a virus that encourage socialization, urbanization and peaceful coexistence.
The Staw Men are those who are uninfected and are manipulating world events for their own ends. What those ends are and how they'll be achieved are the mystery that occupy our heroes.
The books weave in classic conspiracy theories and urban legends as well as all the more typical serial killer trappings. Unlike most of the sub-Red Dragon crap being churned out these days, Marshall takes his plot and characters to levels of almost high camp and ultra-violence that overcome the inherent unbelievabilty of the material. Instead of suffering from trying to present essentially comic book materials seriously, "the Straw Men" revels in its pulpishness. Find these books and give 'em a whirl.
The first book opens with a series of seemingly random acts of violence: mass murders in a fast food joint, girls abducted from the street and car crashes. We promptly meet our protagonists; a cop who retired when his own daughter was abducted several years before the novel's opening, a CIA employee who's parents die in a that car crash and LAPD detective. Within pages we are shown connections and intimations of motives linking the events and characters.
In the ancient past, all humanity was given to indulging its violent desires. There was no moral imperative to rein in such impulses. Then came the infection. Most of humanity was infected with a virus that encourage socialization, urbanization and peaceful coexistence.
The Staw Men are those who are uninfected and are manipulating world events for their own ends. What those ends are and how they'll be achieved are the mystery that occupy our heroes.
The books weave in classic conspiracy theories and urban legends as well as all the more typical serial killer trappings. Unlike most of the sub-Red Dragon crap being churned out these days, Marshall takes his plot and characters to levels of almost high camp and ultra-violence that overcome the inherent unbelievabilty of the material. Instead of suffering from trying to present essentially comic book materials seriously, "the Straw Men" revels in its pulpishness. Find these books and give 'em a whirl.
Truly heavy music
A couple of months ago in the New York Times one of the guys from Mars Volta mentioned a great new ultra heavy band from California called "Mammatus". I tracked down the album at Vintage Vinyl and have been listening to it constantly. It reminds me of reading Heavy Metal when I was a kid, particularly "Conquering Armies" by Dionnet and Gal. I can picture armored men cutting through jungles in search of lost treasures to only fall short of their goals and die. Very heavy then very spacey and then really heavy. Cool stuff with a dragon on the cover.
So last night I finally did a little research on "All Music" (one of the 2 or 3 greatest resources on the web) for similar bands. I found them and now I'm finding them as downloads to preview. So far so good.
The first one I found is simply called "the Sword" and their debut album is "Age of Winters". Where Mammatus only gives us four long songs 9one clocks in over 20 minutes), these Texicans hold the times to near radio-manageable lengths and go for more riffing and song structure than the latter's heavy, exquisite drone.
From "Age of Winters" we get a pretty Arts and Crafts maiden on the cover and songs about Norse goddesses and wolves (with howls) inside. There's not a hint of irony or self deprecation. These guys, like Mammatus are doing what they love without a hint of post-modern distancing involved. I think if they even felt like they had to avoid that they would fall apart. These albums work because they're played by utter true believers. Definitely thunderous stuff.
There's more stuff I'm trying to find right now, particularly "High on Fire" and "Turn Me On Dead Man". It's pleasing to learn there's a generation of people who know where to look for musical inspiration (the early 70's - Zep, Sabbath, and, well, that's sort of it. OK, maybe a little early Floyd like "Piper at the Gates of Dawn" for the spacier bits) and then know what to do with it.
For years I've complained about the lack of variety in music, especially heavy stuff. I don't want another (I really don't want any) metal/hip-hop band singing about their crappy lives. Even when I loved hardcore I was more into the political than the personal. I mean lyrically what's all that different from any filthy little emo-band and some modern metal act? You don't have to sing about dragons and harpies (though I'm drooling at the thought), but c'mon. I'm forty now and I don't really care about the misery of some teenager's problem. SO give me my super heavy riffs and keep singing about them ruins and dragons. I'm a happy listener for the moment.
So last night I finally did a little research on "All Music" (one of the 2 or 3 greatest resources on the web) for similar bands. I found them and now I'm finding them as downloads to preview. So far so good.
The first one I found is simply called "the Sword" and their debut album is "Age of Winters". Where Mammatus only gives us four long songs 9one clocks in over 20 minutes), these Texicans hold the times to near radio-manageable lengths and go for more riffing and song structure than the latter's heavy, exquisite drone.
From "Age of Winters" we get a pretty Arts and Crafts maiden on the cover and songs about Norse goddesses and wolves (with howls) inside. There's not a hint of irony or self deprecation. These guys, like Mammatus are doing what they love without a hint of post-modern distancing involved. I think if they even felt like they had to avoid that they would fall apart. These albums work because they're played by utter true believers. Definitely thunderous stuff.
There's more stuff I'm trying to find right now, particularly "High on Fire" and "Turn Me On Dead Man". It's pleasing to learn there's a generation of people who know where to look for musical inspiration (the early 70's - Zep, Sabbath, and, well, that's sort of it. OK, maybe a little early Floyd like "Piper at the Gates of Dawn" for the spacier bits) and then know what to do with it.
For years I've complained about the lack of variety in music, especially heavy stuff. I don't want another (I really don't want any) metal/hip-hop band singing about their crappy lives. Even when I loved hardcore I was more into the political than the personal. I mean lyrically what's all that different from any filthy little emo-band and some modern metal act? You don't have to sing about dragons and harpies (though I'm drooling at the thought), but c'mon. I'm forty now and I don't really care about the misery of some teenager's problem. SO give me my super heavy riffs and keep singing about them ruins and dragons. I'm a happy listener for the moment.
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