The Daily Sabbatical

There’s been a tribal current flowing through the music scene in the last several years.  Bands like Man Man thump the hell out of their drums while jumping and screaming onstage, Yeasayers adds chantlike sounds to their synthier sound, and  Wilderness howl in their contribution from Baltimore, Maryland.  Wilderness put out a self-titled album to some acclaim a few years ago and…I didn’t hear it.  They put out another album called Vessel States a year later and…I didn’t hear it.  In November, however, they release their third album and this time I’m all ears.

Wilderness might be the best representative of urban tribalism yet.  Rhythm from multiple drumsets spreads a dark backdrop through which James Johnson throws sounds from his belly.  Sometimes the sounds are words, sometime not, but it doesn’t matter.  The vocals add a sort of pressing fluidity, a wavelike urgency to the already compelling drums, and they are followed by sparse Joy Divisionish riffs from the guitar which lend an element of restraint, control and beauty to the songs.

Did I say songs?  Really, this is an album.  I can’t listen to it at all without listening to it from beginning to end–the individual tracks are strong, but they gain from their context.  The songs blend into one another, usually just changing enough to recharge the experience.  It’s a pretty dark, desperate experience, but it’s one I keep coming back to.  I think this might be one of this year’s creeping standouts.  If you can find it before it comes out on November 4, count yourself lucky.  If not, you’ll have to relish the sample below.

Silver Gene.mp3

An interesting article in the new Scientific American discusses the possible implications of quantum gravity theory for Cosmology.   In my limited understanding, quantum gravity theory was developed as an alternative to string theory in an attempt to reconcile Einsteins theory of general relativity with quantum theory–both of which are well confirmed but seem to conflict.  One of the surprising predictions of quantum gravity theory is that space-time is atomistic–not continuous, as one would intuitively expect.  In this recent article by Martin  Bojwald, another consequence is explained:  the universe did not begin with the Big Bang, but with a quantum driven contraction that resulted in an explosion–a big bounce.  I can’t say I really completeluy understand it, of course, but the article proves interesting reading nonetheless.  Check it out here.

It’s both exciting and depressing to read an excellent debut novel by some twenty-one year old punk.  It is outright distressing, though, that someone so young should demonstrate such an insider’s acquaintance with the seamy world the book depicts.

On the cover of my edition, Irvine Welsh compares the book to Less than Zero, and that’s apt–perhaps if you splice it with Welsh’s own Trainspotting and the controversial movie Kids.  The novel is written from the perspective of a handful of kids in low-middle class Britain where the same old decisions and insecurities that have always plagued adolescence have to occur in a violent and drug infused sprawl.  Our hero is somewhat pathetic obsessive/compulsive Adam, who has an irresistable fancy–stoked at a distance–for the pill-popping hottie, Eve.  His attraction to Eve teases him out of his abusive home and into her chaotic world for which he is singularly unprepared.  Though she fakes it well, Eve, of course–being only fifteen–isn’t ready for it either.  In fact, if there is an underlying theme of the book, it might be that no one–including the snake Gaz–is ready for this garden.  (Oh yeah:  the “apples” are drugs.  Just to complete the symbolism.  In actuality, this symbolism is not overplayed.  In fact, densely, it was a while before I got it.)

Though Apples is a blast to read–not least because of Milward’s ability to drop into slang driven voices and disordered adolescent minds–it is pretty painful.  You’ve got overdoses, broken faces, rapes and infanticides, and the first-person narrative doesn’t allow any distance from any of it.  The narrative approach also doesn’t let the reader hate any of the characters–except perhaps the snake.  You can regret their decisions or lament their innocence, you can cringe at the way their naivete permits a flood of heartbreak and pain, but their sins are understandable for all that.  Despite its rough edges, the book brims with heart.

We’ll be hearing a lot more for Richard Milward, assuming he doesn’t live anything like the life of his characters.  He’s convinced me that a 21 year old can write a splendid novel with wisdom and perspective, and that’s no small feat.

I would feel remiss if I went without mentioning the passing of writer David Foster Wallace who ended his own life one week ago today.  When I was an undergrad at Iowa, my friends and I treasured his collection Girl with Curious Hair, and when Infinite Jest came out, we were the first ones lined up at Prairie Lights to claim our copies.  (I recall, actually, taking back my copy because I was unhappy with the glue job on the binding.  I wanted it to be that perfect.)  In recent years, I admit to have fallen off the bandwagon, but a good friend of mine has written a reminiscence for the Observer UK that has brought it all back to me.  (Look for Joshua Ferris’ piece in the next day or so.) 
We saw in DFW a DeLillo for our generation.  He was the first guy anywhere close to our age who began to point in a new direction.  I can’t say for sure, but my guess is that without him, we would have no Dave Eggers, no McSweeney’s , and for all its differences from the DFW style we might not have The Corrections.  For all his genius, though, it’s my opinion that Wallace never really reached the true zenith of his talent–not because of his lack of accomplishment, but because his every line was so roaring with energy and potential that expectations were impossibly high.  One wonders whether or not Wallace felt the same.
I recall something DFW said to Josh in 96.  He said he felt like everyone he knew was sad–that sadness seemed to be a sort of earmark of his generation.  (My own words.)  The odd thing was, he didn’t seem sad.  He was pleasant, funny, and despite some awkwardness he seemed pretty comfortable in his own skin.  (I get most of this from his reading in IC–my own contact amounted to little more than asking him to sign my books.)  His prose was electric–how could he be sad?  But really, it is impossible to read his work now without seeing it. 
We’ve really lost someone great.  My heart goes out to his family, because they have obviously lost the most.  But all of us have lost something as well, perhaps more than we’ll ever know.

This is almost unbelievable.

I bought this book on the strength of the dustjacket blurbs.  Thom Jones, Dan Chaon, Julie Orringer, Kevin Brockmeier, Adam Johnson and Peter Orner all write as if this is the debut novel we’ve all been waiting for.  It also promised to be a genre bender of the sort that has increasingly gained in popularity (in no small part, I think, due to the encouragement of writers like Michael Chabon and Jonathan Lethem.)  A young cop with rich brat high-school friends patrols the cemetery garrison of San Francisco and finds himself waging a war against a band of dead criminals.  Ok, cool enough.  Brett Easton Ellis meets Raymond Chandler meets Stephen King.  Sounds great if author Doug Dorst can pull it off and all blurbs point to the fact that he does.

He doesn’t.  It’s not that Dorst is a poor writer.  He’s clearly talented, and he has the makings of some very good work here.  As it stands, however, the book seems like a patchwork of false starts and unfulfilled promises.  There are simply too many narrative strands here that don’t get fully woven into the tale and that set expectations that don’t get met.  The ghost story remains temptingly in the background, and never really gets, um, fleshed out.  Our hero, Mike Mercer, has problems in his relationships to just about everyone, and while this is really the central theme of the novel, there’s little sense that he is discovering anything interesting about himself or others in the process.  We know he is estranged from his father, for example, and the old man appears to be in the neighborhood, or so we have it from the testimony of Mercer’s friends, but nothing happens.  It completely drops, only to be alluded to in the unsatisfying wrap-up as one of many things which will be resolved by the good will and bonhomie that constitutes the novel’s ending.

Writing a genre crosser is dicey, because genre’s bring along expectations.  In crime novels, we want to get to the crime, and it can feel distracting if we are burdened with too much romance, and in horror stories (which this doesn’t pretend to be, really) we want the creeps, so character development can actually get in the way.  It’s like porn with a plot: yes, yes, we know there is a mystery on the estate, but let’s get back to the butler and the chambermaid!  Genre-blending can be done, but it’s damned difficult and Alive in Necropolis doesn’t hit it.

So, why all these blurbs?  After several pages I realized: I know Chaon and Jones have Iowa Writers’ Workshop ties.  What about Dorst?  Yep: from the workshop.  The same with Orringer, Brockmeier, and Peter Orner. So, five out of six of the book’s blurbs are from the workshop at Iowa!  C’mon, guys!  So, a word to the wise: when reading book blurbs, keep an eye out for home cooking.

Back when I was a Providence boy, I went to see quite a few Stringbuilder/Purple Ivy Shadows shows, and even bought a few albums.  So, you’d think I would be a little quicker recognizing the elements of these bands in Death Vessel.  Instead, I went the first listen and a half thinking the vocals were sung by a woman and was mystified to discover that woman’s name was Joel Thibodeau. The confusion now all cleared up, and I have my bearings.

The girlish sounding Thibodeau is the singer/songwriting force behind the misleadingly named Death Vessel.   They hail from Rhode Island and present a very pleasant, light brand of Americana that prizes melodies over hootenannys.  The songs often involve shy, semi-poetic vocals sung over picked guitars with a relatively sedate rhythm section.  It’s pretty, but for me it doesn’t stick.  I do find choruses repeating in my head after the tracks close, and I admire Thibodeau’s sense of melody, but I’m neither really challenged nor seduced by anything on this album.  It just doesn’t hold my attention.  It’s a shame, cause there’s a lot here to like.  Just check out the utterly charming opening track below and you’ll see what I mean.

Block My Eye.mp3

I’ll take hike-in spot 11, please. Oh, sorry. Wait, you do rent camp-sites out of here? Man, how do you keep track of all you have to do out of this office, anyway?

My fellow Americans, this election is about a choice. A choice of who you want a heartbeat away from the most powerful position in the world. For my money, this choice is clear: Apu Nahasapeemapetilon should be our next Vice President.
There are those who react to this suggestion with disbelief. “Apu has nowhere near enough experience to lead the free world!” they shout. To this I respond: Mr. Nahasapeemapetilon has more executive experience than McCain, Obama, Biden and Palin combined! He has been the manager of the Quicky Mart for over twenty years! This involves many executive decisions, including, but not limited to, deciding when to clean the Squishee machine and whether or not to replace food that is past its shelf life. (The fact that he has never cleaned the Squishee machine nor removed food that is past its shelf life only reinforces the point: he is a man of principle and resolve! “Let the market decide what is best!” says Apu.)
Additionally, surely no one can doubt Apu’s authority when it comes to domestic policy. He and his wife Manjula have octuplets! Octuplets! Just think of the domestic friction this is bound to cause, and he negotiates it with ease!
Foreign Policy experience? Well, for starters, need I repeat Apu Nahasapeemapetilon? His very name is foreign! Additionally, though it is not widely known, his hotdogs are made of meat from Russia! What else do we need in someone who might sit face to face with Putin one day?
Of course those within the beltway will be eager to try to resurrect scandal, but let me assure you: Salamigate was all hype and no substance. Whether it is the fifteen second rule or the four thousand three hundred and fifteen second rule–is this the basis upon which we should decide the ruler of the greatest nation on earth?
Nation, this is no time to let the talking heads of the media confuse the issues, distracting us from the patriotic values of this outstanding candidate. Vote Nahasapeemapetilon–he’s the man for the ticket!

With two excellent albums under his belt, hopes are high for Chad VanGaalen’s third, Soft Airplane. Judging from this video, illustrated by CVG, these tunes will once again come from Grimm lands. Good stuff.