It had snowed continuously for two days, and this morning everything appeared to stand in hushed amazement before the spectacle of such expanses of unbroken whiteness on all sides. People said it was unheard of, that they had never known weather like it, that it was the worst winter in living memory. But they said that every year when it snowed, and also in years when it didn't snow.
- John Banville, Snow, pp.13-14
Nell wasn't a great one for compliments, she didn't like people getting above themselves. Nell had adopted the philosophy that, generally speaking, things tended always to get worse, rather than better. This pessimistic outlook was a source of considerable comfort to her - after all, unhappiness could be relied upon in a way that happiness never could.
- Kate Atkinson, Behind the Scenes at the Museum, pp.85-86
I suspect that means this was an offshoot of the Black series - about a pathologist in 1950s Dublin called Quirke, who is mentioned but never appears in Snow - and that Banville, or his agent, or his publisher, decided somewhere along the lines that it was different enough that it would be a Banville book rather than a Black book, but that they would also call it a "mystery."
The main character is a detective, as is tradition for the form: St. John Strafford. (Pronounced "Sinjin," as he has to repeatedly note. With an "r" in the last name, ditto.) We are mostly in his head, in a limited third person narration, with a few literary-novel eruptions into other viewpoints that work but made me wonder if they were necessary. (Literary novelists sometimes err in the direction of expansiveness, trying to show all the world and make clear all the issues. And sometimes they err in the direction of hermeticism, leaving only clues and breadcrumbs to be as pure to their concept of the story as possible. Banville leans towards the former pole here.)
Strafford has been sent to a big manor house in the Irish countryside - Ballyglass House, in County Wexford (Banville's own birthplace). A priest, Father Tom Lawless, has been murdered there in the night. It is a few days before Christmas. (To the title: it has been snowing, and it continues to snow, off and on, throughout the novel. As Strafford literarily puts it "Snow was general all over Ireland.")
There are two kinds of mystery novel: the ones in which a good person was murdered, and ones in which a bad person was murdered. Tom Lawless was a priest in Ireland in 1957, and is the murder victim in a novel that came out in 2020. I'd say I'll let you guess what kind of victim he was, but a Catholic priest in a 2020 novel is 99% certain to be a villain. And he was, as we eventually learn.
Banville's deviations from his focus on Strafford - an opening two pages, detailing the murder, and a coda about three-quarters of the way through the novel, flashing back to Lawless a decade earlier (though, somewhat inconsistently, pretending to be a document he wrote sometime soon before his death) - are largely to make that villainy more obvious, especially that heavy-handed coda.
So we the readers start off with one question: why was Lawless murdered? If we are as cynical as I am, we quickly figure he was diddling someone, and then move on to the next obvious question: boys or girls?
Fairly early on, we learn that Lawless spent some years at a "school," and I'll avoid giving details to leave the previous question somewhat open. But Lawless, we eventually learn, was a piece of work, the kind of murder victim we are happy to see put in his grave.
But Strafford still has the job of finding out who and why, which he pursues through the aristocratic Catholic Osbourne family, Father Tom's hosts the night before, and through the local town. Neither group is particularly forthcoming, as is to be expected of a small town and an aristocratic family in a mystery novel. And Strafford declares himself not to be all that good at this detecting thing, as well - perhaps false modesty, since he does figure it all out by the end of this short novel.
Banville is a fine writer as always, but Snow has some deeply obvious things at its core that are somewhat unfortunate. His style keeps it from being the kind of thumping dullness that another writer might inflict, and the question of who actually killed Father Tom - in best mystery-novel fashion, nearly every character has a decent reason to have wanted to - is solidly mysterious until Banville reveals all at the end. But I thought Banville was trickier than this: the story of the murder of a sexually deviant Catholic priest in 1950s Ireland is the kind of thing I thought he'd leave to the more sensationalist crew.
I expect most of the volumes of Lone Wolf and Cub will be like this: fine storytelling; intricate, dynamic art; deep psychological insight; inventive fighting implements used in interesting ways; glimpses into a distinct, particular historical world seen clearly and unsentimentally; stories of sudden violence about a man seeking vengeance in a dark and corrupt world. Those are all excellent things; the series is known as a masterpiece for a reason. But they won't be new things.
In the first, title story of Lone Wolf and Cub, Vol 4: The Bell Warden, Ogami Ittō is hired to "test" the three sons of the current bell warden of Edo - the man responsible for the network of towers that toll the hours and tell everyone what time it is. In typical fashion for this era and this people - or maybe just in this series; I don't have a separate deep knowledge of 18th-century Japan - the warden takes his role very, very seriously. (In this series, there are the good people, who think that what they do is the most important thing on earth and are willing, even happy, to die in the commission of their duties, and the bad people, who do absolutely anything and are driven by their desires.) So he is basically making a bet: at least one of my sons will be skilled enough to beat and kill one of the premier swordsmen in the entire country, and thus be worthy to continue the family line.
Spoiler! He loses that bet. Of course. The premise of the series is that Ogami Ittō wins. Every time, one way or another, up until the final battle with his ultimate enemy. And "winning" in this context always means killing the other guy. A samurai adventure series could hardly operate differently.
The three other stories have similar depth, and are similarly entangled in that Edo-era conception of propriety and right action and inevitable glorious death. It is, of course, a very dark, gloomy series at its core, set among men who dedicated their lives to slaughtering each other mostly for the benefit of a few feudal leaders. I'm finding reading one of these books about every six weeks to be about right: going much faster than that would be too much, a flood of stories too similar in tone to stand out from each other at that pace.
You may have seen Reza Farazmand's Poorly Drawn Lines comics before - I seem to mostly see it on Facebook, because I Am Old, but I think it has an even larger presence on Instagram (which is probably also tending to the older side these days). Anyway, there's a website, and comics are posted and reshared in the usual social places, and then the great unwashed grab the comics they like and repost them all over the place - which is what I've mostly seen.
Farazmand self-published a few collections of the strip over the years - looks like four of them - but Hope It All Works Out! is the official fancy debut big-company collection, published by Simon & Schuster on September 24th. I see they're also doing a desk calendar for 2025, which I point you towards if you want Poorly Drawn Lines on a daily basis in the new year.
(You may say, "Andy! I thought S&S was a serious, literary, words-on-paper kind of publisher. Isn't this out of character for them? Aren't they too stuffy for cartoon publishing?" And I would smile and gesture vaguely at you, like the old guy on Kung Fu, because I know the ancient secrets - S&S was founded to make a buck as the first people to publish crossword puzzles in book form, and was famously trend-chasing in their earliest incarnation. So this is entirely in character, and shows they are still in touch with their deepest, most primal impulses as a business. Namaste.)
Poorly Drawn Lines is a gag-a-day strip, which are hard to write about - you may notice I'm vamping and throwing in my own gags here, which I often do with books that don't have a clear narrative I can just describe - but, basically, it's another modern strip with a cast of oddballs and a mildly sarcastic tone. In the modern straightforward way, the main characters are Mouse, Snail, Turtle, and Bird, who are each those things. Mouse is the Charlie Brown of the strip, I guess: he seems to be the closest thing to a central character, and the most introspective.
Farazmand's drawing is crisp and straightforward - thin lines, clear colors, almost design-y in its instant readability - as a frame for his mostly wordplay-based humor. I'll throw in an example here - it's on page 155 of the book, for those following along at home, and also available on the aforementioned website.
So check it out. Or don't. I'm not your mother.
But it does leave you with at least that one big question.
In this case, for me it was: what does the title mean?
Behind the Scenes at the Museum was Kate Atkinson's first novel, winning the Whitbread in 1995. It's not about a museum.
It's set mostly in York - the old one, in Yorkshire, in the north of England - where there's a locally-famous York Castle Museum, I find doing some searching after reading the book. York Castle seems to be more focused on ordinary people's lives than the typical museum, which is one clue to the title. But I've never been to York, much less seen the museum exhibits. And my mental image of "museum" is big and old and probably just a bit dull, monumental stones and ancient gewgaws and random bric-a-brac once owned by some guy famous for killing a bunch of people.
This is not a novel about anything like that kind of museum. Again, it's not about any kind of museum. But it's a family saga, which means a novel about several generations - and, as usual for a family saga, mostly about the women, and often about the things that go wrong and how they struggle through life.
It's told by Ruby Lennox, starting with the moment of her conception in 1951. She is our omniscient narrator - well, omniscient when telling us about what's going on when she's in utero, and omniscient in the alternating Footnote chapters, which tell stories of other family members of the past, up through their own ends. She's not omniscient in her own life, in the numbered main chapters that march forward in time from 1951 through the next two decades.
Her voice is candid and discursive, friendly and engaging, immediate and funny. It's much stronger in the numbered chapters; she drops back a bit into the background when telling us about people who aren't Ruby Lennox.
I said this was a family saga, which back when I was in publishing we used to joke was code for "three generations of women." It's not quite code, and not quite three generations, but that's broadly true: this is the story of several generations, mostly of women, seeing them both as daughters in their childhoods and then as mothers, after their inevitable not-quite-right marriages and they try to raise children but turn out to be temperamentally bad at it. We see the men, too, but more from the outside - as fascinating, attractive figures as young men and as infuriating, often-unfaithful liars in their later years.
This is a big family, with a couple of dozen major characters across the three or four generations. But don't worry: a lot of them will die young. That doesn't mean they become less important, or stop being mentioned - the narrative bounces through timelines as it goes back and forth between the forward motion of the main numbered chapters and the historical Footnotes. And the dead are always there in a family: always remembered, as real as the people left behind.
Atkinson is amazingly funny here, particularly for a book with so much death and sadness in it: the historical timeline includes the two World Wars, both of which wallop this family, and plenty of smaller, more personal calamities. Multiple family members run off, never to be seen again. Several hallowed family stories - two of them about deaths - turn out not to be actually true.
You might have guessed I'm not going to give a plot synopsis. It's not the kind of book where that would be useful, and even the question of what order to tell things in would be fraught. But this is a big, funny, sad, true book, both mournful and joyful, that ends on a perfect note and is told beautifully in a glorious voice. I can easily see how it won an award, and I can easily see the strengths Atkinson brought to the later novels I've already read. As long as you accept that women's stories are worth telling, and telling well, in a literary novel - I don't think that should be controversial, but there are still troglodytes lurking here and there - this is a major, impressive, wonderful one.
"Portions for Foxes" is a series of weekly posts, each about one song by a woman or a band led by a woman. See the introduction for more.
This week the song is Medicine, a great rousing tune by Alex Winston, off her great 2012 record King Con, which is full of great music top-to-bottom and should be much better known than it is. (Looks like she finally had a second record earlier this year: I'll have to check it out.)
Yes, I used "great" three times in one sentence. It's allowed when it's true.
I get a feminist, don't-push-me-around vibe from a bunch of Winston's songs - mostly wrapped up in great tunes and metaphors and quirky ideas - and this is definitely one of them:
I won't take my medicine
I won't settle my debts, no
Sell your house
Sell your kids
Don't settle for less no uh oh
This one has a happy, positive vibe - a handclappy slow syncopated rhythm with light instrumentation for the verses, a bigger punchy sound swelling up for the chorus. It feels like a traveling song, like Winston and her band are skipping down the lane somewhere, calling out to the locals and dragging a swelling crowd of revelers behind them.
I don't know what it means; the words get tangled and obscure in the verses. But it's crisp and precise and I have a strong feeling Winston knows exactly what she means, what she wants, and where she's going. And that's enough for the song, and for me.
Don't settle for less.
In the Mad Mountains, a reprint collection of H.P. Lovecraft-inspired stories by Joe R. Lansdale. It has eight stories that originally appeared - mostly in anthologies, mostly from small presses - between 2009 and 2015, and the titles look varied and obscure enough that probably only the very most passionate Lansdale fans would have all of those books.
This book, on the other hand, is a new trade paperback, from Tachyon Publications, available wherever books are sold at a very reasonable price. It was published in October, the traditional time for spooky stories.
I personally have not read much Lansdale, and keep thinking I should. So having this on the shelf will be a good inducement - that may work for you as well.
To relocate the scent, good hounds will run a zigzag, sweeping wide left and right until they pick it up again. I tried this on a street near my office, after a young man passed by in a reek of Axe body spray. I let him turn the corner and disappear from view, then waited a few minutes. By zigzagging hound dog-style, I was able to track him to his destination, a cheesesteak place on the next block.
- Mary Roach, Animal Vegetable Criminal, p.128
Julia Gfrörer draws thin lines, mostly all the same width. Her stories are set in the deep European past, told straightforwardly with a cold but not unsympathetic camera-eye. They are about death most of the time, I think.
Laid Waste was her 2016 graphic novel; it followed Black Is the Color, and - if Wikipedia can be trusted - is still her most recent book.
It's set during the plague: probably the 1300s, somewhere in Europe. In an unnamed town, there's a woman named Agnes who seems to be immune to the plague - well, we first see her "die" of it as a baby, and then be pulled out of her grave, so the scientific explanation is that she survived it once and afterward was immune.
There could also be a supernatural explanation. The people in this world are more likely to believe that one. It doesn't comfort them - nothing would comfort them right now, as all the people around them are dying, one by one, painfully and hideously, and the dogs and rats flourish, growing more bold every day.
The dead are all around. We see people die, we see the bodies piled in the churchyard and a ditch. We see the dogs fight over those bodies. We see the survivors - the current survivors; this isn't over yet - continuing with their lives, milking cows and tending crops. Even when the world is ending, they still need to eat.
And we see Agnes at the center of this: strong and capable and healthy. She's holding her older sister when she dies early in the book; she sees other deaths, lugs other bodies. What she's going through is unendurable, we think - but what's the alternative? She is still alive. So many others are dead.
The other main character is Giles, a neighbor. He also seems to be a lucky one, still healthy as we see him. But death strikes his family as well: no one in this village is untouched, not the children, not the plague doctor with his pointy mask.
Agnes and Giles connect: I'll call it that. Cling to each other, I suppose, as two of the few people healthy enough to keep things going. As the ones who have to keep things going, until they fall themselves.
Agnes and Giles, and the rest of their village, believe in the supernatural - Death personified, saints and angels. They see and talk about that; it may be "real" in the world of the story, but it's not nice and it's not comforting. This is a hard world, full of death and woe, and no one talks about the joys of the afterlife, seeing their friends and family die in pain.
Laid Waste is a short book: about eighty pages, covering just a few days. It looks unflinchingly at this world of death and sadness, and we see it through the eyes of the inhabitants. It is powerful and chilly and unnerving and, maybe, with just a tiny bit of hope at the end. (If I had titles for these posts, this one would be "Let Me Walk You Home.")
There are exceptions, of course - what we might call "poor-me" memoirs, for example, that are all about wallowing in the horrible things the creator did. Even there, it's firmly past-tense, with the focus firmly on "look how brave and honest I am to tell you the horrible things I did; I'm clearly a really good person now."
New Life doesn't venture that far, but writer and main character Xavier Betaucort is remarkably comfortable depicting himself as deeply self-centered and grumpy. (The art is by Yannick Marchat, who draws Betaucort subtly differently from other characters - he has a shock of white hair, which is thematically important, and Tintin-esque oval eyes, deep wells of light blue, unlike the more realistic eyes of other characters.)
It starts with a mid-life crisis. Betaucort isn't quite this blunt, but the version of him in the book is unhappy in his marriage and unhappy in his job. So he quits the job for the freelance life, and quits the marriage to start playing the field. The ex-wife gets barely any dialogue and no name, and the break-up, as presented, is all on his side - he's sick of it, he moves out, and it's done.
Soon afterward, forty-eight-year-old Betaucort - one major running thread throughout the book is his age; he has a brother who just died and he's feeling the "less life ahead than behind" so common in late middle age - meets Lea, and starts a new relationship. (She seems to be a fan; he meets her during a signing - this would be a potential red flag in a more serious, comprehensive book.)
Lea is slightly younger - just forty - and the two start building a life together, slightly hampered by the fact that Betaucort lives a couple of hours away from Lea, and apparently (being a freelancer now) can't just move to where she is. Lea has no children, and has been told by her gynecologist that she can't have children; she's accepting of that.
And Betaucort thinks of that part of his life as done, and is happy that way: he had one kid, the kid is now grown-up, mission accomplished.
But New Life is about an "oops." Lea does get pregnant, it is a healthy viable fetus, and this is the story of the nine months of turmoil and change, mostly about Betaucort acting out all of his mixed emotions until, finally, at the very end, the baby is born.
Again, Betaucort comes across as somewhat of a jerk. During the "late but not confirmed" early section, he muses how they've talked about children, but it's "a complicated issue, given my age."
Let me reiterate that Lea is forty. If anyone's age is an issue in a pregnancy, it would be hers. I can't tell if Betaucort never thought about that (or cared) in his actual life, or if he's presenting himself that way because the book is entirely about his ambivalence, but the character of Betaucort has some pretty major blinders on, and this is not the story of how he takes them off. Lea never pushes back much against Betaucort's neurotic worries and passive-aggressive attacks - she comes across as the perfect supportive spouse, magically fertile and endlessly patient while this guy figures out what he wants.
I did find this Betaucort to be a bit of a jerk, and I hope the real-world Betaucort actually loves his new girlfriend more than he shows his semi-fictional avatar to do. But it makes a better story this way, so whatever qualms I may have about him as a human being, he more than makes up for as a comics creator. Since I'm very unlikely to ever meet him in person, cynical and self-centered me is happy that he prioritizes the things that make his books better, and I entirely approve.
I was a long-time Hellboy fan who lost the thread when the two major stories basically "ended" - Hellboy himself died and went to hell, his former organization the B.P.R.D. failed to stop a couple of major supernatural apocalypses and the fictional world was plunged into megadeath and chaos - and also, maybe about the time we learned various sordid details of the working life of long-time editor and sometime cowriter Scott Allie. But even if the main stories ended, that doesn't mean comics stopped appearing, since companies in the business of publishing comics gotta publish comics, and they tend to want to keep doing the ones that sell well and make money. So there's been a flurry of what seem to me secondary and odder Hellboy-universe books over the past five years or so, including Hellboy in Love.
At the same time, I randomly rediscovered Jesse Lonergan. I'd read a couple of his creator-owned books a decade ago, including All-Star, thinking he told good stories and had an attractive flexible drawing style. And then I came back to his work this year with Hedra and Planet Paradise, two interesting but unrelated SF stories from 2020.
So, when I realized that Hellboy creator Mike Mignola wrote and Lonergan drew a four-issue Hellboy-universe story last year - which was collected as Miss Truesdale and the Fall of Hyperborea in January - I thought that I might as well read that book, too.
It's set in one - well, two; I'll get to that - of the quirkier niches of this particular fantasy universe. You see, ages ago, before the rise of the sons of Aryas, there was an Age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars...and so on. Yes, Conan's Hyborian age, with only a slight shift in spelling, took place in Hellboy's world as well.
Both Howard and Mignola are very fond of evil snake gods, so it works pretty well. (There's one here, of course.)
Anyway, we don't start there. The titular Miss Truesdale is a London-based follower of a secret society, the Heliotropic Brotherhood of Ra, in the Victorian era, and is in Paris to meet the organization's head, Tefnut Trionus, when the book opens. Teffie - no one calls her Teffie but me - gives a portentous speech to Miss Truesdale (who does not seem to have a first name), all about how they are both reincarnations of women who were around in the last days of the ancient Hyperborean empire. (Teffie is also the reincarnation of Eugene Remy, the founder of the Brotherhood, which is why she's the figurehead leader now. Souls are valuable; you gotta re-use them as much as you can.)
All those thousands of years ago - after the drowning of Atlantis and so forth - Miss Truesdale was the doughty warrior Anum Yassa, a powerful woman with a gigantic hammer-axe thing she used to win glory in the inevitable gladiatorial combats she was thrown into after she was captured as a slave by the obligatory evil and cruel overlords of the empire. And Teffie - again, only I call her that - was the new slave girl who warned Anum Yassa that said evil and cruel overlords were going to have her quietly murdered because, of course, she had gotten Too Popular With the Groundlings, and Threatened The Established Powers by being so good and honest and true while killing other slaves with a big hammer-axe thing.
There is a snake god behind those evil and cruel overlords, and Anum Yassa will eventually get a chance to whack it with her hammer-axe thing. But first! She has to escape, fight various pursuers, muse on the fickleness of fate, and do all of the other standard Conan-style bits of business.
That's about half of the book - the more exciting and fun parts. We also see Miss Truesdale, mostly after having returned to London and falling into a swoon or coma as she relives Anum Yassa's life (or is thrust back in time to live it for the first time? I'm not clear on how time in general, reincarnation, or mental time-travel works in this universe). Anyway, it's the standard "collapse on the bare floor of your tiny cubicle, behind a locked door" thing, with her Brotherhood compatriots first worrying about her and then breaking down the door to offer her succor during the strange episode they do not ken.
(You may notice that, while I enjoyed every bit of Miss Truesdale and the Fall of Hyperborea, I didn't take any of those bits at all seriously. Your mileage may vary.)
Lonergan, here with colors by Clem Robins, is a bit more energetic in his art than I've seen him before, to fit the tone of this story. He does fine Mignola-esque monsters and evil men, and gets the required dynamism into his layouts as well. (Books about whacking people with giant hammer-axe things need to be zippy and full of action.) I find the whole thing just a little bit silly, frankly, but it's the fun kind of silly.
This was a five-issue series in 2018, collected in one book early in 2019. It's mature Chaykin - maybe even somewhat mellowed and ruminative Chaykin - with a complicated structure that becomes repetitious but firecracker Chaykin dialogue and great Chaykin faces and figures (and he's back in the mid-20th century, so he can draw leggy dames in tight dresses and dapper fellas in double-breasted suits a lot of the time).
It's one of those projects where all of the pieces are done well but you start to wonder: both what the point of the whole exercise was, and if doing it this way was a good idea.
Chaykin has an afterword where he insists that he really did fictionalize more than you, the reader, thinks. And that may be true for the central characters - I'll get to them in a minute - but the background details are all entirely on-the-nose and obvious to anyone with even a vague knowledge of the real history. Yankee Comics is DC; Verve is Marvel. Bob Rose and Sid Mitchell are Stan and Jack. Ron Fogel is Bob Kane; Siegel and Shuster are Irwin Glaser and Ira Gelbart. Dan Fleisher is Will Eisner. We see covers of the comics from this fictional world, with Powerhouse (Superman) and the Astonishing Tarantulad (guess) and Our Pal Percy! (teen humor a la Archie, down to the red hair).
Admittedly, Chaykin is telling a story of three composite characters - Black Ted Whitman, woman Benita Heindel, and Jewish Ray Clark, to be really reductive about it. Ted, Benita and Ray are friends, in as much as we see them being friendly to each other, and we follow them through the ups and downs of the comics industry from WWII through their own deaths in the early 21st century. But the point is to cram in references to as many scandals and events and market changes as possible, so they stay pretty much Everypeople, each with a couple of easily signposted traits (mostly their identities) and different career paths so that Chaykin can have scenes in all of the permutations of the comics industry.
So let me get to that structure. Chaykin opens in 1967, with the Broadway debut of a musical which is his fictional version of It's a Bird...It's a Plane...It's Superman. And it ends in 1939 with Siegel and Shuster Glaser and Gelbart excitedly signing the contract that doomed the entire industry to focus on long-johns characters owned by big corporations. There's also a scene somewhere in the middle set in 2015.
But, otherwise, and overwhelmingly, each of the five issues is made up for four long scenes: 1945, 1955, 1965, and 2001.
In 1945, the war has just ended, and the industry is shrinking. Work is hard to get for the GIs coming back and trying to jump back into their drawing careers. Crooks and more traditionally shady (I'm not saying "Jewish," Chaykin isn't exactly saying "Jewish," but some of his characters are comfortable being that bigoted) business types dominate the companies that have work available.
In 1955, things are getting bad again, after a minor boom in the in-between years. Seduction of the Innocent and the related moral panic is happening, exactly as in the real world, and the comics industry is once again contracting.
In 1965, Marvel Verve is booming, with Bob Ross making speeches on college campuses and its line expanding. Ross is of course minimizing the contributions of his major collaborator Sid Mitchell, and is a mildly slimy glad-hander at best to boot. The gang is scattered, doing different things, to show the depth of the industry - advertising, the Eisner Fleisher comics-for-the-government operation, Bob Kane's Ron Fogel's crappy animation studio, and so on.
In 2001, we mostly see funerals, because everyone is old. Ted, Benita, and Ray show up to all of these, mostly, as they say, to make sure the bastards really are dead. The eulogies are contrasted with their pointed whispered remarks to each other of what the dead men really were like.
All five issues follow that structure. They have slightly different focuses - I think Chaykin would say that each issue has a very different central theme, to be honest, but I didn't think that was a distinction with a difference - but in practice, reading this as a single volume, it's basically the same thing five times in a row.
Chaykin has never been a particularly subtle maker of comics: you don't come away from his stories wondering what his point was. And he's been fond of formal structures before - Hey Kids! Comics! is very Chaykin-esque, both in tone and style, and will bring a lot of enjoyment to any Chaykin fans who missed it the first time around. But, like a lot of Chaykin stories, it's overly complicated - this time structurally - and spends a lot of time saying the same things over and over again.
"Portions for Foxes" is a series of weekly posts, each about one song by a woman or a band led by a woman. See the introduction for more.
It's another obscure one this week, a song I loved but know essentially nothing about the singer and band. But that's the way of the world, isn't it? There are billions of people, living their lives and doing things - some of them make art, some of that art is breathtaking, but only a subset of even the breathtaking stuff will stick with a larger audience. Not to be a Pollyanna, but it's a vast ocean of wonders.
Anyway, the song this week is C'mon Baby Say Bang Bang, a quiet smoky tune sung in an undertone, from a band called Jane Vain and the Dark Matter. According to a quick Wikipedia check, they're supposedly still active, but haven't had a new record since 2010. And the band was, or maybe still is, mostly one person: Jaime Fooks, originally from Calgary but residing in Montreal the last time someone updated the page.
It's a dark song, full of elusive lyrics, with a late-night sound.
let’s stay up all night and figure
whose guns are bigger
you can put yours right between my eyes honey
if you promise to pull the trigger
It's all a metaphor, of course. She's not singing about a real gun. Absolutely. Not a chance. Entirely about shallow party people trying to one-up each other with their clever remarks. Nothing else.
Right?
Here's what I read last month. Links will follow once the posts go live.
Asher Perlman, Well, This Is Me (11/2, digital)
P.G. Wodehouse, Piccadilly Jim (11/2)
Tony Lourenço, Thierry Lamy, and various artists, Pink Floyd in Comics (11/3, digital)
Elias Grieg, I Can't Remember the Title But the Cover Is Blue (11/9, digital)
Emil Ferris, My Favorite Thing Is Monsters, Book Two (11/10, digital)
Dashiell Hammett, Red Harvest (11/10, in Complete Novels)
Ryan Harby, Awkward Pause (11/16, digital)
Alex Irvine, Anthropocene Rag (11/16)
Jean "Moebius" Giraud, Moebius Library: The Art of Edena (11/17, digital)
Olivia Jaimes, Nancy Wins at Friendship (11/22, digital)
Axelle Lenoir, Camp Spirit (11/23, digital)
Hope Mirrlees, Lud-in-the-Mist (11/23)
Sarah Andersen, Adulthood Is a Gift! (11/24, digital)
Derek Evernden, Bogart Creek, Vol. 1 (11/28, digital)
Stan Sakai, Usagi Yojimbo, Book 5: Lone Goat and Kid (11/29, digital)
Julian Hanshaw, Space Junk (11/30, digital)
Reading will continue as long as I'm physically capable.
