The Daily Sabbatical

What is it about the end of the world? Even shoddy attempts to depict the cataclysmic or apocalyptic draw me in. Add zombies or some other form of distorted human to the mix and I’m sold. It’s tempting to spin a story about how it gives the reader a metaphor for the existential struggle of his life, besieged as it is by the corruptions and disappointments of modern society. But that, I think, would be largely bullshit. Closer, perhaps, is the perverse frisson generated by the recognition that the world is much more fragile than we think it is. There’s also the fact that a coherent vision of a world wiped clear of technology—which no one knows how to recreate—makes us recognize all we take for granted and trivializes our complaints about car-rattles and imperfect internet connections. Whatever the explanation, Justin Cronin’s The Passage provides a surfeit of this satisfaction. Though it takes a distant second behind Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, The Passage is one of the best post-apocalyptic reads in recent years.

Military scheme gone awry? Check. South American virus carried by bats? Check? Escaped convicts with unholy powers? Check. Messianic wild child of nature? Check. Zombie-like humans with vampyric characteristics? Check. Teetering and abortive attempts to restart civilization? Check. Yup, it’s all there. Cronin, it must be admitted, is a proud owner of “End of Days for Dummies,” but don’t mistake him for a dummy. The Passage operates on a grand scale, with every step motivated so that one never feels like one is reading a parody or a uncontrolled pastiche of tropes. The damn thing is 800 pages long, and is only the first book in a trilogy. It’s closest relative is probably Stephen King’s The Stand. But I think it’s better. It’s certainly better written. Cronin, an Iowa Writer’s Workshop graduate, avoids most of the overwriting that plagues genre fiction. No one will confuse him for Michael Chabon or Jennifer Egan, but it’s a relief to be able to indulge in this somewhat guilty pleasure without being reminded of it by clunky and unnecessary prose.

The book’s main failure, in my view, is that the love interests and the interpersonal relationships feel stipulative. It’s too bad, because clearly Cronin wants our sympathies to give power to the various deaths and births and narrow escapes. He has them to some extent, but not because anyone is in love, but rather because we want the good guys to win.

I’ll refrain from giving anything further away about the plot. This is one of those books where feeling events unfold and anticipating the unknown is an integral part of the pleasure. I do want to correct at least one misconception which could be generated by the other reviews out there. This is not really a vampire book. The baddies here have sharp fangs, are nocturnal and share a few other characteristics with the Nosferatu, but they’re a different beast. There are certainly no cloaks or coffins, and you can forget about garlic and crosses. Though Cronin appropriates many motifs, he winds up making them his own.

In short, well worth a read if you’re a fan of the genre. A movie is coming, but it is done by the Gladiator team. Ridley Scott did direct Blade Runner, so maybe it’ll be good. But I’ll place my money on the book.

Periodically I think I might stop listening to Low. I mean, they have had a sound arc over these two decades, but it’s pretty subtle. But my rule is that if I loved the previous album of a band, I buy the next album unheard—trust is part of what is required of us as listeners. And time and again, I love Low’s albums, and time and again on the first listen of their new album I wonder if this is just another product of a well worn mold, but then on the second listen I am in love. It could be I love the mold. But I don’t think so. I think this is a band that evolves at the rate of evolution. A band that takes some risks, but that does so only if they’re feeling risky. A band that creates a sound that forms a sonic halo that reflects what is going on inside. Radiohead is like this, and Sigur Ros is often like this. Low is on that level, and C’mon is no less essential a step for this band than recent albums have been for those near flawless acts.

C’mon is their most produced album, and a lot has been made of the fact. But the album is no less raw for that. It reminds me, in ways, of Blur’s 13—a heavily produced but emotionally wrought opus. There are no choirs here, it’s still just guitar, snare, high hat and bass—oh, and a beautifully placed banjo. But the production maximizes the minimal, not unlike Steve Albini did for the band some years back, and the results are compelling. For example: “Nothing but Heart” initially struck me as a bit silly, too repetitive, but by the end I felt tears. (Don’t underestimate the power of being genuine, young musicians!)

This is not an album without flaws. As of now, some songs still strike me as Low fillers. But the high points make those just necessary dimples in the seam. “Try to Sleep,” the first track, is classic Low, with a basic beat, a guitar intro (but with xylophone) which blossoms into an Alan and Mimi harmony which is as usual both seductive and reassuring. The second track, “you see everything” features Mimi, who takes us to a hazy adolescent summer when we are unsure but uncynical. The third track, “Witches,” is very Alan—besieged and minor—and reminds one of a Modest Mouse song on half speed, but it is a contribution to the Low “best of” vaults. (Listen for the Dark Side of the Moon production on this one!) Then at the ending, “Nothing but Heart” which is just that, and the final “something’s turning over” which reassures the children while conveying the immanent darkness…

I gush. But somehow Low continues to write lullaby’s for adults who hope for the best but know that the worst is just around the corner, and with that I can lay me down to sleep.

In some ways it’s unfortunate that Peter, Bjorn and John’s “Young Folks” was so huge. I’m happy they pocketed the cash from it, and it was a damn catchy song, but it threatens to make PB&J into “that band with the whistling song” and as that song become overplayed, which it most certainly has, interest in the band faded. I suffered so much from this that I didn’t realize that the tuneful Swedes have released several albums since then. I just couldn’t be bothered. For some reason, though, I was drawn to their new release, Gimme Some, and I’m glad I was. This is a fun and solid band that is about much more than a single song.

Gimme Some feels somewhat like a lost Elvis Costello album circa This Year’s Model. And that’s a very good thing. This doesn’t make these guys a rip off or anything of the sort. EC himself was plying a traditional pop/rock formula with a few distinctive additions, and PB&J add a few moves of their own. The album standouts, for me, include the islandy “Dig a Little Deeper” (with the almost too clever chorus “All art has been contemporary”), “Eyes” (with the best recent use of a Bo-Diddly beat), and “May Seem Macabre” (which builds up from a Pixies-ish base line). This is the sort of album that makes you want to make a mixtape. The only problem is that you’ll want to include too many of the songs.

Now I have to go back and buy those albums which slipped by during the incessant whistling.

It’s frustrating when a band is as almost good as Papercuts. About two songs an album really realize their potential, and the others stir around in the muddy stew of what if. It makes for a mixtape band rather than a band whose albums demand a listen. Fading Parade, the fifth release by Papercuts and their first on Sub Pop, doesn’t break the band out of that rut. The first two songs, Do You Really Want to Know and Do What You Will, are serious keepers, but most of the rest of the album feels like noodling around with the same old formula. The recipe for a Papercuts song isn’t difficult to discern. Start with a Velvet Underground sort of guitar background—sometimes with a Stephanie Says melodic solo lead-in—add a verse of palatable hushed vocals, and then intensify just a bit by sending the vocals up a fifth. Rinse and repeat.

Pop rock is built largely on formula, so that alone isn’t a reason to trash a band. But for me this one becomes a little tiresome, with even Jason Quever’s vocal cadences becoming predictable after a few songs. There’s always potential there, and Quever can really score when his shots connect, but the rest of the time I’m left waiting for a change.

I used to think that people who wore earplugs at shows should just stay home. Not anymore. I should have known when earplugs were being handed out at the door of the My Bloody Valentine show last night that they were meant to be used. I have never, never been to a louder show (and that includes an ear-blistering Dinasaur Jr. show in the early 90s). MBV ripped into about a 15 minute sonic rush at the end of their set, during which people close to the stage reported heat coming from the speakers (which were massive) and I could literally feel air blowing through my hair like the Memorex man. It was an amazing show, I have no regrets, but my ears are ringing with no signs of stopping.

A friend of mine once said that England and America are separated by a common language.  While not entirely sure what this means, I’m often surprised at how much the predominant sensibilities of the two countries differ.  We both have our forms of The Office, sure, and who doesn’t love Hogwarts, but it is startling how many things fail to translate even though no actual translation needs to be done.  The works of Penelope Fitzgerald might be an example.  This woman had two books shortlisted for the Booker and won it with a third book.  Even her books that don’t get Bookered are unanimously praised in the British press.  So why don’t we know her better over here?

It was in an attempt to find out that I read Blue Flowers, which was Fitzgerald’s last book which won the American National Book Critics award in 1998, two years before her death at age 88.  I probably chose the wrong book.  The Blue Flower is about the German Romantic poet Friedrich von Hardenberg  and his love for a woman whom everyone but Fritz recognizes to be a silly dunce of a girl.  She dies in the end and that’s very sad.

Before ripping into this book, which isn’t really all that bad, I should voice my prejudice.  It turns out that Fritz (who became famous as the poet Novalis) was a dabbler in idealistic philosophy and was a student of Fichte.  While I think there is some stuff to be learned from Fichte (I actually made a pilgramage to Jena once, myself) like most of those German idealists things lapse into nonsense pretty quickly.  I also hate romantic poetry, and I have little understanding of someone who falls in love with an idiot.  So, because of my own baggage, I hated Fritz and wished he had died alongside his hollow beloved.

Hating a novel’s protagonist is no better reason for hating a novel than hating a lead singer’s voice is for hating a band.  (Both are often sufficient motivators, but I’m not sure they are really good reasons.)  It must be said that Fitzgerald was talented.  She had a very light touch, with a sort of understated humor that almost made me grin once or twice, but in general I found the book somewhat boring.  It has been called a masterpiece by more than one critic, but I couldn’t help being thankful that the chapters were short and the book as a whole was only a couple of hundred pages.  So, I have my doubts about “masterpiece,” but it was good enough to where I will check out another book by Fitzgerald.  After all, surely so many British critics can’t be wrong, can they?

Researchers have found that patients who played the computer game Tetris soon after a trauma suffered less emotional scarring as a result.  The Tetris patients were significantly less likely to experience flashbacks, for example, in the week following the traumatic event.

No evidence, so far, that playing Grand Theft Auto has the same effect.

Several years ago I was so excited about these guys.  Liela Moss has such a cool, through the cigarette fog voice, and the band seemed to have the Velvet Undergroung drive down pat.  They never really lived up to the potential their first two eps showed, however, and the new(ish) album only disappoints further.  I mean, all the pieces are there, and some of the songs still have the right energy, but most of the time The DS just comes off sounding like a poor man’s Metric.

Without a doubt these guys sound best when the songs follow a steady, building beat a la Heroin and let the somewhat simple mix of guitars wash with Moss’s voice into something insisting.  Somehow, they just can’t make the jump to anything faster without sounding just poppy.  So, again for The Duke Spirit, not a bad album, but not the one they should be making either.

Sovereign.mp3

Top tens from New Yorker critics that cover dance, theatre, classical-music recordings and movies.  As always, Anthony Lane provides the most entertaining analysis.