Another Sunday rolls around, another chance to sample new writers from a wee snippet of prose. Here's my six and yes it is inspired by a Fall song, so just deal with that, all right. Not everything comes from the words of Mark E. Smith: this week I wrote a story based on a song by one of the Rat Pack, just for a change of pace. The whole of this story is up at Near to the Knuckle, so if you like it you can read the whole thing and not just this snippet. They found just the right picture for this story, too -- love it!
He was just waiting, standing in the park, staring up at the window he knew so well and waiting–for what?
A light, her face, a sign from the heavens? Everybody’s waiting for
something: chips and pie, pie in the sky, a windfall from their uncle
dying, a lottery win, fame and fortune and oh, honey, if you just put your head out the window and saw me standing here, you would know I’m the one.
But she never looked even
though he stood here too many nights and someone was bound to report him
as a perv or potential kiddie fiddler, but her presence drew him here
like a junkie to his fix. He just needed a sign.
“Well, what have we got here?”
If you want more, head over to Near to the Knuckle and check out the many fine stories they have there. Enjoy your Sunday, hope it's relaxing.
The pressing news is that ACTION: Pulse Pounding Tales Vol. 1can be obtained for FREE today and tomorrow. This slamming collection offers jam-packed thrills from me, Mr B, editor Matt Hilton, Absolutely Kate, Col Bury, Richard Godwin, Graham Smith, David Barber and many many more. Highly recommended! Not just because I'm in it (though I'm quite fond of "Chickens" which gave me a chance to revisit Los Angeles) but because it's a lot old school non-stop action. As Crimesquad said in its review:
"This book should not be purchased by asthmatics or heavy smokers as it leaves a fit person breathless with excitement."
I had a wonderful trip with the lovely Maura and we both managed to write a lot
between enjoying ourselves immensely. A proper write up tomorrow but I
have oodles to catch up on with emails and whatnot, so you can get a
sneak peak at some of the photos here, beginning with a lovely one out the window of Maura's folks' house.
It's always nice to return home to another new publication. My short "Just Waiting" (yes, it is named after a Fall song >_<) appears over at Near to the Knuckle. Drop by and give it a read, comment and feel free to share -- let me know what you think.
Busy busy. Maura and I managed to get a good amount of writing done after attending 2D, so it wasn't all idling on the beach. More to report soon -- get a sneak peak over at the new publisher Fox Spirit!
A little treat for this round of Six Sentence Sunday, the weekly banquet of words to help you sample new writers or savour old favourites. Here's the beginning of my postcard-sized story "Biscuits" which you can read in its entirety over at Postcard Fiction.
"You should have been nicer to me," Carlotta said as she stood over me with the tire iron.
"I see that now." I tried to get up, but my leg kept making that crunching sound. "It's not too late. I could mend my ways."
A feeble attempt; one she wasn't buying.
"I'm taking the cash..."
You can also read it over at Short Humour, which has another little bon mot from moi especially for British people in hot weather and anyone with an interest in geography. Enjoy! And be sure to check out the other Sunday Six folks.
A bit of a cheat: a music two-fer. One is old, but the other's new; nonetheless, given the difficulty of finding your audience in the ocean of new publications out there, it deserves a boost to the signal.
The Fall: Lyrics by Mark E. Smith
The lynchpin of my current writing career: what, you think I exaggerate? With stories like "It's a Curse" and "Bill is Dead" and "Mandrake Anthrax" and "Grotesque" and "Just Waiting"? I do occasionally have stories not inspired by Smith's lyrics but they're getting to be in the minority. The Fall's lyrics are like Zen koans mashed up with the ramblings of a mad meth drinker with overstuffed carrier bags.
My garden is made of stone There's a computer centre over the road I saw a monster on the roof Its colours glowed on the roof
All the songs in this collection will forever be coloured by reading the German translations out loud on the tube going back from Kentish Town to Stockwellwhile giggling madly after that first hypnotic show. Magic.
John Hodgson's A Hard Road to Nowhere: The Blitzkrieg Bop Story captures that story from the other side of the equation; the intoxicating, maddening, frustrating and elating process of forging music in the fluctuating organism that is a band -- or rather a series of bands that finally create a centre of gravity that becomes Blitzkrieg Bop. Obviously blown away by The Ramones at a crucial age, Hodgson and his fellow bandmates find a wellspring of inspiration as the first eruptions of punk arrive in the remote northeast of England. The third person narrative occasionally feels a bit awkward but it provides a way to highlight the pages ripped from Hodgson's journals of the period, which capture the youthful highs and lows with vivid authenticity.
Cheap as chips: get it now -- and be sure to bookmark Hodgson's Soundcloud page for the music to accompany it. A wide variety of songs, old and new and updated. Good stuff.
See also my review of Val McDermid's The Distant Echo over at A Knife & A Quill.
Not sure if the FFB will be at Patti's or at Todd's -- check both, they're bound to be worth it.
Another Sunday has rolled around, giving you the opportunity to spot new writers you might like with the Six Sentence Sunday crew. A great, simple concept that seems to be very effective. My six this week come from a short that's been under submission for a bit now; I've become so good at the "submit & forget" that until a chance bump to the memory regurgitated it, I had forgotten the story existed and also where I had sent it, so I had to dig around to find it. Some detective work, eh? All I knew: it was named after a Fallreference.
Yeah, that narrows it down.
So here's a bit from "Grotesque" which is out there trying its luck (and now I know where). I picked a few lines describing the pub where most of the story takes place. Loosely based on a pub I know, but made much much worse, naturally; that's what fiction's all about. The scene begins with an explanation why no women have ever crossed its threshold:
Perhaps that could be blamed on the décor, which ranged from brown to more brown. Or the ambience that derived from unwashed and mostly middle aged men just off shift. The young lads all went to the shiny new sports pubs with their cacophonous screens and drinks with asinine names that they swilled back like candy.
We had two kinds of lager here and one of ale, with Guinness on the side for the old men from the isle. In the summer you could also get cans of Budweiser to take out into the 'beer garden': a picnic table on a concrete square between the rubbish tip and the gray wall of the car park. The chief appeal seemed to be you were allowed to spit out there.
I'll let you know if/when something comes of it. I'm sure it will eventually.
Yes, it's true: Drunk on the Moon is now available in print, too. Those of you who've been putting off getting it because you don't read them fancy ebook whatchamajiggers can now retire to your boudoirs with a good ol' paperback of Mr B and the pack.
Here's a silly thing I wrote back in the day for Mr B's blog when I first wrote "It's a Curse":
In the Mind of the Wolf
When Mr B asked me if I wanted to contribute to the Drunk on the Moon series, I knew I had to get into the head of the werewolf. How could I write from Roman Dalton's perspective if I had not lived in his world? I had to know him from the inside out. I immediately set up a plan to immerse myself in the wolf mind. I set my plan in motion leading up to the full moon.
DAY ONE
I listened to The Fall non-stop, The Infotainment Scam. Not only had I chosen the song "It's a Curse" as my touchstone, but I knew the hypnotic drone of Mark E. Smith's voice and the grinding pummeling of the music would help me reach the altered state I sought. After twenty-four hours without food or drink, just the steady beat on repeat I was feeling the effects. My hair grew, my nails sharpened. I began to drool. Right on schedule.
DAY TWO
I moved outside; the wolf must be wild. Fortunately I live right above a park. There's not much land, but there are hedges along the edge that I thought might provide enough cover for me. I crouched in the green border and watched the people. They were my prey. I had to know their weaknesses. They had many. And few defences. But as the sun set, they thinned out. Also, there was too much broken glass and SuperMac wrappers in the hedges. I needed another hunting ground.
DAY THREE
I moved to the cemetery. There was more cover there and since I had ripped off my clothes I needed to stay warm. Winter is harsh on the wolf. I chewed on a bone to sharpen my teeth. Despite my focus, they were not sufficiently lethal yet. The dead were good company. However, there was a shortage of victims. Perhaps a disaster of some kind would provide more fodder for the chase.
DAY FOUR
Memory sketchy. Trees scratchy. Dirt cold. Throat sore from howling. Running so far, so far. There were others. I was not alone. Something squeaked. Older woman made hand signals at me, sketching a five-pointed star. Bite marks on my flesh. I may have grown a tail, not sure.
DAY FIVE: FULL MOON
Blood. Flesh. Teeth. Profiteroles.
DAY SIX: RECOVERY
I returned indoors. Dressed and ate food that I had not killed myself. Got the computer out. Typed madly, in a trance. Remember nothing. Grammar inexcusable. Older woman reappeared; asking for recommendations of internet suppliers. Emailed story to Mr B. Slept for fourteen hours. Filed nails. Applied moisturizer. Brushed teeth. Remembered to use cutlery. Started a new story. Buried bones. Write more...
Yes, it's that time again, Six Sentence Sunday. For this week I share another work you can read in full for nothing over at Pulp Metal Magazine, where you will find lots more for your noirish pleasures, including the omnipresent Mr B.
PMM loves stories inspired by songs; oddly enough, I tend to write a few stories that are inspired by songs especially -- wait for it! -- songs by The Fall.
So here's a little snippet from "Bill is Dead" which happens to be a real fave of mine. All dialogue: the difficulty in this kind of story is making the two voices distinct. In this case, they're also rather crude, as well as not being the sharpest tools in the box. Slightly based on true facts; Bill, it turns out, is having a bad day, exacerbated by a party lasting past 4am next door...
“Not because of the party?”
“At first, no. His wife, after threatening for twenty years, does a runner. Seems she met a new guy on line and they were running off to Budapest.”
“Budapest? Where the hell is that anyway?”
Flash fiction, so a quick read. Let me know what you think, let PMM know too. Lots of good writing there.
Howling out of Dark Valentine Press later this month, "It's a Curse" is one of the Roman Dalton stories in Drunk on the Moon, tales of the werewolf detective created by Paul D. Brazill. Mr B has lured me into the crime world much like a stranger with candy. I may be some time.
This is another story I can blame on The Fall, forsooth, by gad, verily! The opening owes as much also to Kingsley Amis, who set the bar high for hangover scenes in his classic of academic ambivalence, Lucky Jim. What can I say? I'm competitive.
I could feel my eyeballs roll in their sockets before I opened my lids: never a good sign. I steeled myself for the brutal fact of daylight, but the dawn was as grey as if it hadn't yet decided to get dressed. I reached for the crumpled pack of gaspers lying next to the bed. The object my groping fingers found puzzled me.
I opened one eye warily. It was a handkerchief, floral and trimmed in lace...
Poor Roman: things are going to get worse before they get better. Oh, wait -- no, they're just going to get worse. Hee.
I've been getting all noir lately. I blame Mr B. Ireland's so lovely, but I've been setting stories here that are undeniably grim. So I blame Ken Bruen, too. While I'm spreading the blame around, might as well point a finger (or two!) at Mark E. Smith, too. If he hadn't written a lyric like, "A serious man /In need of a definitive job /He had drunk too much /Mandrake anthrax," then I wouldn't have had the idea for this story, which first started up on Twitter. Let's blame Twitter, too, shall we? It worked for Franzen.
My six:
Hanley eyed the brick façade. The door proved to be a gothic affair,
metal bound and painted all black. Seeing no modern convenience, he
lifted the oversized bat knocker and clapped it to a few times. They
both craned their ears but all around them it was suddenly as quiet as
death, as if all the people had walked hand in hand into the bay
abandoning the city behind them. Hanley shuddered.
When he had just about surrendered all hope and began to get thirsty for a tall foamy pint, the door groaned open to reveal a disheveled looking eurotrash reject of indeterminate age...
You can read the whole of this bleak little tale over at A Twist of Noir. While you're there, read some of the other fine stuff they've got.
Back from a fantastic trip to P-Con. With luck I can get a con report up soon, but I have to give a talk to the digital humanities doctoral students at the Moore Institute tomorrow, so I better get that completed first. Many thanks to Pádraig, Catie, Deirdre and all the organisers as well as to Maura for taking me under her wing, the lovely Sarah for all the laughs, Suzanne and Juliet for great craic, the Talbots for my signed copy of Dotter of Her Father's Eyes, John Connolly for buying us all dinner, the tango dancers for giving us a cause -- oh, and so much more. Anon.
My publication: I have a piece "Before the Watchmen Palaver" in the latest issue of Drink Tank (309). The editors have turned the entire issue over to discussion of the proposed Watchmen prequels. There's a wonderful and terribly unsettling cover, too. Read the full issue in PDF form here: it includes Pádraig and Laura Sneddon, too. Thanks, James, for asking me to contribute. UPDATE: I don't think I remembered to post yet that the collection that includes my essay on reading Lost Girls as post-Sadeian text is also out:
Last but very much not least, fifty-five years ago in a dark corner of Manchester, the lighting flashed, the skies opened up and Mark E. Smith was born. All right, I'm only guessing about the lightning and rain, but it's bound to be likely. My muse, my role model (LOL) -- well, he has inspired me in several stories of late and what better example of sticking to your guns and succeeding on your own terms do you need? So while I might post perennial favourites like "Bill is Dead" or "Touch Sensitive" or "Tempo House" I'll share this instead for those not yet up to speed on The Fall or if you'd prefer a story, snuggle in for storytime with MES and Lovecraft.
I am guest blogging over at Mr B's on how I wrote It's a Curse: Drunk on the Moon, Vol 7. A careful dissertation of the creative process or a wild pack of lies? You be the judge. I had fun writing this story, I had fun writing about writing about this story -- should I add a third level of self-reflection and admit to having a good time writing about writing about writing? Perhaps not.
Hard to believe I'll be teaching again soon (in so many ways). I have enjoyed my semester of freedom, perhaps a little too much. The liberty has gone to my head. I must remember how to do this, too.
At least I have been practising what I will be preaching -- commercial fiction, that is. Now to get better at it. Teaching remains the best way of learning. Be sure to check out the whole pack. Mr B says there will be a print collection later this year in February with his new prequel included (I've already had a sneak peak at it -- much fun!). Much fun -- and that's what it's really all about. Life is grand.
Whoohoo and hoooowwwwwwl! It has arrived. My contribution to Mr B's fine Trestle Press series Drunk on the Moon: IT'S A CURSE. Yes, of course of course, it takes its title from a song by The Fall and yes, there may be a few references to other Mark E. Smith lyrics in there.
You're shocked, I can tell.
Here's the synopsis:
Roman Dalton’s woken up in the wrong place again, but he can’t blame it
on the moon this time. Finding himself in a tug-of-war between two
lovely women might sound like he’s landed in clover, but one wants to
‘save’ him and the other—well, he’s got a feeling she’s a whole lot of
trouble wrapped up in a designer gown. As far as our favourite werewolf
PI’s concerned, IT’S A CURSE.
On Friday I had a chance to chat about it on the G-Zone with fellow Trestle Press writer Edith Maxwell. Mr B called in too and well -- to be honest, the two of us kind of hijacked the rest of the show, hee hee. You can listen to the whole thing from the archive. Great fun.
I've already made a trailer for it. Tell me what you think. And help spread the word! The page could use tagging, liking and of course, reviews! It's at B&N, too.
Just back from a visit with Elena, Rod and Lydia in Dublin where we also managed to run into Bono, Michale Bublé -- and more importantly @sirthopas and Pádraig. Pictures soon! I've also got some good news to share on the publication front.
First, my short story "Mandrake and Magpies" -- the first story to be set in Galway! -- has just appeared in the first international noir anthology, Dark Pages from Trestle Press' new imprint. The ebook is available on Amazon for just $2.99 and gives you a wealth of terrific works from a terrific group of writer including my pal Mr B, who also made an off-hand reference to the classic overwrought pop anthem "MacArthur Park" in his story.
I'm sure my ongoing obsession with magpies surprises no one; the "mandrake" part may be more obscure, but it's a reference to a Fall lyric by MES (of course, I hear you say) and actually featured first in a 140 word story I wrote (still floating around out there somewhere). I feel a bit nervous about having my first story set in Ireland out there, but I had fun making use of the areas I know pretty well now (and making a small swipe at the Gardai immigration office, grrrr). Fun!
And I think my contribution to the Drunk on the Moon series will be out this coming week: It's a Curse which is, ah, also named after a Fall song (>_<). Heh.
On a different tack, the lovely Alessandra Bava and I appear together (literally! on adjoining pages) in the Occupy Wall Street Poetry Anthology. A wonderful cause and the collection made more poignant by the brutal destruction of the OWS library by police the other night. Ale's piece "Sons of Disobedience" appears in both English and Italian. My "Songs of Defiance" originally appeared in the Bayou Review and was composed after the 2004 election, when despair filled the corridors of UHD. The fight never ends.
You know how you get a song stuck in your head? Usually some annoying bit of fluff that you wouldn't really choose to hear, but maybe heard from some passing car or in a store while shopping, but it worms its way into your ear and persists. I get that with phrases, too, and it can be just as maddening. I recall the relief I experienced when I realised this happened to other folks, too -- writers especially; I was reading a Henry Miller novel and his doppelgänger had an idiotic advertising phrase stuck in his head while he was trying to occupy himself otherwise (if you know Miller, you can guess how he was occupying himself).
So let me follow one of these little obsessive moments from the weekend and see what became of it. You know my obsession with Mark E. Smith and the Fall (yes, yes, I can see your eyes roll)? Okay, so I spend most of my time lately on Twitter (why? because last night while Tripoli was falling to rebel forces CNN was covering some celebrity's car accident or something, but folks on Twitter forwarded real time coverage). A friend posted a link to a blogpost on MES which I read and clicked on a related post which quoted the lyrics from "Tempo House" which resonated oddly in my head just then.
A serious man
In need of a definitive job
He had drunk too much
Mandrake anthrax
Of course, the latter phrase started ringing in my head like a well-struck bell. I posted the lyrics on Twitter, which provoked some comments, including a reminder from Zouch Magazine (soon to feature a poem[!] by me) that their 140 word story contest was still going on and wasn't I going to enter? This got me thinking. While it's fun to write the things that just spring out of your head with no restrictions of any kind (which reminds me, I ought to have good news to share later this week about Owl Stretching, my alternative history/science fiction/urban fantasy/shamanic retelling of the Descent of Inanna/Great American road trip novel ;-) it's actually fun to have restrictions to force your mind in new directions. Just as rules in sport -- keep within the markers, aim for the goal, don't touch the ball with your hands -- make you focus on specific skills, a narrow focus for writing can do the same. I'm currently working on a story set in someone else's universe and finding that a fun sort of puzzle to play with as well (more on that soon).
So, yeah, "Mandrake Anthrax" became a 140 word story (hey, I wrote a 50 word story, so that's luxury) that I sent off to Zouch for the contest and may well become a longer story, too. The lyrics also made it as a comment on a friend's status on Facebook (entirely fittingly, I should add and not at all gratuitously... mostly) and as my own status, provoking further responses that fed my idea stream even more. So, one magnetic MES phrase results in a story, lots of tweets and a couple of Facebook conversations and may not be done yet. I sure can get a lot of mileage out of two words! What will I be able to do with Joy Division Oven Gloves?! (thanks, Terry).
All of which gets me no closer to being packed and ready to go (sigh!). All this folderol was in place of actual packing, discarding and organising of course. Back to the mantra: somehow it will all get done, somehow...
For the full list of Friday's Forgotten (or neglected or insufficiently trumpeted) Books, see Patti Abbott's blog. If you're in need of reading material, there are always wonderful suggestions.
I remember when Marko asked if I had got The Fallenyet and I said, "Nah, I'm really only interested in MES, don't think I'll be interested." But then my editor Simon at the Spectator sent me a copy of the updated edition and suggested I follow the author Dave Simpson on Twitter and, well, they were right. This is an amazing book about a singular band and the obsession it provokes -- which really is all about Smith. Shot through the main narrative is also Simpson's account of the unraveling of his own relationship as his obsession with tracking down the dozens of former Fall members grows. He finally realises he has hit bottom when he finds himself listening to -- and liking -- Phil Collins songs:
What greater slur can a man carry than admitting to listening to Phil Collins?
The tale begins and ends and really never travels too far from the enigmatic frontman (whose autobiographical tome I have also written about for FFB). Many of the Fallen have gone on to success on their own -- Brix Smith is a fashionista, Mark Riley a popular DJ, Julia [Nagle] Adamson head of Invisible Girl Records -- but so many expressed a willingness to return to the fold should the boss ever ask them to do so, despite the acrimony that often accompanied their departure. Smith's philosophy gets likened to a football coach, an intimidating schoolmaster and an experimental psychologist, who thinks, "routine is 'the enemy of music'" and that regular shake-ups help keep the team on their toes (as does fiddling with their instruments and equipment on stage in the midst of a show.
While people like to celebrate groups like the Rolling Stones that have been together since the Pleistocene era (yawn) because they don't want their favourite things to change, Smith has managed a musical sleight of hand by means of constant if unpredictable change. He's famously claimed that even if it's "me and your granny on bongos" it's still the Fall and he's right. A Simpson realises,
...for all the hiring and firing in the group, the person most feeling the pressure of carrying the legend like The Fall is Smith -- because, after all, it's his reputation on the line.
By the end of the book, there's a distorted collage of the genius behind the band. Smith seems to grow and change, to be all things to all people, a "God" to some and "the boss" to others, a trusted friend and an unruly psychopath. But singular -- and indeed genius. The Fall are musical Marmite, but I think anyone who loves the music scene will find this book riveting as it delves into the 70s, 80s, 90s and noughties. It's an amazing tale well told by Simpson. Highly recommended.
I won't say I flew into Manchester instead of Heathrow in June just to see The Fall, but once I realised the opportunity existed -- well, no way I was going to pass it up. Besides, I'd never visited Manchester and had the chance to meet up with a couple of friends, so it was all good. I should add that I don't have the set list, I just swiped it from one of the guys on the forum.
Moho Live looked like any of a million subterranean venues, painted black and kept in the dark because if you saw what it looked like in the light you would be horrified. No ticket stub: it's all digital now. The woman from Action Records was there with all the merch. I passed up on the chance to get the blue lyrics book (I'll give in one of these days, but £30?!) but I got a t-shirt for Marko and some badges for us both.
There are so few female Fall fans that I never had to wait in line at the loo. Those who know me well will know how significant that fact is. When I met up with fellow female Fall fan Julie in Leicester (who friended me after reading my Spectator piece on the Fall) it was good to talk to another woman who has the madness.
The first band hit the stage in a squall of noise, pseudo-punks whose name I did not catch though I immediately regretted leaving my earplugs in the hotel room. A thrashing, assaultive barrage requiring only that they all play as loudly and as fast as possible. Yawn. I wandered around crowd-watching and texting Marko just to make him envious share the excitement.
The second band intrigued even as they were starting up. Scumbag Philosopher (no, not a promising name, but oh well) drummer Anne Reekie had just a two piece kit, accentuated by fairy lights, including some hanging out of her pockets. I loved her playing. They started out with a "cut-rate" John Cooper Clark intro which got the audience going. Fun, odd stuff -- check them out. I can see why MES chose them.
Of course the buzz only grew after that, especially once they unfurled the Fall backdrop: a guitar-playing cowboy. I fought my way up near the stage because I just had to do it, though I knew I wouldn't last long. I kept close to a bunch of old geezers, clearly long time fans, who helped keep the obnoxious drunk young guys in check. Quiet menace in action: I was impressed with the polite but utterly unflinching threat when he turned to the stupid kid who'd been shoving people around him and laid a hand on his shoulder and said, "You're going to stop that now."
After what seemed like an impossibly long time, at last the band came out and it sounded like a jet had landed in the tiny club. Hometown crowd, eh? The space in front of the stage began to sway wildly and slam back and forth, erupting even further when MES came out -- just a roar of delight. The old curmudgeon even looked pleased for a moment before hiding it behind a scowl, launching into the new song "Cosmos" with gusto. He looked good: much healthier than the first time I saw them.
I lasted the first two songs and then had to stagger out of the madness and find a new vantage point. Deafened, dripping with sweat but grinning because -- well, just because. I took up a position on the exit stairs which put me on eye level with MES. I was thirty feet away instead of five but I could breathe -- and more importantly -- stand. It was fantastic. I won't give the blow by blow (check the forums for that in abundance) but they were on: the band working, heads down, unsmiling except for Elena who was grinning and having a grand time. MES pottering around the stage adjusting this and that, keeping the band on their toes and sticking his tongue out at Elena and even occasionally addressing the crowd. "Funnel of Love" really seemed to get the crowd going (such a catchy rockabilly tune) and "Psychik Dance Hall" roared along. It was odd that the band came out on stage eventually for an encore but MES stayed back stage -- odd, but not unprecedented. We all left deafened, dripping and vibrating from head to toe.
"That's all you need to know about tonight," a woman said in the toilets after the show, pointing to her mud-spattered, sandal-clad feet. Yep.
Paperwork for the Fulbright to prepare; details to work out; pictures for the work permit; appointments to schedule; belongings to jettison; prep for the reading of "Lumottu"; revisions of essays to finish; grading grading grading. So, um -- here's something from the Fall!
Up until 2.30 last night finishing something that needed to be done; relieved that the end of the semester is upon me, but also stressed for the same reason (grading, grading), so something more substantial tomorrow. Something to keep you entertained today: the entire documentary "The Wonderful and Frightening World of MES" online.
A man stopped me on the way to campus, saying, "1971: this way?" "It certainly feels like it," I say. We blink at each other and then go on, uncomprehending. Sometimes life's like that.
Over at The Spectator, I get my geek on about The Fall:
With the release of Your Future, Our Clutter, The Fall marks 33 years of recording with another stellar disc. The music has evolved over that time, from proto-punk to a more poppy tunefulness to electronica and new noise – and the line up has changed time and again.
But at the centre of the group always lies mastermind Mark E. Smith. He has famously declared, ‘If it’s me and your granny on bongos, it’s still The Fall.’ Some 40 or more folks have cycled in and out of the band over the years, as Dave Simpson has chronicled. But Smith is right: it always sounds like The Fall.
There’s an absolute certainty in his vision that can put some people off. Smith has at times been notoriously difficult with interviewers and journalists, and at times cheekily proud of the fact. ‘The Observer magazine just about sums him up, e.g. self-satisfied, smug,’ he sings in ‘How I Wrote Elastic Man’, itself a song written to express his annoyance with people’s failure to read the materials, as he clearly sings ‘How I wrote Plastic Man,’ a reference to the comic book hero.
The Fall’s music has influenced bands and artists (see his Tate Modern interview) but Smith insists on maintaining the picture of himself as just another working stiff. When an academic conference on The Fall took place in 2008 at the University of Salford, Smith’s relatives buttonholed presenters at the pub, demanding to know who authorized it, and Smith later called former Fall producer Grant Showbiz in the middle of his presentation.
The Fall are one of those bands that create musical Marmite: you’ll find very few people who can take them or leave them...
Read the rest at The Spectator and hey, leave a comment! I'm knee deep in work today. Resurfacing later -- I hope.
It's a bit cheeky suggesting that a Nabokov book could be "forgotten" but I think I can make a case here. After all, Amazon lists the most recent edition as the one from 1990. But first let me mention this fabulous design by Carol Carson for the Nabokov Specimen Box Project, a fantastic design project: check out the slides.
I chose this of course because of the overlap with another obsession, The Fall, who have an album also called Bend Sinister. I haven't seen much to suggest any lyrical overlap with the novel, but since MES reads both Gogol and Dostoevsky, it's not much of a stretch to think he'd find Nabokov appealing -- though it may just be the heraldry term.
I was actually reading Pale Fire when I decided to switch to Bend Sinister, mostly because I decided I would probably have to buy my own copy of Pale Fire because I was making too many notes and it would be easier to just put them in the book and that wouldn't be good to do with the library's copy.
I had already written down tons of new words from Pale Fire, but I found myself writing quotes from Bend Sinister instead. I alluded in my Hamlet review to Ember's theory about the play: fascinating and fun. The playfulness is what makes Nabokov's work attractive. Krug's observation of Ember's engravings sets the scene visually but also working toward the revelations. The legend on one: "Ink, a Drug." Followed by pencil marks which "numbered the letters so as to spell Grudinka which means 'bacon' in several Slavic languages." Ham-let, as he points out.
Mmmm, bacon.
Bend Sinister focuses on the dislocation of grief; initially it's Krug's grief for his wife, observed by the self-conscious "I" of the author who soon disappears, though reappearing in time for the end. Nabokov uses structure and authorial voice to explore the limits of empathy: "The square root of I is I" (7). All writers know the observer within us: "In every mask I tried on, there were slits for his eyes."
I have a nub of an idea comparing Ekwilism (the philosophical movement of the new fascist regime in the book) and Vonnegut's world in "Harrison Bergeron" -- but that's too ambitious for here. You can read a summary anywhere. I'm going to give you some bon mots:
"Curiosity is insubordination in its purest form" (46).
"Devices which in some curious new way imitate nature are attractive to simple minds" (69) -- a key to phenomenal wealth if you know how to employ it, I suspect.
"We live in a stocking which is in the process of being turned inside out, without our ever knowing for sure to what phase of the process our moment of consciousness corresponds" (193).
"To each, or about each, of his colleagues he had said at one time or other, something... something impossible to recall in this or that case and difficult to define in general terms -- some careless bright and harsh trifle that had grazed a stretch of raw flesh" (48).
"I esteem my colleagues as I do my own self, I esteem them for two things: because they are able to find perfect felicity in specialized knowledge and because they are not apt to commit physical murder" (58).
