Happy 9th Birthday

As we come to the close of another year, let us attempt to reflect upon our accomplishments.  This time on our annual round-up, we bemoan that, for the third year in a row, our output is weak.  21 posts the last couple years, and it looks like 20 this year.  Honestly though, I don't care anymore.

I'm no longer interested in trying to grow this blog, but I have been reinvigorated with a desire to write.  This is due to my terrible livelihood.  A couple days ago, a pure wave of depression hit me as I considered my fate.  I struggle against this fate, yet cannot seem to overcome it, or see any way out of it.  In short, things will ever be as they have always been.  I am never going anywhere.

Now I could spend the time that I would be writing on other endeavors to try to boost my income, but even more sad is that I rarely write, and while I just stated that I have been "reinvigorated," I rarely find myself willing to sit down for 30 or 45 minutes and just type on a blank screen.  There are too many other distractions in this world now.  And the real writers should consider this an advantage--technology has provided so many distractions that less writers will actually do the work and be in competition for xxxxx number of books that get published each year.  (Perhaps this has nothing to do with reality, but the thought has crossed my mind a few times over the past couple of years, since I have had a smart phone.)

No more jibberish.  Let's get to the lists.

First of all, the top 5 most popular posts:

(5) The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt (tied with Boss and Then We Came to the End)

(4) Chicago Cubs 2016 Report Card (tie) 

(3) See a Little Light - Bob Mould (tie)

(2) Bossypants - Tina Fey
(1) Identical - Scott Turow 

First of all, it is shocking how popular the Identical review was--perhaps because I advertised it as a negative one, and perhaps because it may have gotten a tiny bit of traction on Twitter.  Second, the 6 other posts in the top 5 were all extremely close--between 58 and 63 views--which is even lower than last year, but like I said, I don't really care anymore.  

More important than quantity is quality, and here are the 5 posts of which I am most proud:

(1) The Goldfinch 

This is a classic FH review, in the style of many older posts.  It's quite long, and it's probably my favorite book reviewed in the past year.  The further I get away from it, the more fondly I recall it.

(2) Chicago Cubs Report Card

Of course, 2016 was a perfectly terrible year, one of the worst years in recent memory.  However, the Cubs won, so all was not lost.  

(3) Then We Came to the End

One of the more special books read in the past year, along with The Goldfinch.  One of the more entertaining reads in recent years, and I'm not sure my review itself was that entertaining, but still recommend this book to most. It casts a wide net and should appeal to a large number of readers

(4) The Third Coast - Thomas Dyja 

This is not a perfect post by any stretch, but it's a big book, and I think it was a fairly novel idea to keep track of the One Book, One Chicago project.  So I will try to keep doing that.  I think I hit on most of the major ideas from this book.  I don't think I'd read it again, but I definitely want to check out some of the other works that it references.

(5) Autobiography - Morrissey 

Not one of the best reads of the past year, but I felt this was a fairly well-written review.  I, along with everyone else, love the Smiths, and have a soft spot for Morrissey, even with how he has become increasingly strident.  There are incredibly beautiful moments in the book, and I am glad I captured them (that ending is so special to me, as I live very close to the Congress--indeed I moved even closer a couple months after the review was posted).  If you haven't read Autobiography but only have a vague interest in doing so, the review should appropriately inform you whether it's worth it to devote the 10-20 hours it should take to read.  That is the platonic ideal of a review for me and I will continue to aim to do that here.

Finally, THANK YOU ALL for reading again.  Few things in life give me greater pleasure than interacting with others that want to build and maintain a solid library of their own favorite books.  If you're reading this, you're the best!

Autobiography - Morrissey (2013)

I don't know where to begin with this one.  It's another in the line of recent so-called indie rock memoirs that have been reviewed on Flying Houses, after Bob Mould, Carrie Brownstein, Patti Smith, and Kim Gordon.  Morrissey is a bigger star than all of them, and his Autobiography is much longer.  Stylistically it is also much more unique.

A quick word about my relationship with Morrissey: I love him, and have enjoyed his music since the early-to-mid aughts.  I would have to pinpoint You are the Quarry as the moment when his music began to take on a bigger role in my life.  I have pretty much the whole Smiths catalogue on my iPod (with the exception of Rank) and I have a few Morrissey albums--but something extremely curious has happened: most (almost all) of the Morrissey solo material (excepting Years of Refusal) is no longer playable on my iPod.  The songs still exist, but the iPod freezes up, and the songs get skipped.  No more "Suedehead" for me, nor anything off of Quarry.  I almost feel like the iPod has become self-aware, as the lyrics change on the Live at Earl's Court recording of "Bigmouth Strikes Again" from Joan of Arc's "Walkman" starting to melt to "iPod."  Apple fears Morrissey, and would rather silence him.

Now perhaps Moz himself would find this ridiculous (that a machine denies his music to me), but I would like to think he finds it rather amusing, because so much of Autobiography concerns itself with little ironies such as this: Morrissey is great, and everyone knows he's great, but he is still perpetually misunderstood and maligned regardless, singled out for his accomplishments, perhaps out of envy or the cruel nature of humanity.  He's too effete or he whines too much or he's too self-obsessed and people just don't give him the respect he's due--nobody except the fans, that is.  

But back to the book itself.  The most striking thing about this book, without question, is its structure, or lack thereof.  I cannot remember the last time I read a book that had zero chapters breaks, whose separation only came in the form of paragraph breaks or an extra space between paragraphs, so this may be the first.  In other words, it is not an easily digestible volume, and I feel this is done for stylistic reasons that go along with its unusual cover, which make it appear as if it truly is something from the Great Books canon, perhaps like an edition of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein for use in a high school or college curriculum.  In form, it resembles 19th century literature.  Truthfully, there are many more music courses in college and I am sure this book could end up on a couple college reading lists.  At the very least, it sheds light on the oft-explored issue (on VH1's "Behind the Music") of the hapless musician faced with contracts he or she cannot comprehend, and the swindle carried out by record companies:

"...In time-honored tradition, we were just two more pop artists thrilled to death with the spinning discs that bore our names.  The specifics of finance and the gluttonous snakes-and-ladders legalities were deliberately complicated snares that all pop artists are expected to understand immediately.   The act of creating music and songs and live presentations are relied upon to sufficiently distract the artist so that labels and lawyers and accountants--so crucial to groups in matters of law--might thrive.  It is nothing new.  The basic rule, though, is to keep the musician in the dark at all costs, so that the musician might call upon the lawyer repeatedly.  In fact, pop artists live in a world that is at a dramatic distance from the world of commerce, and they are usually exclusively consumed by their gift or drive at the expense of everything else.  A vast industry of music lawyers and managers and accountants therefore flourish unchecked due to the musician's lack of business grasp.  Thus, any standard recording contract deliberately reads like ancient Egyptian script--surely in order to trick the musician.  Rather than hide your face under the bedcovers, you are thus forced to do business with those whom you least mind ripping you off--chiefly because you have no choice, and also because the law insists upon a documented trail of every penny that you earn--mainly so that someone might take it from you.  The artist is the enemy.  Solicitors are trained to squeeze as much money out of their client as possible, and accountants might deliberately steer their client into tax troubles so that those very same accountants are further needed to unravel the mess that they created in the first place..." (170-171)

The other reviews I've seen of Autobiography are predictably polarizing.  On the one hand, most recognize that this is not a perfect memoir, but there are occasional flashes of brilliance.  On the other, many profess that it is in dire need of a strong edit, and no one will fail to mention the 1996 Smiths Trial.  Now personally, for me, this was the best part of the book.  It just kept going, and going, and going, and I thought it would go on until the book ended.  At first I thought it was ridiculous that he would spend 25 pages discussing this trial in sharp detail.  It actually ends up going on for 50 pages.

But before we get there, we have to hit on the first target of Morrissey's ire: Geoff Travis, the "moral conscience" of Rough Trade Records.  There are about two anecdotes where Travis comes off well (an extremely complimentary letter on The Queen is Dead stands out); at every other mention he is skewered.  Perhaps there is no funnier moment than when Travis says, after hearing "How Soon is Now?" for the first time, "WHAT is Johnny doing, THAT is just noise." (178) then later proposes it as the A-side to "Shakespeare's Sister" B-side.  But that has been quoted on other various sites.  I can't find the quote I'm thinking of, but this is the second time Travis removes his glasses:

"Geoff leans forward and removes his glasses.  'Do you know why Smiths singles don't go any higher?' 
I say nothing because the question is horribly rhetorical.
'Because they're not good enough.' He puts his glasses back on and shrugs his shoulders.  I glance around his office searching for an axe.
Some murders are well worth their prison term." (207)

I think he says something arguably more offensive the first time he removes his glasses, which Morrissey says he does when he is about to relay some harsh truth.

The opening of the book feels "Dickensian," befitting the Penguin Classics imprint, and all of the material about his childhood seems to be written at more of a distance than the material about his career.  In general I have to say that this is not the most enjoyable book to read, but that fans of Morrissey (of which there are very many) will find it irresistible.  Maybe I am not a big enough fan to truly "get" it, but I found much of the book charming.  I really do not think this book sheds light on many situations that casual fans might ponder.  Morrissey is well aware of his mythological status, and he plays with it throughout the book to amusing effect, particularly with references to his romantic life.

Many people believe that Morrissey is celibate or asexual or gay, or some variant, but it appears after taking everything in this book together that he is bi.  This is mainly because he writes of a few relationships that turned into quasi-domestic partnerships, two with men and one with a woman whom he nearly had a baby with.  I don't want to dwell too particularly long on this topic, but there are some amusing passages on these times.

However, we should continue the recent trend on Flying Houses of quoting passages about Patti Smith (Patti Smith is turning into the "topic of the year" on this blog, as nearly every book reviewed seems to reference her in some form or another, a testament to her incredible influence):

"....Cross-legged by a dying fire later that night, and with only a side-light for company, I allowed Horses to enter my body like a spear, and as I listened to the bare lyrics of public lecture, I examined the genderless singer on the heavyweight album sleeve.  So surly and stark and betrayed, Patti Smith was the cynical voice radiating love; pain sourced as inspiration, an individual mission drunk on words--and my heart leapt hurdles, scaling and vaulting; something won and overcome.  Unfulfilled as a woman, impotent as a man, Patti Smith cut right through--singing and looking and saying absolutely everything that would be thought to go against the listener's sympathy.  But the reverse happened, and the wisdom of centuries shook me and told me that, however heavy-hearted and impossible you might feel about yourself, you can still bestow love through recorded song--which just might be the only place where you have the chance to show yourself as you really are since nothing in your disposed life gives you encouragement.  The fact that you do not look like a pop-star-in-waiting should not dishearten you because your oddness could become the deciding wind of change for others.  There is nothing obvious about Patti Smith, least of all any obvious biological conclusions, and this gives its own erotic reality in a shyness of arrogant pride.  The past snaps.  I have never heard or seen anything like Patti Smith previously, and I have never heard truth established so sincerely.  The female voice in rock music had rattled with fathomless depths of insincerity, whereas Patti Smith spoke with a boy's bluntness, and she looked for squabbles wherever she went.  Horses pinned all opponents to the ground.  It shook the very laws of existence, and was part musical recording and part throwing up.  Its discovery was the reason why we could never give up on music, and its effects were huge..." (111-112)

As others have noted, Morrissey is not so revealing about his own music as he is about other artists.  That is, his modus operandi or r'aison d'etre can be explained through the observations he makes of other artists, and that is no more true for me than here.  Perhaps one could say what Patti Smith means to Morrissey, Morrissey means to me.  The true power of art is inspiration.

So it comes as a pleasant surprise (in what will surely be an annoyance to most) that Morrissey is OBSESSED with the legal system.  It is almost like he has been through the wringer so many times that he might as well be a solicitor himself.  I believe that the section of the book on the 1996 Smiths Trial is so protracted specifically because Morrissey wants everyone to know all the tiny nuances of the case to see just how rank an injustice was done.  Long story short: Michael Joyce and Andy Rourke, drummer and bass player in the Smiths, were basically paid 10% of the total earnings from the Smiths, and Morrissey and Johnny Marr, the principal songwriters, were paid 40%.  Aspersions are not cast on Rourke so much as Joyce.  Joyce asserts that he should actually receive 25% of the proceeds, and that he just "assumed" it was an equal partnership between the four.  Despite having zero proof, Joyce ends up winning, and Morrissey is absolutely miserable.  Now this could be a point where anyone can turn on the author, because let's admit that he has been allowed to have a fabulous life where he does not need to worry about money.  But it seems like the principle of the thing.  He's getting taken advantage of because people don't like his attitude.  At least that's what it seems like from everything said about the judge.  It will be impossible to pick out the best passage from this lengthy section, but here is a representative sample.  Keep in mind that the reason almost every single review considers this the chief failing of this book is because it is repetitive.  (And to reiterate, I do not feel this is a failing at all):

"Three words were used that had never previously described me, thus their weight as a catchphrase for eternity.  Had Weeks described me in words befitting my character, no would care or give any attention.  The meaning of 'devious, truculent and unreliable' is to present a description so patently unlikely that ears prick up.  We all know that, if repeated often enough in print, words are bound to eventually be believed, and it seemed obvious his quote would indeed be printed enough.  In the event of any future court action shading my life (fame = money = lawsuits), the 'devious, truculent and unreliable' stinger alone need only be used once by any opposing party and my defense would come unstuck, because 'devious, truculent and unreliable' in judicial parlance means 'evil, aggressive and a liar'.  What was the reason for this attack on me, so aggressively fueled and so overdone that it appears to want to bring a life to an end?  Surely judges have no need to unleash thoughts that are actually more violent than anything done or expressed by either plaintiff or defendant.  What, then, was John Weeks thinking of?  In the quiet room of his final years he will be delighted that his potential was realized by a famously recurring quote.  It is a quote powerful enough to poison everything.  Weeks could have merely said that someone was right and someone was wrong--or, indeed, that both parties were wrong.  Instead he leaves a quote that might be rancid and powerful  enough to cause one subject to be unable to ever again conduct business; to never again be trusted, or--even better--to kill himself with the brandishing shock of it all.  It doesn't take much to force someone over the edge, but Weeks' judgment in itself could have constituted manslaughter." (320-321)

This is my second review in a row that prescribes certain behavior for judges, and again I agree: there's no need for what Weeks did (just like there was no need for me to get "bench-slapped" last month--one day I will go off about the meanness in the legal profession, and how perfectly miserable human beings can make one another for no reason other than the mistaken belief that it's always been done that way, and it's the only way it can work).  Morrissey may be whining a bit much about it, but it's true that judicial opinions have "staying power" in a certain sense of the word, and that labeling this particular litigant with these particular adjectives destroys his credibility in any future proceeding.  It really is not fair, and Morrissey has every right to spend 50 pages defending his own character through the prism of this trial, even if casual readers may find the section rather long-winded.

In general, this is a long-winded book, and there are so many different things I could mention that this review will inevitably lack something.  I do want to say, that, like another famous Irish author, it ends on a stunningly beautiful note.  That is, for me personally.  And I truly believe that the magic of an artist that one admires comes through in things that mean something unbearably personal to you.  And by unbearably personal I don't mean painfully personal--I just mean something that spurs one to believe that the artist is speaking to you directly.  There are several references to Chicago (and an especially humorous one about the Genesee Theater in Waukegan, IL) but the final paragraph of the book paints a picture of a scene outside the Congress Theater.  This venue is in my neighborhood, and has been closed for several years by the City of Chicago's Department of Buildings, and is now being refurbished to hopefully open in 2017.  Actually I was part of the legal team that prosecuted the case against this theater.  A very small part, but a part nonetheless.  So I feel some ownership over this space, and to see Morrissey end his autobiography on an image outside this theater, where he has just played a show, which must have been one of the last shows held there before the venue was shut down, well it made me smile:

"For a year's-end concert at the Congress Theater in Chicago, the audience heaves with responding kindness, and I am immobilized by singing voices of love.
All along, my private suffering felt like vision, urging me to die or go mad, yet it brings me here, to a wintry Chicago street-scene in December 2011 - I, a small boy of 52, clinging to the antiquated view that a song should mean something, and presenting himself everywhere by way of apology.  It is quite true that I have never had anything in my life that I did not make for myself.
As I board the tour bus, a fired encore is still ringing in my ears, and then suddenly a separated female voice calls out to me--full of cracked now-or-never embarrassment above the still Illinois winter atmosphere of midnight, and it was dark, and I looked the other way." (457)

Such a great fucking ending.  And you have to love the "still Illinois" line.

Morrissey does that a lot in this book--inserts lyrics or song titles into lines.  And there's a lot of alliteration.  But as I just mentioned, the real power in this book comes in the multitudes it contains.  Everyone will find something extremely personal (like I found in its ending) within it, and the only ones that will fail to be touched will be those that, for whatever reason, are predisposed against the author himself.  And why would anyone be predisposed?  Because we don't like whiners.  But as a whiner himself, I can say that the world has needed Morrissey, and is richer for his presence.

Why We Write About Ourselves - Ed. Meredith Maran (2016)

For NaNoWriMo 2015, I wrote a 60,000 word shitty first draft of a memoir, to be published when I was 33, to document these first 33 years, with the thought that I might do it again at 66, if I live that long.  This, apparently, would be a horrible memoir, because no one wants to read about every meaningful event of some random person's existence.  No, they want to read about more specific events in your life, things that happened which were extraordinary--pain you suffered--which you can relate on a universal level.

This is the lesson I learned from Why We Write About Ourselves, another rare book that was sent to me by a publicist.  It's ironic to mention two gifts that two of my sisters received on Christmas morning.  My younger sister received a copy of Tales of Two Cities and my youngest sister received a book by Cheryl Strayed, which I think was The Beautiful Things.  My sister hadn't read my review, but she specifically requested the book, and I guess neither had my mother.  It's the only time I was "ahead of the curve" with this blog, and I hope that's the case here again: certainly my youngest sister would be interested in this one, as a fan of Strayed.  And frankly, between this and Tales, this was the better read.

Unfortunately, it won't be named to the Best Books of Flying Houses list, to make for a perfect trifecta with Raymond Carver and Patti Smith, but that is only because the form this book takes.  It is a different sort of book than I have ever read, and it reads more like a very long magazine article.  It's a very good article, but it's written to be read in little candy-sized nuggets.  I think that makes it especially appealing in today's socio-cultural climate of social media saturation and ADHD.  Basically, it is not aiming for canonical status.  Instead, this book is perfect for one of two things: checking out from the library, or gift-giving.  One could certainly purchase this book for themselves if they have made up their mind to write a memoir, but it's more of a book to expose yourself to once and learn from, rather than to pore over and savor for the richness of its language.

Still, I am very happy I read this book, if only because of its ulterior motive: publicity.  There are 20 chapters in this book.  Here are the writers that I knew going in: Anne Lamott, Cheryl Strayed, Meghan Daum and Edmund White.  There were some writers I didn't know, but knew of vaguely: Pat Conroy, David Sheff and Sue Monk Kidd.  For the 13 other writers for which I had no direct reference point, I was forced to be exposed to their minds: what they wrote about, why they wrote about it, and how.  And I will definitely be putting a few of their books on my reading list.

As previously mentioned with these anthologies, they make for difficult reviews.  I don't want to give short shrift to any of the contributors, but I don't want the review to go on endlessly.  I suppose the best thing to do is hit the highlights--for me, personally.

The first section that struck me as quotable came from Anne Lamott.  Now I have mentioned Bird by Bird before on this blog, somewhere, and upon reflection I had to read it for a creative writing class my senior year in high school, and I think it did inspire me at an impressionable age to throw my whole self into the writing thing, which was a huge mistake (however, it was not nearly as big a mistake as throwing myself into the whole lawyer thing--while the law may ultimately provide me with an avenue for an outwardly respectable career, it has impoverished me, robbed me of the last vestige of youth and destroyed my self-esteem and self-respect).  At least a couple times in this book, Bird by Bird is referred to as something of a "bible" of creative writing.  I'll have to check it out again.  Lamott's section in this book is a definite highlight:

"I wrote a piece about my mom in Traveling Mercies, and it really hurt her feelings.  I thought it would be such a great thing to tell the truth about my mom, because my whole life had been about about this made-up relationship, pretending I wasn't mad about the damage she'd done to me.
I wrote this very tender piece about her in her last days, when she had Alzheimer's.  It wasn't even a critical piece.  It just said that she could drive me crazy.  Sadly she didn't have bad enough Alzheimer's.  She read it and went bonkers.  My mom's twin sister called me up and said, 'You will never be forgiven for this, Annie.'
The crisis passed.  Then it turned out it was great to have told the truth about deeply crazily I loved her and that she'd been a handful."  (136)

These sort of themes emerge over and over throughout this book.  What will my friends and family think of the memoir?  How much personal information can I reveal about other people?  Do I have to reveal everything about myself?

Most seem to agree that, you should always make yourself look as bad as possible.  As a person that has often followed this rule without hearing anyone else say it, this felt comforting.  Moreover it feels refreshing in 2016, where our public image has to be so squeaky clean on social media and anything the slightest bit non-PC can end up leading towards ostracization from the in-crowd.

Most seem to follow the rule that, if they write about one of their friends, they send it to them and make sure they are okay with it being published.  I've never really had to do this because I've never been published in any meaningful way.  However my younger brother became very upset when I made a reference to "wanting to kill my parents" in an unfortunate section of Think and Grow Poor, and upon reflection I should have deleted that (note: I later did after this throwaway line inspired by Tao Lin remained unforgettable after 15 years--though he only wrote he "wanted to go on a killing spree.").  You can't say I don't know anything about memoir writing.  I guess I just subscribed to the view that Edmund White expresses near the very end.  Actually, the last sentence:

"In general, I try to be very honest in my memoirs.  If I lose the friendship, so what?  I believe Milosz, the Nobel-winning Polish poet, who said, 'Whenever a writer is born into a family, that family is destroyed.'
On the other hand I sometimes say the best way to keep a secret is to publish it, since no one reads.  My books aren't indexed.  So anyone who wants to know what I wrote about him has to read the whole thing." (254)

Speaking of White, he is the only author to appear in both this volume and Tales of Two Cities.  He also makes this ridiculous, Wilt Chamberlain-esque claim:

"My protagonist in A Boy's Own Story was much less precocious intellectually and sexually than I was.  He was shyer.  If I'd written about myself as the freaky boy I really was, very few people could have identified with that novel.  That book came out in '82.  I don't think that was quite the period yet for my own true story.  In real life, I had had sex with five hundred men, most of them older than I was, by the time I was sixteen.  The boy in the book has one or two experiences, with boys his own age." (250)

My only response to that is, what the fuck dude!
But yeah, I'll probably check out some of his books.

***

There are a few glaring omissions from this volume.  It would have been remarkable to read a section by James Frey, but instead he is just referenced by another writer (again, White):

"There have been so many scandals about memoirs that weren't true.  The author of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil confessed that he'd taken two phone conversations that were crucial to the story and collapsed them into one.  People were very disturbed when the author of A Million Little Pieces, which purported to be a memoir and was directed to a very vulnerable population of recovering addicts, admitted that his girlfriend hadn't really committed suicide.  There were some other events that he falsified, which led to his denunciation on Oprah.
That's a good example to keep in mind.  People do feel cheated when you lie in a memoir because you've broken your contract with your readers." (252)

I've never read A Million Little Pieces and I think most people nowadays would say it's not especially necessary to do so, but one cannot forget the cultural import that the book briefly possessed.  The other writer that should be here is Dave Eggers.  A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius has not been discredited and seems to defy most of the "rules" that these writers pronounce.  Eggers hasn't written anything like it since, but I still believe it's his strongest work and a true high watermark of the medium.  It's far from perfect, but I still think if I read it again 14 years later, it would make the Best Books list (The Real World interview chapter alone should qualify it).  Then again, this is an unfair criticism to make.  It's not clear if Maran reached out to these authors or if perhaps they could not write outside of their contracts with their current publishers.

I want to mention Meghan Daum.  I first became aware of her in 2008, when I was offered a limited free subscription to the Los Angeles Times.  I read her column every week and looked at her picture and thought she was cute and prayed that she would be my girlfriend.  She was cute and I liked what she wrote and she had a regular newspaper gig--did anything else really matter?  Subsequently I left L.A. and forgot about her.  Then, about a year ago, I came across her name in relation to her new book about making the conscious decision not to have children (Selfish, Shallow, and Self-Absorbed: Sixteen Writers on the Decisions Not to Have Kids) and my crush was briefly renewed at an even more intense level, until I found out she was married.  Also, she was 13 years older than me.  Not that that's a deal-breaker or anything--she looked good for her age.  I mean, she wrote an essay and then a book about being deeply indebted in her 20's called My Misspent Youth.  She also made me feel better about my newest NaNoWriMo project:

"That thing I said earlier about weighing each detail to determine whether it's worthy of inclusion?  That's for the third, fourth, or fifth draft.  Not the first draft.
The 'morality' of any given project has to be evaluated on a case-by-case basis.  If you're writing about yourself just for the sake of writing about yourself, and other people are going to get dragged along for the hellish ride, it might it might be wise to examine the worthiness of the venture.  If you have something important to say that can only--or at least most effectively--be said through the lens of your own story, then go for it." (86)

***

Randomly, in here, I'd like to excerpt a brief snippet from Darin Strauss's section, as Raymond Carver and Gordon Lish are still fresh in our memories on this blog:

"Amy Hempel tells a good story about when she was in a beginning workshop with Gordon Lish.  He had the class write about the one thing that most embarrassed them.  The only restriction was that you had to write it as honestly as possible.  She said that out of that class of fifteen people, seven or eight published pieces they wrote in that class.  If you write something honestly, it'll be worth reading.  If you don't, it doesn't matter how good a writer you are.  The reader will feel it." (200-201)

***

I could mention Ayelet Waldman's contribution as another highlight, or the weird celebrity spouse connections (she is married to Michael Chabon, while contributor Nick Flynn is married to Lili Taylor (ironically another unusual crush of mine)), but the last thing I want to mention is the one bit of advice on which I do not agree.  Waldman mentions it as a piece of advice given by Chabon, but like other tips in this book, it shows up in various forms:

"When I first started writing, Michael told me that if you're not uncomfortable, you're not writing what you need to write.  If your work feels really safe and pleasant, there's a problem." (222)
"If you're not uncomfortable and scared while you're writing, you're not writing close enough to the bone." (230)

David Sheff also adds, "If what you're writing about wasn't intense, you wouldn't be writing about it.  Writing a memoir can dredge up every awful feeling all over again.  Make sure you have the support you need to make it through." (192)

Now of course, a memoir about how your life has been so happy and perfect will make people want to throw up, but there are brighter sides to life as well, and we should know because we've seen them, if not very often.  You know I have always wanted to read Morrissey's Autobiography.  Maybe that's not a memoir, though.

Sorry for that.  Anyways, sometimes when I'm writing a piece of creative non-fiction, there are some wonderful moments back in there that you want to share with a reader, you want to put them there with you, you want them to feel the happiness you felt.  Is that so wrong?

That's really my only criticism of the "wisdom" of this book.  I think it's okay to write about the times when life was good.  It's not a useless nostalgia trip.  It's a document that you were alive, and that it wasn't all pain and misery, even though much of the time it felt that way.

In short: read this book if you have any designs whatsoever on writing a memoir.  It's a quick read (less than a week), it's entertaining, and it should help put you in the right frame of mind to accomplish your task.  Also it lists all of these writers' Twitter accounts so I'm going to start following them right about now.

My Bloody Valentine - m b v

Everyone wrote reviews of this album over the last two weeks (it is two weeks old tonight) and I still have not purchased it.  It costs $16.  I have been listening to it on streaming players.  As such I do not have it with me anywhere outside, in my iPod, playing on my headphones; I can only listen in my apartment, and with the AUX cable connecting my laptop to my stereo.  Listening to this album from tinny laptop speakers would be sacrilege.  When I have the discretionary income, I'll get it for the headphones.  

There was a 22 year wait for this album.  I joked on facebook two weeks ago that a betting pool should open up on whether m b v would really be released that evening or not.  I forgot about it and then listened to the first half of the album the next day and went to a Super Bowl party.  I watched Beyonce perform her halftime show and I asked my friend hosting if he liked My Bloody Valentine (I know he likes much newer indie rock, but he is not generally known for liking all of the Our Band Could be Your Life bands, except for Sonic Youth perhaps, which is certainly in the direction of My Bloody Valentine...).  He did not know about m b v, nor was he interested in how it might sound.

Oeuvre rule: I love My Bloody Valentine.  See Concert Review  (which still has one of the best pictures of a band I have ever taken, I think, because it looks like the cover of Loveless) and 50th Post Milestone in Anticipation of Concert.  I have heard almost all of their music.

And this is one of the many things that sets MBV apart from other bands: you start with Loveless, you don't get it necessarily, but it's good--then you move onto Isn't Anything and reflect that it may be even better than Loveless, but don't exactly make this generally known because it might cause other people to think you don't "get" Loveless--you hear all of the old stuff (maybe not the stuff from Geek! or This is Your Bloody Valentine--getting into that 1985 stuff separates the hardcore fans from the obsessive fans)--and you are content to listen to Loveless or choice tracks from other releases from now until the end of time, and you expect Kevin Shields to keep teasing everyone that he is going to put out another MBV album soon and take everything he says with a grain of salt.

Until two weeks ago.

The closest analogue to this situation is the excitement that surrounded the release of Chinese Democracy.  That album took 15 years to release.

This album took 22 years to release.

This album is much better than Chinese Democracy.

We don't know exactly what Axel Rose and Kevin Shields were up to during that period, but we know some details.  Shields worked with J. Mascis (he played guitar as a member of "the Fog" on a few songs during the time that Dinosaur Jr.--a band highly responsible for the development of the MBV sound--was broken up).  Shields worked with Primal Scream, apparently (I haven't listened to them enough to offer an opinion on it).  And then there was Lost in Translation.

I saw Lost in Translation in December of 2003--but before I came back to the States for that, I heard the song "City Girl" in Paris.  Another classmate and friend of mine recognized the extraordinary character of that song and he downloaded and we listened to it over and over and talked about how great it was and we wondered why something that seemed so effortless wasn't matched by anyone currently working.

A lot has changed since 2003.  Dinosaur Jr. is back together (and have been very prolific and successful).  Chinese Democracy was released.  iPods and iTunes became de rigeur, and Compact Discs flirt with obsolescence.  The Nirvana legend continues to generate income for Courtney Love.  The Rolling Stones put out a new album.  Weezer all but lost their former greatness.  The White Stripes and the Strokes "saved" rock and roll; The Arcade Fire brought "majestic rock" to the masses and won Grammy Awards.  The Yeah Yeah Yeahs became respected elder statesmen(persons?).  R&B and Hip Hop came back in a bigger way than the "Outkast album" from that year could ever anticipate.  Elliott Smith committed suicide (around the same time as "City Girl").  Lollapalooza and other music festivals (i.e Pitchfork) became cash cows.

People would shell out hundreds of dollars for festivals, now.  Coachella could offer Morrissey $45 million (and purely vegan food vendors) to reunite the Smiths on their stage, and he would reject them, and he now flirts with retirement.  David Bowie went away and is about to come back.  Michael Jackson was about to come back, and he died in the process.  Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore broke up, and Sonic Youth's 32 year legacy remains a question mark.  And then My Bloody Valentine came back in 2007.  And then Pavement played reunion shows.

Rewind back to October of 2000, my senior year in high school, and my [ex-]friend Jon giving me Loveless, telling me not to listen to so much Smashing Pumpkins because Billy Corgan was really just ripping off this album.  Listen to Jon speak at length about Siamese Dream--"it is exactly the same guitar sound!"  Listen to all of the other bands Jon endorses--Minor Threat, Fugazi, Sunny Day Real Estate, Slint, the Velvet Underground, Cap'n Jazz--go to college, find other people that like the same bands and become obsessed along with them.

And then go to see My Bloody Valentine play alone because you don't have any friends in the city you're in--or at least any friends that want to shell out $50.

And then have m b v come out when you are in the waning days of your 20's.

Every review of m b v must have this personal element.  To talk about the album itself seems like an afterthought.  The first track sounds kind of boring.  The second track reminds the listener that they are listening to MBV and that it is about to get awesome.  The third track, "Who Sees You," is probably my favorite song on the album.  It stands along with the best songs they have ever done.  I personally find "Is This and Yes" to be one of the weakest songs on the album.  "New You" and "In Another Way" blend into each other for me.  One of them is super awesome and the other one is only really awesome.  "Nothing Is" is often compared to "You Made Me Realise" and indeed is the most fun song to turn up really loud on the stereo and play guitar to, while "Wonder 2" is often considered a standout track, though I am usually worrying about what album to put on next by that point (or getting ready to go to bed).

You won't be reading this far unless you are already an MBV fanatic.  You won't care about this album unless you are, and you probably won't be converted to MBV with the release of this album.  That is one of the things about this band.  It's unlikely they will play the Super Bowl next year.  They're not a band for the masses, but they are one of the most popular "underground" bands in history.

With m b v their legend is complete.  Nothing more need be said at this time.

 

The Hacienda: How Not to Run a Club - Peter Hook

I was hoping that Peter Hook's first book would be a tell-all affair about his years with Joy Division and New Order, but that is clearly not indicated by the title. The Hacienda opened in 1982 and was effectively owned by the four members of New Order along with various other associates from Factory Records. It lasted for fifteen years, and Hook states that it was a pretty good run, in comparison with similar ventures.

This book is not as much about the post-punk scene in Manchester as it is about acid-house, which perhaps affected my enjoyment of it. Whether or not the acid-house genre has its merits, I simply never see myself being able to get into that sort of music. For those that enjoy clubbing and/or taking ecstasy, this book will be a revelation as it details the birth of that movement, more or less.


Perhaps the best thing this book did for me is give me knowledge of a couple more people and places referenced in the LCD Soundsystem song, "Losing My Edge." The significance of Larry Levan and the Paradise Garage, along with seeing Gil Scott-Heron's name in print. I am just kidding of course. Hook is a natural and gifted storyteller and his perspective probably provides the definitive glimpse into this very unique space and era in club culture.


Danceteria and the other New York clubs that inspired the Hacienda seem like they would have been fun places to hang out in the early 1980s, but no sign remained of them as far as I knew in 2001. So too the Hacienda--except you start to wonder, towards the end, how nobody seemed particularly bothered by the prevalence of gangs, guns, and violence inside the club. The ethos behind the place has been touched upon previously in 24 Hour Party People--anarchy, art, and hedonism before business. Its structure is more reminiscent of the Guggenheim or other museums of modern art than the typical monotony of a rectangular dance floor and giant speakers. The concept was fantastic, but it almost never turned a profit, and Hook concedes towards the end, when his accountant asks him if he is doing it for his investments or for his ego, that he viewed it as his own private playground.

The Hacienda began more as a concert venue, and quickly turned into a place to hear DJs play. The Fall and A Certain Ratio are the only two bands that lasted the entire duration of the club, playing in its first and last years. In the late 80s and early 90s, maybe one or two bands actually played there. The reader is able to keep track of every single event ever hosted at the club, as Hook structures the book on a year-by-year basis, with a calendar attached. This can be fun at times to see, but then sometimes he includes the accounts of the club, or notes from the minutes of club owners' meetings, and sometimes I wonder why. Of course we know that the Hacienda performed poorly financially, but the numbers are just difficult to understand in general. If you are an accountant, or studying to be one, I suppose these pages will be alluring. Also, of course everything is English and accounted for in pounds, so wondering about the conversion rate, not to mention the inflation rate from twenty-five years ago, makes some of this practically irrelevant for American readers, so much so that certain statements make little or no sense:

"Think about it: the Hacienda cost f344,000 to build in 1981. That's equivalent to about three-million now. If you spent three million on a club today people would think you were potty." (31)

I guess he means, it was really expensive. But to me, that doesn't seem that expensive. I don't know. If Danceteria had six floors of party-zones, I'd be amazed if it cost less than $10 million to buy in 2009--but that is New York and maybe Manchester's property costs are not as high.

There are the typical stories of legendary characters, like one I think I had heard before, of one of my heroes, M-E-S:

"I like the Fall. Always have, and they played at the club loads of times. I think Mark E. Smith is a twat, though. A right obnoxious bastard. And he's proud of it. One of his ex-girlfriends told me that he sometimes has for breakfast Guinness and cornflakes with his favourite stimulant sprinkled on them. He denies this, which is quite funny. Must be why you've got such great teeth, Mark. We're great friends." (63)

Or another one of my heroes, in an unlikely and hilarious revelation:

"The other highlight of The Tube day was an interview with Morrissey and Rob. Now I don't know why, but Morrissey had always hated Joy Division. Maybe Rob got it right when after a lively debate as the cameras were turned off he turned to Morrissey and said, 'The trouble with you, Morrissey, is that you've never had the guts to kill yourself like Ian. You're fucking jealous.' You should have seen his face as he stormed off. I laughed me bollocks off." (79)

There is also the story of Madonna's first show outside of New York--at the Hacienda--as well as weird stories about Nico, and Hook's drug-fueled attempted seduction of one of the singers from the B-52's. Mostly what comes across, during the second half of this volume, is the insanity of the drugs and gang violence that enveloped the club. Hook reveals that he eventually sought treatment and is now sober. But along the way--particularly during the wild "interlude" taking place in Ibiza--he consumed a redoubtable number of E's.

This is required reading for anyone that cares about Manchester and its music scene--but die-hard New Order fans will not find too many salacious details. There is a bit of talk about the Technique album, and there are hints about the band's demise, but nothing outright. Hook mentions that he and Bernard Sumner both went to the Hacienda a lot, but never together. They simply weren't friends outside of the band, which makes me sad, though it probably shouldn't. They broke up and reformed several times--after Republic, and then after Get Ready in 2001 and finally Waiting for the Siren's Call in 2005. So for the last five years they have been defunct, so to speak. Hook has stated that the band is broken up, but the other members have said that it is only he who has left.

Would I go to see a Hook-less New Order? Sure. I would go to see Bad Lieutenant if I could. Should Hook drop his grudge and should New Order put out another album? Yes. Waiting for the Siren's Call is probably their worst album, I'm going to go out on a limb and say, but there are still a couple good songs on it--and a couple is better than none. In any case they should definitely do a reunion tour because they would make so much money now that it would make their heads spin. For all of the debt that the Hacienda put them into, they could stand to put aside their differences one more time for the fans.

It was recently reported that Hook is now opening a new nightclub in Manchester--Fac251--on the site of the old Factory Records offices. The Hacienda site has been turned into a condo development, which Hook actually likes, because it would be pretty cool to live at the locale of a former historical landmark. Hook's new club is opening in 10 days. I wonder if writing this book made him nostalgic for his halcyon days. Hopefully he cares about reading reviews of his first book. There is a hint of a Joy Division book to come in the acknowledgements section. His authorial debut is a success, and one hopes there will be a sophomore effort. I am sure he gets sick of people telling him that New Order should get back together, for the fifth time or whatever it is, but add one more annoying voice to the collection: New Order is as much of an institution as the greatest musical entities in history still extant--the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Sonic Youth, the Fall, Lou Reed, David Bowie, and Iggy Pop--and I hope their final chapter is not yet written.

My Top 10 of 2009

I am not a great listmaker because my consumption of music or books or films is limited by my budget, and spare time, since no one has felt the need to contact me and ask that I become a member of their press team. Oh, I would love to go to SXSW, Coachella, Pitchfork, advance screenings, advance galley copies, et. al on any company's dime, but we find ourselves in an incredibly fucked up situation, and only Tao Lin and the system of public libraries is willing to support me in my pursuit of critical professionalism.

If I had to name the best books of 2009, I would be hard-pressed, but I would put Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned on that list.

For movies, I would include Inglorious Basterds and Up, but I haven't seen anything else that approaches greatness. I suppose The Hurt Locker, the last movie reviewed on this blog and also the only advance screening I attended, deserves an honorable mention.

But music, I had bought more than ten albums this year, I think, and so here are my top 10:

#10: Atlas Sound - Logos
I do not think this was as good as Let the Blind Lead Those Who Can See but Cannot Feel but there were at least three amazing songs--"An Orchid," "Walkabout," and "Quick Canal"--and that's good enough for me. And it's not like "Attic Lights" or the title track or "Washington School" are weak either. Overall, further proof that Bradford Cox is the most consistently great musical artist of the late aughts.

#9: Deerhunter - Rainwater Cassette Exchange EP
There were only five songs, but three of them--the title track, "Disappearing Ink," and "Circulation"--okay I don't want to repeat the previous entry. I put this above Atlas Sound because I prefer Deerhunter--they are louder, and they are tighter.

#8: Superchunk - Leaves in the Gutter EP
Criminally overlooked, as often happens to Superchunk. Though there are only five songs, and one of them is an acoustic version of another, further proof that Mac McCaughan is the most consistently great musical artist of the 1990's, and the aughts...that is, if you like their sound, which okay, not everyone wants energetic alternative pop-punk all the time, but I do. "Misfits & Mistakes" is as good as any other Superchunk song over the last twenty years. And this EP is so much better than Here's to Shutting Up that I had to include it. I really hope they do a full-length in 2010, and a proper full-scale tour. I like Portastatic, but it's not quite the same.

#7: The Pains of Being Pure at Heart - S/T
I really don't think this is all that great, but it delivers on the hype, I think (in a way that the xx does not, for me). "Young Adult Friction" is a cool song. There are a few other good tracks, and a couple that are a bit annoying. But the sound is pure MBV, and while K. Shields & Co. may continue to dangle the promise of a new record--"it's a poor substitute at best," but it's good enough for now.

#6: Sonic Youth - The Eternal
Every year that Sonic Youth puts out a new album I will always put it in the top 10. And I do not think I am being unfair. This is one of their most fucked up records in recent years. It's so weird, and funny, and heavy, and accessible. Better than Rather Ripped, better than Sonic Nurse--on the basis of the first two tracks alone. Not that the rest of the album is any less inspiring.

#5: Jemina Pearl - Break it Up
Truthfully, this belongs closer to #10, as it wore me down after a couple weeks, but for those couple of weeks, it was the only thing I listened to. An incredibly consistent album--and probably better than the Be Your Own Pet swan song Get Awkward. The second half of this album is amazing. The first half is not too bad either. I would list all the great songs but it would be pointless because I would just list every song on the album, except for maybe two or three that grate on me a bit. Jemina can be a little annoying at times, but that is also what makes her great.

#4: Morrissey - Years of Refusal/Wavves - S/T (tie)
Two albums I bought on the same day back a long time ago at the beginning of 2009. The Morrissey was more immediately satisfying, but I rank it alongside Wavves because Wavves has the potential to be pretty awesome down the line. Morrissey turned 50 this year and continues to satisfy me by not backing down from his position that it is okay to be miserable and alone and sing songs about how horrible a serious adult existence can be--a true original, and one of the very few who has not lost the power he once wielded, some twenty-seven years on. Wavves turned 23 this year and satisfied me by singing songs about smoking pot and feeling bored and various fun things to do in California--like, I wish I had this album on a boombox, could go to a beach in SoCal, could light up a J, and then go for a swim, while getting a good tan. It may be fantasy, but Wavves proves that the dream of turning from nobody into the next big thing is still possible, and having much publicized festival meltdowns tends to help this cause.

#3: Girls - Album
Probably just on the basis of "Lust for Life," "Big Bad Mean Motherfucker," and "Morning Light." Those three songs are so awesome. I just think Girls are the most interesting new band to make their debut in 2009. The fact that they seem really messed up emotionally, but are also strangely wholesome, and sincere, is a combination that worked out very well for them on this album.

#2: Yeah Yeah Yeahs - It's Blitz
Now we get to the heavy hitters. Initially, I didn't see what was so great about this album. I loved "Zero," but I was like, "Why is the rest of this so somber? Why will you not kick the shit out of everyone, Karen O? This will not be fun to see live! Who cares?!" As time passed, and more listens gradually occurred, I realized this album is a masterpiece. Think "Maps" over and over, in various permutations.

#1: Animal Collective - Merriweather Post Pavilion
Once again, when I rated Sound of Silver the #1 album of 2007, I sided with the bandwagon jumpers, and now here, I will do the same with AC. I've been listening to them since Feels, and didn't really see what was so great about them. Strawberry Jam has proven to be an album that has really grown on me. But this album, which is now over a year old, is their first undisputed masterpiece. I never understood the appeal of AC until I gave this album a chance. This led me to recently purchase the Fall Be Kind EP, which does have one song that approaches the heights this album reaches, but overall, almost nothing can top this album. Okay so a couple places said Kid A was the album of the decade (after OK Computer was the album of the previous decade, or else Nevermind or Loveless)--and don't get me wrong, I love Radiohead as much as the next guy, but this album is so good it should have been hailed as the album of the decade. Kid A may have been gloomy, and portentous of things to come in American and global society (9/11, Bush, Iraq, Economic Hell)--but on the other end of the spectrum we have an album about leaving one's body for a night, forgetting everything awful about life and society at large, and just finding a little space where happiness can exist, if only for forty or forty-five minutes. Plus I didn't like Kid A as much as everyone else. So, all hail Animal Collective as the next Radiohead, even though it seems doubtful they will ever reach that degree of commercial popularity.