ThoughDecember Boyswas made available early by the fine folks over at Amazon (it all counts toward the week 1 push for bestseller lists), today, June 7, is the actual release day. Though I’d love for y’all to buy the pretty hardcover edition, the e-book is for a very limited timejust .99. The reason my publisher and Amazon did this is simple: the more first week sales, the better my chances of making that coveted bestseller list. So please, buy, share, tell your mom about it (if she is, y’know, cool and hip and likes her mysteries like I like my chocolate, semi-dark and bittersweet. That’s not true I like milk chocolate. Fuck dark chocolate. Dark chocolate tastes like a broken promise).
And sorta burying the lead on this one … but Oceanview is buying TWO MORE JAY PORTER NOVELS. Which for those of you keeping score at home brings us up to FIVE books in the series. Meaning you can expect a new novel a year until 2019 (holy fuck am I old).
I think that’s it. For now. I’ll be doing a tour of the East Coast, culminating with a trip to New Orleans in September. And there’s the Beast Crawl and Litquake and regular Lip Service West stuff. Also I’m wrapping up Mike Creeden’s All Your Lies Came True for Gutter, and hoping to start tackling the long-alluded to Cash anthology.
And now here is Micah Schanbel of Two Cow Garage singing “Jackson, Don’t You Worry,” the title track from December Boys. Every book of mine gets a soundtrack, and Micah’s song provided a particularly poignant one this time. (And he graciously allowed us to reprint the lyrics.)
The December Boys‘ release date is technically June 7, but, like when my buddy Rich and I attended Knebworth in 1990, looks like someone opened the gate early (2nd row center sounds great but 12 hours and one perforated bladder later … actually it was pretty great). Amazon has started making the hardcopy available. Kindle, you still have to wait for June 7. Barnes and Noble too. But for those of you champing at the bit (or chomping at the bit, if you are Will Viharo), here you go.
Also gearing up for the release, my lovely wife Justine is giving away copies over at her The Book Contest, a new business enterprise she’s started giving away, well, books. Doesn’t cost you anything to enter, and she’ll soon be extending the service to other authors. I don’t know how she’s making money giving away books, but she has the MBA (I can’t make my joke about her being a closet Republican or she’ll get mad), so it must work out somehow. In the meantime, you win a chance at a free book!
And, last, in related news, Oceanview has made Lamentation available for Kindle at the low, low price of .99. Since it’s the first in the Jay Porter series, probably a good place to start if you are planning on reading December Boys (though not necessary; DB was written to work as a standalone too), might want to take advantage, since it usually costs like $14 (and to all of you who paid the $14 for Kindle and are now pissed that it’s $13 less: 1.] It’s not my fault; blame capitalism, and 2.] find me at Bouchercon and I’ll buy you drinks to make up for the difference).
Now that class (LitReactor) is over, I hope to get back to blogging more. But chances are, since I had to step down from theFlash Fiction Offensive(don’t worry, my hardboiled friends, Tom is still there, and he’s been joined by the delightful Hector Duarte, Jr.), I’ll still be scrambling for time. Writing books is hard.
Been a pretty crazy stretch. Seems like all I have done lately is write. Which is what I am supposed to be doing, I know, but I’ve written two novels since November, and this feels like probably the busiest I’ve ever been. Whenever people would say “There aren’t enough hours in a day,” I always sorta wanted to punch them. I get what they mean now. I used to feel like Will in About a Boy, trying to kill days as fast as possible. Now I wish I could slow down time to get more done before resuming suburban dad duties every evening.
Couple bits of housekeeping. Before I dive back into the next round of edits, I’ll be teaching this class over at LitReactor starting Tuesday. Writing/editing/teaching is a wonderful three-headed-monster. I learn as much from editing and teaching as I do reading/writing. Which is hardly a revelation. These things feed off one another. Like my elliptical machine–self powered. (Sorry this isn’t a more entertaining blog. I’ll be sure to throw in an uplifting meme somewhere.)
Anyway, class starts Tuesday; there’s still space. I’m looking forward to talking shop with other writers trying to crack the code, or just get better. Writing is like golf: it’s not about spiritual perfection; it’s about spiritual progress. Or maybe that’s AA. I get those two confused. Last class I taught was at the SF Writers’ Grotto, which was a blast, and I certainly got as much as I gave. I have no doubt I’ll end up in academia. I’ve spent half my life in school, and I feed off that environment of improvement. This class will be entirely online, which is, frankly, better for me. I express myself better digitally than I do in person. I am sure I am not the only writer who feels that way. Just far less anxious behind a keyboard than trying to figure out what to do with my hands. And, y’know, no Bridge traffic.
AlsoLamentation is finally out in paperback. Which means we sold out our initial hardcover run (I think). Yay! I mean, you don’t get a paperback unless the hardcover does well. So I guess it did well. Thanks to everyone who bought it. If you held out this long hoping for a physical copy less … heavy … here you go! (Seriously, mailing hardcovers is nuts. Shipping costs almost as much as a paperback.)
When you start writing books, you will hear you need to make your characters sympathetic. Well, you’ll hear a lot of shit. Often this information will be contradictory. Like a bird in the hand vs. nothing ventured, nothing gained, life is nothing if not contrarian. You weigh these platitudes, and like they say in AA: you take what you can use and leave the rest at the door. I don’t necessarily worry about sympathetic. I want you to care about and still root for my characters. Similar. But not the same thing.
I just got word I’ll be receiving a very nice review in Booklist for December Boys, next up in the Jay Porter Thriller series. I didn’t get one from them for Lamentation, so it’s very cool. It goes live April 26. I’m not allowed to share the entire review until then, just a sentence or two. This sums it up nicely.
“The author suggests it’s the pain in Porter’s life that has him acting so awfully, but whether readers buy that or not, they’re still in for some fine writing, plus an interesting mix of people and a truly offbeat, if arguably rude, hero.”
I always find it funny when people point out that Jay is a jerk. Mostly because Jay is based on me. He’s based on my brother, Jay (Streeter) too. I steal my brother’s line of work (estate clearing) and other details of his life (he worked in the northern NH mountains for a while and is technologically averse). In fact the entire plot for the new book (WIP title Cold, Cold Hills, borrowed from the great Paul Kelly, this before I found out there is currently a hot new book calledIn a Dark, Dark Wood. That’s okay. My agent hated the temporary title. That’s what I have Jimmy for) came from a recent Thanksgiving trip visiting my brother, who is planning on buying the estate clearing business from his boss. Jay (Streeter) was worried about coming up with the cash to buy the business. So the new plot: Jay (Porter) is trying to buy his boss’s business and is worried about how he’ll get the cash. Family is a fucking goldmine for plot. That and crimes in Pennsylvania.
Still, the more I write the character, the more I realize Jay Porter is me. Or more like an idealized version of me. And by “idealized version,” I mean the way I’d act if I didn’t have to worry about getting along with people. Life is hard, and it will beat you down if you let it.
It’s nice to say you should always speak your mind. But, like expecting to always be happy, to quote my dead friend Troy (to whom Book 3 is dedicated), it’s not a very grown-up expectation. There are considerations we make to our fellow man in order to share this planet. One of which is you don’t get to be a dick. We must assimilate, conform (in a non-creepy 1984 way). Or you’re in for a bitch of a time.
When you write fiction you can explore what might’ve been. In the case of Jay Porter, I don’t have many questions. I don’t live like Jay Porter because I am smarter than he is. I’ve learned to not give in to his self-destructive tendencies. Though I have them, and, yes, I flirt with them. I just don’t fully submerge. I wrote the character to be the way he is being perceived (success!), and it’s a fine line. People who don’t like the books often point to Jay’s choices and voice as the main issue.
Talking with my wife the other day, I joked, “I don’t see the problem. I don’t think Jay is a jerk. I think he’s right. He’s based on me, y’know?”
Which was pretty funny. And I imagine it sucks at times to be married to me, because I do have a lot of Jay Porter in me. But at forty-five, I’ve also learned that if I actually did act like Jay, I’d have what Jay does, namely, a lot of hurt and pain. And I’d be alone. He’s a character I wrote to be just short of self-awareness. Or rather, slightly more aware than those around him, which is a horrible fate. To quote Annie from the greatest baseball film of all-time,Bull Durham, “The world is made for people who aren’t cursed with self-awareness.”
“They loved each other very much and nothing ever went wrong” makes for a shitty novel, and I find Mailer’s edict that heroes must be larger-than-life boring as fuck. I want edge, flaws–I want good intentions gone wrong–because, well, that’s life. And it’s the imperfections that make things beautiful.
When I sat down to write my first book, which, if we skip over the amateurish teenage attempts (and, yes, sadly, they exist) we’re mostly talking Junkie Love. There are those who will argue that Junkie Loveis the best thing I’ve done, and I wouldn’t necessarily disagree. I mean, who can forget Joel Landmine‘s riveting performance as a young me? Or the kick-ass Get Set Go soundtrack?
Like a first-born child, Junkie Love will always be special. But it’s also not a traditional book. When I interviewed Brian Panowich, whose masterful debut Bull Mountain will surely be on the tip of many an Anthony tongue this year, Brian confessed part of the reason for BM’s episodic approach stemmed from necessity. Like me, Brian found the story better told via fragmented, interconnected vignettes. That approach works perfectly for Bull Mountain, and I think it works well for Junkie Love, too.
But I wanted to venture into more mainstream, commercial fiction after Junkie Love, which is, let’s face it, a one-off story. I chose to tell the tale of my addiction and redemption via a highly stylized form of narration. Again, this isn’t to disparage the end result. I love Junkie Loveand would never distance myself from it. But it’s not a commercial mystery. It’s not conventional, period. Part of the reason it took so long to find someone to take a chance on it (thank you, Vagabondage Press!). In fact, without my MFA (the degree always a controversial topic), I don’t get that book published period.
Back to wanting to write a novel. I always figured I would someday. Once I figured out how. That took longer than I thought. Turns out writing a book is really, really fucking hard. Part of my time as a junkie I swear was research (though my tax person still won’t let me write-off the years of addiction. Too bad. We added up all the money I spent on dope as part of a rehab class. Conservative estimates placed the amount around $325K).
What I learned getting my Master’s in creative writing is that writing can be taught. There are some writers, like my buddy Tom Pitts, who understand the process inherently. Without an MFA, Tom has written several pulse-pounding thrillers. If you can do that too, good on you. I needed school. And, in particular, Lynne Barrett, who showed me how to write a book via causality, a concept I just couldn’t grasp until she broke it down. This instruction is the only way Junkie Lovewas seeing the light of day, and it also helped me forge a successful career writing mysteries. This causes that. Sounds simple. And it is. Try putting it in practice. But there are tricks, tips, techniques, and, not to bust my arm patting myself on the back, I’m good at explaining them. In addition to Lamentation, December Boys, the second in the Jay Porter Thriller series, is out in June (and off to some rave reviews), and we’ve sold Book 3 in the series, the tentatively titled Cold, Cold Hills, which takes its name from this bone-chilling Paul Kelly song.
While this is a pitch to get folks to sign up for the class, it is also a confessional. Combining my rich junkie history with how to write mysteries is a (wait for it) novel approach. But this is me. This is how I talk. How I convey information, straight from the heart, heart on the sleeve, no punches pull, name your cliché. Part of the benefit of living the way I did involves certain communicative skills. Maybe I always had them. Maybe it was the years on the street, nursed via survival, second chances, augmented with an education. I’ll never be sure. But I do know this: I can teach writing. I do it all day, every day. I have people–strangers, friends, everyone in between–writing me, and we talk writing, mostly because I am a lonely, lonely man desperate for validation, but also because I love to help.
Not people at large, mind you. I still possess disdain for mankind in general. But writers? Artists? I’d bleed for them. Especially ones who desperately want to be published–want to be published so bad the desire feeds off the marrow of their bones as they scream into a infinite abyss like Natalie Portman. I care about those people. Because that was me. And it sucked. I had all this stuff in my head and heart and I couldn’t get it out, and it ate me up. Cost me a wife. And it almost killed me. But then CCSU, FIU, Lynne, and I learned.
Now I want to teach other people how to do it. Because writing a book, specifically mysteries, is a formula. Note: NOT formulaic. As Lynne used to say, “All art is contrivance. When someone says something iscontrived, what they are really saying is the author/artist has done a bad job in concealing the puppet strings.” I am paraphrasing.
I fully expect to end up in academia someday. My dream job is to buy back the old family homestead in Berlin, and teach at my alma mater, Central Connecticut State University (Tom Hazuka, my number is the same). Until then, I’ll be ramping up classes like this (and the one I taught at Josh Mohr‘s place, the Writer’s Grotto), because I love talking shop, and after having slagged off so many years, it’s a joy to find something I’m good at that’s a benefit to others. Being a cynical bastard, I know I should caveat that with something snarky. But I can’t. When it comes to writing, I mean every goddamn word.
Just got back from my first Left Coast Crime. (Actually I am sitting in the airport waiting to board my flight. I have a feeling upon returning home, where my wonderful wife Justine watched the boys for the past three days I am not going to get a lot of “me” time to write this.)
As you may’ve noticed (or maybe not), I don’t blog much these days, and if I promise to do better, it’ll be like Dave Pirner says, “One more promise I couldn’t keep.” Just no time to blog. And I can’t get over the feeling that blogging has become like playing music live, a terribly invasive, in-your-face medium. At least with blogging I don’t have to haul my amp up a flight of stairs on a Wednesday night to “headline” (i.e., play last). Plus I get to include memes, which I realized at LCC is 99% of my material.
That and stories I’ve told a hundred times.
Sharing a cab ride to the airport Sunday morning with S.W. Lauden, he joked he was going to finish my “A lamb is a baby sheep” story that I’d told the previous night at the bar, which was probably the 7th time over the weekend I’d told that same story, replete with the same inflection, same manufactured observation, same, well, everything. (The story: about 2 years ago I dropped Holden off at preschool where they had adult and baby animals on the wall–cow, calf; pig, piglet, etc. When I got to “sheep/lamb,” I exclaimed, rather loudly, in a room full of moms and kids, “Holy shit! A lamb is a baby sheep!” Just never dawned on me. There’s more to the joke, which I am sure I will repeat another hundred times. See you all at Bouchercon.)
Reminded me of I Heart Huckabees and Jude Law’s Shania Twain story. (I can’t find a clip from the actual movie, but here is the audio over Adventure Time.)
And I know that sounds a little goofy. I’m six foot one, covered in tattoos, have a criminal record. At this point I should be able to get a coffee and not feel like my buddy Clayton once described David Byrne (“He was getting a coffee, all twitchy like everyone was watching him. No one was watching him!”). But it’s important to recognize your limitations, know what you are good at. I suck at math. Don’t ask me to hang a curtain rod. Some things I do well. Some I don’t. Just like everyone else in this life. In the middle of the conference we got a great write-up in the Washington Post about a new anthology I am in re: gun awareness, and some yahoo called me a “social justice warrior,” which caused me to panic, which makes no logical sense. He wasn’t even talking about me, but every author in the collection. I am an introvert. Big deal. But the only time I get close to feeling like I belong is a crime writers convention, where (like Frank sings) the best people I know are looking out for me.
I am glad I made the switch to genre and get to go to conferences like Left Coast and Bouchercon because as much as I fear/hate/loathe leaving my house, it is necessary. Unless I want to be one of those weirdoes with a car packed full of newspapers who listens only to transistor radios, I have to force myself to mix and mingle, and not only because my career demands it; it’s part of being human.
So that’s it. A big goddamn thank you to Left Coast, and specifically Ingrid Willis and Deborah Lacy, and all the folks who put these things together and make oddballs such as I feel so welcome (and a special thanks to Catriona McPherson, one of the very few whom I willingly hug!). As I prepare to hunker down indoors until New Orleans, I can’t express how much I need to do this. It’s a lot like working out. You don’t exactly look forward to the process, you know it’s going to be hard, but when you are done it was so fucking worth it.
Before I started doing this writing thing as a career, I’d see a novel series and wonder what the appeal was for the author. I mean, as a reader–and more accurately movie viewer–I enjoyed going back and revisiting the same characters. (I’ve seen The Force Awakens four times so far. For my son’s sake, you understand.) My favorite book as a kid was The Great Brainseries. I loved Tom Fitzgerald’s boy genius. I devoured those books. Mostly because I secretly hoped that I, too, was special and could have the run of my hometown (it didn’t quite work out that way). We get invested in characters and their worlds, and when a book is really great, we don’t want it to end; we want to stay there.
Last October I began a new novel, Through a Glass Darkly, which I aimed to finish before starting the new Jay Porter novel, already sold to Oceanview on spec, final product due June 2016. We did the same thing with December Boys (which will be out when the next installment is due in June) last year and the timing worked out well. Start new book in January, be done by June. I like patterns. Appeals to the OCD in me. The first week of January, I was still wrapping up Darkly, and my wife was nudging me to get started on the book I’d already sold. But I had to finish Darkly because it’s fucking awesome and it features a female protagonist (a first for me), and I couldn’t enter a new world until I left the old one. Just how I am wired.
I was pretty shocked to finish an 80,000-word novel on January 10, only to begin the next Jay Porter book on the 11th, writing another 30K more in less than two weeks. While that is a #humblebrag, it’s only a slight one. Because it wasn’t very hard to slip back into the world of Ashton, New Hampshire (really Berlin, CT). Darkly was a very difficult novel to write. The subject matter is particularly gruesome, I was writing a female POV, and experimenting with narrative (going 3rd person, which is more of a challenge for me than 1st). This’s both good and bad. It’s good to be challenged and to push yourself. Returning to Jay Porter was effortless. Like an old pair of running shoes* (*note: wait for motif payoff next paragraph).
There are other challenges, of course. I think December Boys is an improvement on Lamentation, and I can’t write a 3rd without trying to up the ante. I don’t want to tread water; I want to forge new ground* (*I didn’t say it would be a good payoff).
On Saturday, my lovely wife Justine and I went to see The Revenant, the new film by Birdmandirector Alejandro González Iñárritu. And usual for any Tom Hardy movie, my wife hated it. She thinks I have a thing for slow, plodding, uber-violent manly-man movies (most of which star Tom Hardy), and she’s right; I do. I walked out mesmerized. The Reverant is not an “enjoyable” movie. Though beautifully shot, with wide, aching shots of the hostile, frozen landscapes (which appeals, for obvious reasons), it is difficult to watch at times. The film, like the best art, challenges, and its themes go full 11th grade high school English teacher on your ass (man vs. nature, man vs. man, man versus self).
Iñárritu makes you think, dig deep, and the movie doesn’t take easy outs. It is such a widely different film than Birdman, both stylistically and thematically. As an artist myself, I found that scope enthralling, to see a filmmaker willing to take the risks, shoot so high, achieve something grand and remarkable. Writing reviews is hard to do without spoilers. I’ll do my best, but if you haven’t seen the film, or The Hateful Eight, you might want to stop here.
A couple weeks ago, the wife and I saw Tarantino’s latest, The Hateful Eight. And at the time, I thought it was … meh. Keep in mind, I love Tarantino. Though he only wrote (i.e., didn’t direct) True Romance, the film remains one of my all-time favs (and it is the movie my wife and I fell in love to). And Pulp Fictionis, hands down, one of the best films ever made. The only Tarantino I didn’t like was Jackie Brown, and even the ones I didn’t love (Inglourious Basterds) possess sublime moments. I thought Django was magnificent (we will discuss that shortly; in particular Tarantino’s infatuation with a certain derogatory term). H8 employs all the director’s strengths–character, dialogue, homage, a true genius for cinematography. But the whole doesn’t equal the sum of its parts. I left the theater feeling like I got my money’s worth. Like blowjobs and pizza, even bad Tarantino is pretty good.
Then again, I live in California, where they regularly put things like asparagus and nettles on pizza, and as for the other? Well, I’m married. But after seeing The Revenant, I’ve changed my mind about The Hateful Eight. It is a bad movie. The film commits the most egregious of sins; it opts for style over substance, and refuses to make any sort of meaningful statement. H8 is like that joke band, of which I knew so many in San Francisco back in the ’90s. Y’know, the kind, where every song is about erectile dysfunction and no one takes a damn thing seriously, like that 4-Non Blondes video–not, not song. I’m talking about the video for “What’s Up?” I love the song. Very emotive, honest, heartfelt, but the video is performed all winks and nods. Strap on a goofy hat, mug for the camera, try to have it both ways. I hate that shit. Frank Turner sings about the phenomena in “Four Simple Words”:
It’s really easy to make fun of everything when you don’t stand for anything.
That’s what Hateful Eight felt like. A big wink and a nod, a whole lot bluster and beauty signifying nothing. The acting is great. Sam Jackson is always wonderful. Kurt Russell terrific too. And Jennifer Jason Leigh is one of America’s best actresses. But the film is almost three hours long, and in the end it says … stuff. Plus, can Quentin Tarantino please stop with the n-word shit? It’s 2016. Can we evolve? In Django, a film about slavery, where the oppressed overcomes (to a degree), its usage makes some sense. Here it only highlights one of Tarantino’s real shortcomings.
The Reverant covers roughly the same time frame. I mean, it’s the fucking 1800s. If there are no cars and people have to poop in the woods, it’s the same time frame. But what radically different visions! And, yes, not every movie has to be heavy or severe. Even There’s Something About Mary, This Is Spinal Tap, and The Hangover has something to say. There can be sincerity in comedy, even the slapstick variety. An artist only has to take the leap and put their heart out there, take the risk of being judged (so glad the singular they is now accepted). And that is scary shit, for any artist. Or human being.
Maybe it’s not fair to compare the two. Like comparing Springsteen to a pop singer. Then again, I love Taylor Swift because she means what she sings. And I’ll close with this, a point on which both my wife and I agree: The Reverant is not an enjoyable movie. She hated it. I loved it. But, either, it’s not “enjoyable.” (Although I suppose that depends on your definition of the word “enjoyable.”) The Hateful Eight is enjoyable. It’s fine, easily digestible fare. Much like movie popcorn. Fun at the time, makes you a little sick later, and then becomes forgettable with no lasting nutritional value. The Reverant is something better than enjoyable. It does what all great art should do. It moves you.
We are a funny lot, us humans. Or maybe it’s an American thing. I don’t know. I don’t leave my house much. I used to joke that one day I’d live virtually, and that has sorta come to fruition, given the amount of time I spend online, which is where my job is, my writing network, etc. As such, my take on reality may be skewed. But I have picked up patterns–and maybe this is accentuated by the online, anonymous culture–but the reaction to mainstream, populist culture always amuses me. And by amuses I mean bugs the fuck out of me.
Doesn’t matter what the “thing” is, if it’s popular enough, someone is always there to tell you how much they hate it. Which is really quite silly if you think about about. You have hundreds talking about how much they love something, but Bob over there feels compelled to let you know that he doesn’t like that … thing!
I wish I could say I was better. But I’m really not. Ask my wife.
Anytime Justine is watching some insipid reality show, whether it’s TheBachelor, the Bachelorette, or American Idol (or any number of the crappy ones she watches), I can’t walk in the room without letting her know how much I hate it. What does it matter if I think reality television is stupid? It’s not like my wife is asking me to watch it with her. But I do it every time. I’ll walk by and have to make a snarky comment about how lame I think that shit is. They get millions of viewers, every week–or else they wouldn’t be on the air–so clearly many, many people enjoy them. But I don’t. Like Ray Davis, I’m not like everyone else.
Of course I am right and they are wrong, my tastes correct, and if you don’t agree with me you are fundamentally lacking in aesthetic appreciation and artistic acumen. Duh. In short, I am no different than anyone else.
I hate the term “hater.” Much like I loath the phrase “disrespect” (respect is something you give–how can you impact in the negative?). But it’s part of the lexicon, and it fits here, so who am I to rage against?
I read some spoilers in Rolling Stone so it wasn’t that. Although some people felt compelled to do their best to ruin the experience any way they could, offering spoilers, trying to ruin the ending, etc. Again, I rag on the shit I don’t like, so this isn’t a “I’m better than” comment. More a commentary. What we don’t like shapes our identities as much as what we do. You have all these people super stoked to see a movie, with which they deeply identify, but it is every bit as important for another group (albeit statistically smaller) to let the world know they don’t like it! It’s the “I don’t watch/own TV” argument from Pulp Fiction.
I’ve been writing this blog for a while, so I know, like my 83-year-old shrink, that I repeat myself. But I’m getting old too. About the time Return of the Jedi came out, I was taking art in high school with Miss Wilensky (I think I have that right), and she introduced this concept called Notan, by which drawings are defined by negative shapes. That’s always stuck with me. I have a remarkable memory. I can’t remember stuff like receipts and taxes, but the important (barroom trivia) stuff stays in there.
As for the rest of it, no big deal. Got a couple funny texts/emails, like, “Did you unfriend me over Star Wars?” And the answer is, yes. But I didn’t mean to. I tried to unfollow certain naysayers because I wanted to enjoy the movie and not deal with the negativity (how’s that for irony?), but when that didn’t work I had to block the worst offenders. Apparently when you block on Facebook, you unfriend, so that was a little embarrassing. But not really. I might have to do it again. The Force Awakens reestablishes the Star Wars franchise in a big, big way, which means we can look forward to a couple absolute certainties: more Star Wars movies, and more people who feel compelled to tell you how much they hate a make-believe galaxy far, far away.
If you follow me on Facebook, you know I recently discovered Frank Turner, an English singer/songwriter from, well, England. How this artist has alluded me, given my constant search for new, life-affirming music, mystifies. Then again, not really. My ability to compartmentalize is legendary, if only in my kitchen, where I spend 99% of my time (Brian Fast once said: no matter how I treat my guests, they always like my kitchen best).
Anytime you discover a great new artist, you push it down the throats of tell your friends because you want them to feel good too. One of these friends is a guy named Petersen who lives on the East Coast. A surrogate father, Petersen grew up in the ’60s, which as everyone from that generation knows boasts the best music, the best movies, and best athletes of all time. And if you’d don’t believe me, all you have to do is ask; they won’t shut up about it.
Whatever era you came of age, nostalgia always holds a special place in your heart, but it’s tough to argue with the music one. I mean, all anyone has to say is the Beatles.
I know people who claim to dislike the Beatles (I don’t believe them), but only an idiot will deny the band’s place in the pantheon on rock. Some purists/contrarians will go back to Robert Johnson or even earlier, talk about purer blues, and I won’t argue. I mean, I don’t give a shit. The Beatles were the first band to put it together in the modern pop culture vein. But that doesn’t make them “the best.”
My buddy Petersen, like a lot of … older … people frequently complains about how “there is no good new music.” The rub being when you try to introduce good new music to someone who lived in the ’60s, you are up against not only the Beatles, but the Stones and the Who and Dylan and the list goes on. No matter how good an artist is, you can’t beat the Beatles.
Except you can. Now I love the Beatles. Or rather I appreciate their place in the lineage of rock and roll. Like I said, only a moron would deny that. But does that make them the best? Because there are bands I like a fucklot more: Springsteen, Gaslight Anthem, Hold Steady, and, now, Frank Turner and the Sleeping Souls. I mean, literature has deigned Don Quixote the first novel. Don Quixote isn’t close to being the best. In fact, it’s rather unreadable. Author Miguel de Cervantes did as well as he could given that he was fucking inventing a new form. But art dictates evolution. How sad would it be if music never got better than the Beatles?
This all started when I told Petersen “Frank Turner is a better songwriter than the Beatles.” Petersen treated the comment as though I’d just took a dump in church. Which made me almost retract. Then I thought about Cervantes. Fuck, there are hundreds of songwriters better than the Beatles. And the Stones. And Dylan. Every time Rolling Stone comes out with a list of the best songwriters, you know damn well it’ll have Paul and John, and Mick and Keith. You’ll get a nod to current trends with a rapper or two, Tupac or whoever. But mostly that list will revolve around ’60’s icons, despite there being literally thousands of artists coming after–artists who took an original statement and then used it to create something better. How–or rather why–would anyone expect the dialogue to retard? How many times do you need to hear fucking Hotel California?