6 posts tagged “books”
33 1/3. Again. Thought I was done with these, didn't you?
Recently I hit something of a dry patch with the 33 1/3 books. I read several in a row that, to varying degrees, did not work for me. After thoroughly enjoying volume 20 on The Ramones, I meandered through books on People's Instinctive Travels..., Doolittle, and Unknown Pleasures, finding fault with each, though they all had something to offer (1). This dissatisfying selection culminated with one book in the series that I would not recommend other people read: Pernice's novella based on The Smiths Meat is Murder.
Exercising the full extent of the freedoms allowed the authors in this series, Pernice writes not a non-fiction book about the album itself, but a story -- likely much of it autobiographical, in setting and mood if possibly not as much in historical fact -- of a Boston teen falling in love and coming of age to a soundtrack of the Mozzer and Co. The narrative begins with a completely unnecessary latter-day sequence which gives way to the flashback that comprises the rest of the book. The rest of the book, the actual story being told, does little for me. As a member of what is likely the last generation of pre-internet kids that had to discover new music through friends and trading tapes, I can sympathize with that condition of Pernice's characters, but otherwise the personalities and situations generally just fall flat. Joe Meno's Hairstyles of the Damned is more effective on every level, including when it comes to music. Overall, I found Meat is Murder very disappointing, not least because I feel the Smiths entry in the series has been squandered. I can only hope they'll change their one-book-per-band rule and we'll get another shot at this band in the future.
After all of these let-downs, I was beginning to fret. Could I find another volume in the series to reignite my passion? My answer arrived via UPS the day I finished Meat is Murder. As I've mentioned before, I've eagerly awaited Carl Wilson's exploration of taste and art as examined through the lens of Celine Dion's Let's Talk About Love. After reading the first two chapters during the promotional period, my expectations ran very high. I'm pleased to say that Wilson delivered on every front, vaulting neatly over even my highest of bars. Wilson is a skilled writer. His volume in this series shines a harsh light on many of the less polished entries, and future authors would do well to compare the quality of their prose to Wilson's.
The book itself is well-researched, nicely balanced, and very well organized, flowing from topic to topic in a way that makes sense and draws the reader further along the author's journey into aesthetics. The more academic aspects, discussions of the cultural traditions that produced Celine or historical analyses of the origins and meaning of taste, are tempered with Wilson's own experiences of seeing Celine in concert, meeting a variety of her fans, and, eventually, learning how to listen to her music. Never dry or stuffy, Wilson also manages to not become too conversational. Whereas some books in the series read like blog postings, this reads like what it is: a finely crafter work of non-fiction. I'm gushing, but I'm blown away by this book. I can't recommend it highly enough.
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footnote
1) NB: Only one of the dozen or so entries I've read has been a waste of time; at the risk of repeating myself for the thousandth time, this series is really a must-read for people who love music.
current music: Bohren & der Club of Gore "Black Earth"
33 1/3
. Again. Yeah, I know. I'll have something else to write about soon.
One of the most interesting things about the 33 1/3 series is the complete freedom, or at least the appearance of such, the authors are given on how to approach the album in question. Some of the volumes, like Bill Janovitz's exhaustive examination of Exile on Main St., focus quite a bit on the songs themselves or the recording techniques. Others, like Franklin Bruno's dictionary-style look at Armed Forces, focus more on the mis-en-scene, giving us a picture of the world in which the album was created and its subsequent effect on that world. Some are arguments in defense of the album, some explorations of the album's place within or embodiment of a particular culture, and some, like the book I most recently discussed, are simply personal reflections. This makes the series diverse, and frankly, more interesting.
The downside to this, though, is that often the books are unfocused. The volumes that work best are the ones that have a specific purpose. J. Niimi delves into Southern Gothic culture and looks at REM's Murmur in that context, and it works. It works even in the problematic final third of the book, mostly because it is consistent in theme. Niimi looks at REM's history, their song structures, recording techniques for the album, and lyrical reflection, but he does all of that through the Souther Gothic lense. The result is a cohesive, satisfying read. Unfortunately, many of the books fall victim to a lack of purpose. In place of a historical document or a critical examination or an in-depth personal response, we get a sort of shapeless mix of information, and that with no theme to tie it all together. These entries in the series simply don't work as well as the others, even when the writing itself is well crafted.
Such is the case with Chris Ott's book on Joy Division's debut album, Unknown Pleasures. The book seeks to dispel some of the mythology surrounding the legendary band's early days, and in that purpose it succeeds. We're treated to a concise and informative history of the band up to and including the recording and release of Unknown Pleasures. Mixed into that is some exploration of Hannet's production of the album and of how he helped transform the band's sound. This part is most intriguing, but it's a fairly small segment of the whole. I would have liked more on this topic. Where this book fails, though, is that it settles into the inevitable retelling of Ian Curtis's downward spiral and eventual death. This topic is pretty much unavoidable when discussing Joy Division, but the world really doesn't need another recapitulation of this story. With this divergence, the book ceases to be about Unknown Pleasures and becomes just another Joy Division book. While it's well-written and informative, Unknown Pleasures just doesn't deliver enough of a focus on the album itself.
That's it for the 33 1/3 books at least until after Christmas. I am hoping beyong hope that Wilson's book on Celine Dion will be under the tree, but if not, it will be my first post-holiday purchase.
current music: Miles Davis "Sketches of Spain" || current mood: belly hurts
Anticipating a shipment of books from the 33 1/3 series, I decided this weekend to accelerate my reading and finish off the two books I'm currently spending time with, John le Carre's The Night Manager and Chuck Klosterman's Killing Yourself to Live. While Klosterman's book languishes half-finished on my nightstand, I did manage to get properly caught up in le Carre's book today and finished it maybe a half hour ago. Like a well-executed meal, there's a profound sense of satisfaction that comes with finishing a tale well told, even if it is accompanied by a small bit of regret that the experience is over.
Having only read a small selection of his works, I nevertheless count myself among the le Carre fanboy horde. The Night Manager just reinforces my feelings. I don't have the time to go into depth on it, but it fires on all cylinders. The intricate, well-crafted dual plotlines -- split between that of soldier-turned-civilian-turned-spy Jonathan Pine's infiltration into the world of arms dealers and drug runners, and that of Pine's handlers in England and their fight to maintain control of the operations and independence from the established Intelligence community -- weave together to present a panoramic view of the state of espionage and Intelligence in the post-Cold War world. More importantly, le Carre delivers in Pine a fully-realized character in whom we can get solidly invested, so that as the tension mounts and the knotty plot pulls tighter, we know just what the stakes are, both politically and personally. Unfortunately, the end of the book, like so many others, seems somewhat anti-climactic, though I fear that may be just be a side-effect of the genre. Le Carre errs on the side of leaving us with an ending that seems a bit too tidy, rather than leaving us with a hundred loose threads. A small gripe for an otherwise gripping read.
I should be able to finish Klosterman's book by tomorrow evening. My Alan Furst novel will be bumped down the list in favor of the mountain of graphic novels Syd dropped off and, hopefully, the coming 33 1/3 books.
As most of my friends are probably tired of hearing, I'm a big fan of the 33 1/3 series of books about albums. Hype has been building on Carl Wilson's upcoming book on Celine Dion's Let's Talk About Love, the album that gave us the theme to Titanic. While most of the series focuses on what the authors consider to be classic albums, Wilson is taking a different approach, using an album that critics loathe but that has sold millions of copies to examine the idea of taste itself. It's a brilliant concept for a book, the immersing himself in music he hates in order to try to understand its appeal. What makes good taste? By what criteria do we measure the worth of music and art? In the second chapter(1), Wilson posits that maybe he's heading down a "relativistic rabbit hole". If Dion's music can be redeemed in his critical eye, does that then mean that there is no good or bad music, no good or bad art? Does Thomas Kinkade deserve the same artistic respect as, say, Monet?
I personally believe that there is such a thing as good or bad taste. Syd has argued with me somewhat on this topic, and he asks a good question: How do I define what is good and what is not? I can't honestly say I have an answer for that. It's just intuitive. It's not just a matter what I like or dislike. There are bands I don't necessarily enjoy but that I still respect because they are very good at what they do, or for being innovators, or pushing boundaries, or just because they are authentic. Those aren't the only criteria for defining good music , just examples. Bad music lacks, among other things, character, charisma, soul, edge, passion. The presence of any of those things does not automatically save music from being bad, but it might be reason enough to give it a deeper listen, just to be sure.
I think enjoyment of music can be independent of whether or not the music is good. Often what you like and what is good are one-and-the-same, and often they are not. I can honestly say that there are some artists I enjoy (2) that would not qualify as being in good taste. Others might call these guilty pleasures, but I find no reason for guilt. I like what I like and haters can go fuck themselves. Anyone who likes any music should feel the same way, though I would hope that they at least recognize the distinction between their likes and what is good. It's a blurry line sometimes, but I feel the line does exist.
Does that mean that examinations of what is good or bad are, in the end, irrelevant? No. In fact, it means quite the opposite. It's important to look at the difference between what we like and what is good to preserve the difference between the two, to keep our culture from becoming completely disposable. That singing bass sure was a big hit... for a few minutes, and now the tacky pieces of shit are filling up landfills and flea markets all around the country. If we start to confuse taste with simple enjoyment, instead of preserving the good, we'll toss it aside when something new and shiny comes along. We'll start producing an entirely disposable culture. Quality and enjoyment are separate, though they can and often do apply to the same works. Not everything that is popular is automatically bad, just as not everything obscure automatically gains worth. Does that make it more difficult to determine good art from bad? Yeah, but nobody ever said it was an easy distinction to make.
footnotes
(1) The publishers are doing some advertising. If you send an email to letstalkaboutceline@yahoo.com, they'll send you a PDF of the first two chapters. I printed those out and read them this afternoon, and I cannot wait until the book is published.
(2) Justin Timberlake, for example. Sure, he is very talented. He can sing and dance and his songs are catchy and fun, but in twenty years will anyone give a second thought to who brought sexy back? Like the Tony Basils before him, he's writing disposable music that's fun until its expiration date, but that ultimately has nothing of substance to offer.
Much like jazz is a musician's music, Michael Chabon is a writer's writer. That analogy is not entirely apt, for whereas jazz lacks a certain broad, pop audience, Chabon has consistently managed to bridge the literary with a mass appeal. Rare is the author that can write a novel that both wins the Pulitzer prize and which you can feel comfortable recommending to all of your friends, not just the most dedicated of bookworms. My introduction to Chabon's work came in the form of that award-winning work, The Adventures of Kavalier and Klay, a nearly flawless novel, the one scene that did not work for me being so dwarfed by the rest of the opus as to be a minor quibble at best. Oddly, I didn't follow up after K&K with his other works until my friend Jason gave a somewhat forceful recommendation of Wonder Boys, a novel that I actually liked more than K&K, solidifying Chabon in my mind as a master of his craft. Again, a very long time passed after Wonder Boys blew me away, but I've finally just read Chabon's first novel, The Mysteries of Pittsburgh.
Written as his thesis and submitted without his knowledge to an agent by his professor, The Mysteries of Pittsburgh launched Chabon's career in the sort of fairytale fashion that we like to believe happens to all rockstars or authors. He went from just another budding writer student to a full-fledged celebrity author so quickly that he himself had a hard time catching up to his fame. Having arrived at his earliest work after experiencing his later, even more lauded and certainly more mature works, I feel a bit cheated, like someone who reads Catcher in the Rye for the first time as an adult, missing that window of opportunity to really see the work from the proper perspective. That's not to say I did not enjoy Mysteries. Quite the contrary, I was rapt and devoured it in a fraction of the time it's taken me to push through my recent disappointing literary fare. The problem is simply that I don't have the correct frame of reference, so the mis-steps seem that much more egregious.
I have two main complaints with Mysteries: first, the protagonist, Art Bechstein, and second the crime aspects of the story. Bechstein is the son of a Jewish gangster who has never had any desire to follow in his father's footsteps, one of the few subjects on which he and his father agree. Art's development and his relationships, their successes and failures, are the crux of the story, and they are where the story truly shine. Unfotunately, Art himself can be rather unlikable. He starts crying in nearly every other scene, and when he's not crying (and sometimes when he is), he's mentally remarking on his erections, which are legion. Sex and love are both central themes in the book, so I don't begrudge the phallic obsession the way I might in other stories, but even here there are times when it's a bit much. I chalk both that and Art's too-quick-to-tears reactions to almost every situation as maybe the excess of a young writer, the sort of things Chabon has since grown out of.
More problematic for me is the end of the book, wherein the crime/mob story points suddenly take the reins, forcing this wandering, loose confederation of brilliant scenes into a more typical narrative format, complete with high action climax that seems to come too quickly and does not carry the weight of the rest of the book. I think I would have enjoyed the story much more if the mob aspect had been removed completely and if it were just a study of the relationships shared by the four main characters. Bechstein's struggle to reconcile his simultaneous romantic love with his friend Arthur and his girlfriend Phlox, his wildly swinging emotions that thrust him from one lover's embrace into the other's and back again, is in itself enough for a story. The monolithic character of Cleveland, who serves to eventually tie the two disparate halves of Bechstein's life together, could easily have filled another, similar role.
In the end, The Mysteries of Pittsburgh is brilliant, despite the flaws I see in it. Even without his later works to reference, Chabon's future greatness would be undeniable. You can see it in the effortless way he creates a world that is totally believable yet still has a fairytale dreaminess to it that lets the readers lose themselves in the story. You can hear it in the natural, broken dialogue, where two lines can express more heartache or joy than a chapter of exposition could ever hope to.
As of my last post, I was unsure of how I felt about the book I was reading, Kalfus's A Disorder Peculiar to the Country. At issue was not the quality of the writing, per se, but whether or not the author could make me care about these two characters whose lives had been so consumed by their bitter, contentious divorce that their only remaining raison d'etre seemed to lay in how much they could hurt the other party. The final half of the book took me quite by surprise, however, rendering moot my concerns about having no redeeming qualities in any of the characters. With the the section I started after my last post, the author begins making a series of increasingly baffling choices that by story's end left me more than a little nonplussed.
The warning that the book is quickly going off the rails comes with two chapters written from the point of view of the young daughter, breaking the established pattern of perspective alternating between the two warring adults. The unheralded change in POV pulled me completely out of the narrative. I can believe that a writer's self-indulgence could make this seem like a good idea, but I have to wonder that the editor did not see a problem with the execution at least, much less the idea itself. Oddly enough, once the story was broken, I realized just how invested I actually was. Its flaws aside, the first part of the book had hooked me, and if the story had continued in that fashion, I may have ended up liking it a great deal, despite the despicable characters. When the point of view switched back to the original pattern, I was relieved. The feeling was a fleeting one.
What follows is a series of scenes that range from poorly-conceived to simply bizarre. First, Marshall, the husband decides to build a suicide bomb, but is unable to successfully detonate it. That's bad enough, but the wife then jumps in, working through the wiring to find the problem. Meanwhile, the children gather in the kitchen and watch silently. Of course, they never get it to go off, but what exactly was the author going for? The scene is completely ridiculous, most importantly because character seems to have gone out the window. I understand the book is supposed to be a black comedy and that each of the scenes is some sort of metaphor about our nation and its war on terror, but whatever Kalfus was trying to communicate in this scene, he failed miserably. The only thing killed in this attempted suicide bombing is all of the character development from the first half of the book.
Things only get worse when Marshall goes to a party where in a feeble attempt to reference Abu Ghraib, a young male prostitute is humiliated, bag over head, arms outstretched, cameras flashing. This scene is, like the suicide bomb attempt before it and the shift in POV before that, completely incongruous with the first half of the book. It makes no sense within the story and has little success as a metaphor.
The rest of the book is an equally off-kilter alternate history fantasy wherein the Iraqi people find and execute Saddam, Libya kicks the terrorist groups out, and the people of Iran take to the streets. Back in America, the streets of New York are flooded in a giant celebration of the ultimate victory of American ideals over Muslim lunacy, and the final scene has the whole family sharing a wonderful moment together before it all gets destroyed. I'm paraphrasing, but that's pretty much the last sentence. I don't know if some sort of attack was supposed to be implied or if it's a bigger metaphor about the futility of finding peace through war or what the author intended. After the party scene, I thought nothing would surprise me, but I guess Kalfus had one more bad decision up his sleeve.
What an incredible waste of time. At least it was a quick read. After that series of disappointments, I needed to go with a sure thing. So I just picked up Michael Chabon's first novel and the second book in McCarthy's border trilogy. I'm starting with Chabon.
