Aught Music

I just made my first contribution to the Aught Music blog, discussing the song "July, July!" by the Decemberists. Please check out the blog as a whole, but here's the link to my piece, in conjunction with a look at "California One/Youth and Beauty Brigade" by Rich Thomas.

I'm never one to pat myself on the back, but I feel that I made a decent point in summarizing the appeal (or lack thereof) of the Decemberists' music:
"However, their style is such that there is usually no happy medium. It's just as easy to enjoy their take on Victorian times, sea shanties, and Dickensian low-lives as it is to loathe such a niche."

The beauty in Colin Meloy's songwriting, and the maturation of the Decemberists as a complete unit is that they very well could have been a "one and done" band, since their music had the potential to regress into satire or, even worse, repetitiveness. This growth is best exemplified by their recent album, The Hazards of Love. Not only is this their best album to date, it's arguably one of the best albums of 2009. I look forward to seeing them live in about three weeks, and I plan to review the show as a submission to Treble Zine. Stay tuned.

Since the Aught Music blog is a collective, I don't plan on devoting singular posts on Chicago Ex-Patriate whenever one of my contributions is published; to me, that would go against the whole spirit of a long-running collective project. So from now on, I'll just post a brief update on the right-hand column whenever I have a write-up posted there.

Toshiro Mifune: The Face of Acting

During a recent viewing of Akira Kurosawa's Throne of Blood, I recalled a slightly hazy memory from my last screening of Rashomon, about six years ago. I would venture to guess that this happens more often than not for most film aficionados--a burst of memory from a terrific line or dialogue or a particularly well-acted, well-shot scene. I was around twenty when I saw Rashomon, and was awed for typical reasons: the beautiful cinematography, the frankness of the plot, and the twisting narrative structure. I do plan on watching it again very soon, and I'm positive that I will be just as affected by the scene now as I was at that time. I don't recall the dialogue, but the scene I've been alluding to depicts the interaction between Toshiro Mifune's criminal and his rape victim. His hands are tied behind his back, and he squirms and laughs excitedly in her direction. At this time, there are more Mifune films that I have not seen as opposed to ones that I have seen; however, that particular moment in Rashomon spoke volumes about his acting talent and placement among the best in international cinema through the years. The force of his laugh, his violent movements despite being tied up, and the complete lack of redemption of his character would be virtually impossible to re-create with anyone else.

I didn't realize this at the time, but that scene transcended a line between great acting and an almost unnerving embodiment of the character. In addition to possessing a gifted range of acting, Mifune was endowed with a face that seemed to express more than any other actor or actress could hope for. Acting is a skill that can be practiced, honed, and matured; a face that adds nuances and seemingly metaphysical realism is a gift of genetics that Mifune used to his advantage, always with stunning results. While what I'm discussing is more or less intangible, this is not to be confused with the definitions of Method acting, a style that gained prominence in 1950s American theater and cinema. The Method involves an actor or actress "becoming" a given character, to the point of obsessively studying and losing oneself in a performance. The examples are well-known in film history, whether it involved Johnny Depp living with Hunter S. Thompson to prepare for Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, or Joaquin Phoenix insisting on being called "Mr. Cash" on the set of Walk the Line. In my opinion, this has nothing to do with Mifune's disappearance into his roles, since my argument is that he developed his characters naturally through both acting and facial ranges. However, watching him portray a vile rapist or a conflicted samurai, a novice could not be faulted for assuming that Mifune used variations of Method acting.

Keeping with this physical idea of the face, a wildly different yet semi-related example would be Julia Roberts. I very well may be in the minority with this opinion, but I've never considered her to be a great actress. She's not bad by any stretch, but for me, there's always a subconscious understanding of "That's Julia Roberts on film" instead of "that's [insert character name]." However, it's virtually impossible to deny the radiance of her face, no matter which one of her films is being discussed. Again, this is not on the same level as Toshiro Mifune's portrayal of emotions by expression, but there is a connection. Roberts can always be counted on to be the center of attention on film, because she's blessed with a face that demands said attention. Mifune's face also demands attention, because it always had the opposite effect. It could twist wildly from one emotion to the next, whether conveying depression, complete anger, disgust, or even happiness. Even at his happiest on film, there's almost always something darker lurking behind his sneering smile, especially when playing a faulted character.

Let's return to his performance in Throne of Blood, Kurosawa's retelling of Macbeth in feudal Japan. Granted, this is not a textbook interpretation or adaptation, but consider the characteristics of Macbeth in William Shakespeare's play. In the course of the acts, Macbeth is heroic, noble, cunning, delusional, homicidal, emasculated, and eventually meets a tragic demise befitting the true definition of "tragic hero." Just looking over these generic adjectives, Mifune's portrayal of Washizu in Throne of Blood gives film audiences the most realistic interpretation of Macbeth, even with its fantastical, supernatural elements. Screencaps simply do not do these ideas justice, but they help to some extent. Mifune gives a legendary performance in every sense of the word, but his face does just as much acting as his words and body language. When Washizu first encounters the spirit in the forest, he is skeptical, cautious, and challenging. However, Mifune's eyes give just a tint of fear and uncertainty about what the character is actually seeing. This is fear that, on the outside, would not be admitted or completely apparent in a Japanese warrior returning from a battle.



The scenes between Washizu and his wife Asaji (Isuzu Yamada) are not only excellent imaginings of the relationship between Macbeth and Lady Macbeth, but they also skew understood notions between men and women, social and gender-based understandings of the time that more or less stated that women were inferior to men. In Macbeth, there's no doubt that Lady Macbeth calls the shots, keeping her husband under complete control. In Throne of Blood, Washizu presents the air of being in control, but it's obvious that his wife gets her way when she sees fit. Mifune's eyes depict a wariness and a reluctant, atmospheric submission to Asaji's whims. Washizu is all bravado and leadership, but he simply has no way around Asaji's ideas of further advancement. There are a few scenes in which it appears that he will lash out at her, either physically or verbally, but no matter how agitated Washizu gets, there's a barrier that he cannot cross. His face drops, and his eyes dim powerfully.



I could not find a screencap that fully illustrates the power and range of the banquet scene; however, the death scene below helps to show Washizu's descent into madness, loss of power, and ultimately defeat, which has its first stirrings when he sees the ghost sitting to his right. In the banquet scene, Mifune does an astounding job of showing the guilt and insanity of Washizu's mental state. There could have been the potential to over-act, yet the more Mifune puts into the scene, the more powerful it becomes. His eyes widen, his teeth are bared, and his facial muscles seem to stretch. The fear and doubts that his eyes merely hinted at in the film's beginning now register without any doubt or reservation. Washizu is at his end, both emotionally and physically. Before being ambushed by his subjects, he animatedly assures them of his (supposed) victory, yet this pride and assurance is clearly mixed with the delusions and madness that have not gone away. Mifune's face does everything to show this. Look at his eyes in the death scene below. In my opinion, no other death scene in cinema history could have been better portrayed. Mifune was more than just a terrific actor. He was a man who could become a character by sheer force of his body language and facial tics, almost to the point of his acting merely accompanying his body. The combination of his talent and physical makeup remain unmatched to this day.

Blushing Less

A brief note before I get into thoughts on Roberto Bolano's poetry. In the past, this post would have immediately been filed under a "Casual Friday" heading. While I do plan on keeping that theme available for more light poetry topics, I'm more embarrassed by it than not. In the past few months, my scope, appreciation, and understanding of poetics has increased dramatically. While I do not claim to be any kind of expert or scholar in this field, I've found myself reading much more of the form as well as writing my own at a pretty substantial pace. These feelings began to take shape after I wrote my last poetry update on John Berryman. Not only was I not pleased with the quality of my analysis, the idea that I had casually lumped an esteemed poet into such a flippant categorization ultimately meant that I was at best missing the point and themes of the poems, and at worst I was demeaning the writer and not taking the proper time to engage myself with the nuances of various poetic forms.

Now, keeping this personal criticism going, I felt even worse about all of this after I read The Romantic Dogs, the first English language collection of Roberto Bolano's poetry. I've written about and studied his novels in great depth, with great time, and given that Bolano considered himself a poet above all else, perhaps I should have stumbled across this collection a lot sooner. A few months ago, I wouldn't have given a second thought to referring to the late Bolano as a "novelist." Even after more studying of his life and works, I might have upgraded (only to prolong the inevitable) this to referring to him as a "writer." Now, with a decent understanding of his mission, along with a few weeks of reading his poetry, it's more respectful, not to mention apt, to refer to him as a "poet." This is how he referred to himself during his lifetime ("The poetry makes me blush less"), so, at least for myself, that is how I will signify him, from here and into the future, encompassing any writings and essays in which he is my subject, poetically or fictionally.

With all of this said, I could not help but notice a striking similarity between some of the subjects of his poems as well as the subjects (and obvious/latent themes) in the novels of his that I have read. I'm not attempting to make the fatal mistake of blurring of confusing the distinction between a writer's poetry and fiction, especially given that Bolano clearly found fiction to be a sort of lesser art, a lesser canvas for his messages and talents. However, I found it virtually impossible to NOT think of the novel The Savage Detectives as I read the poem "The Lost Detectives."

"Detectives lost in the dark city.
I heard their moans.
I heard their footsteps in the Teen Theater.
A voice coming on like an arrow.
Shadows of cafes and parks,
Adolescent hangouts.
Detectives who stare at
Their open palms,
Destiny stained by their own blood.
And you can't even recall
Where the wound was,
The faces you once loved,
The woman who saved your life (Bolano 47)."

Considering that the novel focuses on two wandering, conflicted, yet self-assured poets through their travels and exploits in Mexico and beyond,

"Shadows of cafes and parks,
Adolescent hangouts"

acts as a brief glimpse into the dizzying scenes in The Savage Detectives. On the flip side, as I write this, I'm also reminded of Juan de Dios Martinez, the earnest yet equally conflicted detective featured in the novel 2666.

"Detectives who stare at
Their open palms,
Destiny stained by their own blood."

Of course, making these kinds of simple connections might seem almost too easy, but to me, it shows how Bolano's devotion to poetry was manifested into his novels. While I'm still in the process of reading his complete bibliography, I can only imagine that his other novels can be tied into some of his other poems, not limited to the pieces that appear in The Romantic Dogs. However, to respect his work as a poet, I'd like to close with a look at one of the poems as its own piece, separated from any connection to his fictional works.

"RAIN"

"It's raining and you say it's as if the clouds
were crying. Then cover your mouth and speed up
your step. As if those emaciated clouds were crying?
Impossible. So then, why all this rage,
This desperation that'll bring us all to hell?
Nature hides some of her methods
in Mystery, her stepbrother. And so, sooner than
you think, this afternoon you consider
an afternoon of the apocalypse, will seem nothing but
a melancholy afternoon, an afternoon of loneliness lost
in memory: Nature's mirror. Or maybe
you'll forget it. Rain, weeping, your footsteps
resounding on the cliff-walk. They don't matter.
Right now you can cry and let your image dissolve
on the windshields of cars parked along
the Boardwalk. But you can't lose yourself (83)."

While the gender of this poem's subject is left undefined (and at first glance irrelevant), it's not out of the question to think that the subject is a man. Bolano was adept at, whether through stereotype (crude, unemoting thugs) or reality (a gifted ladies' man who happens to be bisexual), masculinity in all its forms. However, ultimately the gender is not important, since the happenings are universal. Melancholy, rainy afternoons can fill anyone with a sense of foreboding, dread, or keen awareness. The imagery of Mystery being Nature's stepbrother is almost perfect, and could very well nod towards the sometimes dysfunctional relationship between science and spirituality (perhaps I'm reaching just a bit, but I feel there's some stock in that reading of the line).

No matter who you are or how you view yourself emotionally, there are some days and moments in which a simple thing (such as a humanized view of a cloud, in this instance) can trigger deeper, more complex thoughts. Ultimately, this is the genius of Roberto Bolano the poet. He can accurately depict all things local, political, and creative, yet at the core of these ideas is the simplicity and the complexity of all human emotions.

Work Cited:
Bolano, Roberto. The Romantic Dogs. Copyright 2006 by The Heirs of Roberto Bolano. Translation copyright 2008 by Laura Healy.

Partly, Beautifully Cloudy

This is probably the most cliched title that I could have come up with for this essay, but no matter. Given the complexities of the novel Cloud Atlas, it's probably fitting that a sub par title can join with a serious essay. David Mitchell's 2004 epic is one of those rare novels that has the potential to appeal to both academic circles as well as specific genre enthusiasts. Pick a style, pick a genre, and chances are that the book touches upon it in some capacity. Historical fiction readers will enjoy the narratives of Adam Ewing and Robert Frobisher. Mystery lovers will be enthralled by the modern conspiracy tale involving journalist Luisa Rey. BBC comedy fans will likely eat up the comic, horrific misadventures of publisher Timothy Cavendish. Also, but not finally, science fiction readers will appreciate the dystopian visions in the chapter "An Orison of Somni-451."

Or not. There's also the very real possibility that readers of these genre niches would not want anything to do with Cloud Atlas, especially since it's a sin to even think about reading the varied chapters apart from the other ones. Despite my earnest claim that the novel has wide-ranging appeal (I still hold this to be true), it's a complex work that cannot be digested by flipping to and fro. The chapters (which actually work as novellas) need to be read together, despite the fact that they get separated into halves, thanks to some creative, painstaking connections between the various characters and eras. Even the most studious reader will, on first reading, miss at least a few of the plot points, not to mention finding the occasional one challenging. No matter how long this essay turns out to be, I will undoubtedly miss some of the major ideas and passages, but I'm hoping that what I do cover will stir up interest in this book, especially for people who are not familiar with it; I was one of those people up until a month or so ago.

"The novel as series of nested dolls or Chinese boxes, a puzzle-book, and yet--not just dazzling, amusing, or clever but heartbreaking and passionate, too."- Michael Chabon, from a quote on the back of the paperback edition.

As much as I admire Mr. Chabon, his blurb tells nothing about the novel, not that this is entirely his fault. However, it tells almost everything that's to be expected, too. Such is the mystique of Cloud Atlas. It bounces from time to time, from style to style, matching anything as good as Thomas Pynchon, as well as the intentional melodrama of Romantic-era fiction. Every change and jump in style is calculated and timed perfectly. The first halves of the tales tell enough to leave the reader aching for more; the second halves close out perfectly, whether their endings are jarring or peaceful.

"The Pacific Journal of Adam Ewing" opens the novel, and it's probably the greatest example of Mitchell's fluency in the history of literary styles. This journal of everyday life, intrigue, and culture clashes in the sixteenth century is said to be influenced by the works of Herman Melville. Personally, I found the pacing, language, and even the punctuation reminiscent of Aphra Behn's Okonokos.

"Amidst nebulous quilts & summery pillows I lay, in a bedroom in San Francisco similar to my own. A dwarfish servant said, 'You're a very silly boy, Adam.' Tilda & Jackson entered, but when I voiced my jubilation, not English but the guttural barkings of an Indian race burst from my mouth! My wife & son were shamed by me & mounted a carriage. I gave chase, striving to rectify this misunderstanding, but the carriage dwindled into the fleeing distance until I awoke in bosky twilight & a silence, booming & eternal. My bruises, cuts, muscles & extremities groaned like a courtroom of malcontent litigants (Mitchell 19)."

Later on, Mitchell depicts the relationship between white colonists and Natives, spanning from flat-out racism to acts of bravery and charity that break down racial barriers. The reader has to take the bad with the good, and Mitchell crafts this section with indications that the ending will turn out either happily or poorly for Ewing. This balance is nearly perfect, since either ending is a very real possibility heading into the final pages.

The letters of composer Robert Frobisher to one Rufus Sixsmith compose "Letters From Zedelghem," and ultimately my favorite passages among many in Cloud Atlas. The letters stem from the early 1930s, and it's almost a shame that they weren't actually written by a novelist from that era. If Cloud Atlas had been written seventy years earlier, I'm fully convinced that Robert Frobisher would be included with some of the most well regarded heroes in international literature. At first glance, he's a gifted composer, seeking an apprenticeship with an eccentric master composter. However, as his letters take shape, we see his independent spirit, his lack of patience for stupidity, and a wonderful twist of humor, especially given his background and social surroundings.

"At the van De Veldes' town house, the girls were arranged on the stairway to greet me in ascending order of age--half-expected 'em to burst into song, and stone the crows. Sixsmith, that's what they did. 'Greensleeves,' in English. Syrupy as humbugs. Then Mme. v.d. V. pinched my cheek as if I were a homecoming runaway and said, owlishly, 'How do you do-ooo?'....all girls posses a thoroughly unjustified self-confidence. A v. long sofa sagged beneath this family of porkers...She asked this: 'Mr. Frobisher, are you well acquainted with Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street?' Well, thought I, the day might not be a complete wreck. A girl with a taste for irony most conceal some depths. But Marie-Louise was serious! A congenital dunce (448)."

The ending of his segment is unsettling, especially given that, underneath his intelligence and bravado, his needs and desires were no different than anyone else's. However, the writing style employed by Mitchell would, as its own novella, compose one of the best epistolary works ever. Even though we're only reading one side of this correspondence, the mix of emotions, details, and black humor are captivating. Mitchell's characters have a tendency to reappear in his other novels.I can only hope that Robert Frobisher has appeared before, or will appear in a future work.

I found the sectionsset in the future ("An Orison of Somni-451" and "Sloosha's Crossin' An' Ev'rythin' After") the most challenging of the novel, and part of me wanted to blame my own lack of reading in this genre. However, another part of me wonders whether or not these chapters were supposed to be somewhat vague in order to leave (in the context of the novel) some of the plot points open for various interpretations. These sections are worth multiple readings (as is the rest of the work as a whole), but despite my confusion, not having every event in these chapters explained in my mind did not detract from my overall understanding and appreciation. And, even with leaving two of the key chapters virtually unmentioned, what should be the "overall understanding" of Cloud Atlas? The events are connected via names, relationships, manuscripts, and a recurring comet-shaped birthmark. These connections are constantly hinted at and mentioned, linking everything despite the invidivuality of the tales. Perhaps this does warrant Chabon's use of the nested doll metaphor. The text is a whole, yet is begging to be broken down. The segments are vastly unique, but unequivocally more than just the sum of its parts. Mitchell didn't create a mystery or an intentional labyrinth of a novel, yet the blending of genres might hint to that on the surface. His talents as a writer are staggering, yet there's no subliminal winking or acknowledgement of this, a la Dave Eggers, for example. Mitchell simply tells the stories as best he can, and in the process created one of the best novels of this young century.

See also: Terrance Terich's brief introduction to David Mitchell at Blogsmos.

Work Cited:
Mitchell, David. Cloud Atlas. Copyright 2004 by David Mitchell.

Thoughts on "Metropolis" (1927)

With the exception of my brief look at From Here to Eternity, it's been quite awhile since my last film essay. In my quest to get caught up on some of the silent classics, I recently screened Fritz Lang's 1927 landmark Metropolis. I've long counted his phenomenal film M among my favorite films of all-time, and the beauty of going into a screening of Metropolis was that I knew that I couldn't expect these respective films to be anything but drastically different. M is one of the great crime thrillers ever, whereas Metropolis cleared the path for dystopian science fiction films.

In a review of the Errol Flynn film The Adventures of Robin Hood, Don Druker of "The Chicago Reader" wrote a wonderful closing sentence that can easily apply to any new look at a long-studied classic film. He writes: "Movies like this are beyond criticism." Depending on a given film's depth and layers, this can either be an apt summary or a challenge to find new ways to view said film's messages. I hesitate to use one of my own essays as an example, but last year I studied D. W. Griffith's The Birth of a Nation alongside Stanley Fish's opinions on the nature of principles. While I was awed and impressed by Metropolis, I'm hard-pressed, at least at the time of this writing, to find a new way to analyze it.

The film tells the story of the outer and inner workings of a modern Metropolis, with the wealthy (known as "the head") enjoying splendor and excess in the city, while the workers ("the hands") toil in the depths below the streets, out of sight. The leader, Joh Fredersen, rules from his high-tech office, and, aside from his stern demeanor and unquestioned control, does not function as the stereotypical evil leader. His stoic attitude towards problems works to a much stronger degree than flagrant outbursts and yelling. Despite his rule, his character is given enough room for his inevitable redemption. His son, Freder, sees the beautiful Maria giving a tour of the city to some of the children of the workers. He falls for her instantly and does the unthinkable: he sneaks his way below Metropolis to find her, and therefore becomes (in all likelihood) the first "head" in a long time to see the inner workings below the city. He swaps places with a worker and finds that Maria also functions as a deity of sorts, imploring the workers to have faith that a mediator will communicate between them and the elites. Joh consults with C. A. Rotwang, an inventor, who has built a Machine-Man (curiously, in the form of a woman, with his secret goal to give it the likeness of his former lover). Once Joh realizes that his son is among the workers, he insists that the robot be given the same form as Maria, to spread messages of riots, in order to create chaos among the workers.

This is only a snapshot of the plot, to which I'll return with some theories. The film is easily one of the best early examples of special effects and atmospheric cinematography, courtesy of Lang, Karl Freund, Gunther Rittau, and Walter Ruttman. The influence that Metropolis has on virtually every major science fiction film is easy to detect, and one can imagine the novelty that early audiences would have found, not to mention the possibilities of special effects on film. Nosferatu might be more famous for its use of shadows, fog, and light effects five years earlier, and King Kong's special effects six years later may have been the early culmination, yet Metropolis bridges a gap between those two films, showing that visual powers lie not only in effects, but the basics of storytelling and cinematography. Its striking visuals are a combination of the old and the new. I also could not help but notice the amazing similarities between Rotwang and Max Schrek's portrayal of Nosferatu. If Count Orlock had simply been more animated and kinetic, the two characters would have been even more alike.

I'm not entirely familiar with pre-Nazi Germany, so I'm not attempting to mix up two different films, two different countries, and two different ideologies. However, I also happened to notice parallels between Metropolis and Sergei Eisentein's The Battleship Potemkin. The major difference comes with Metropolis's plea for mediation between the leaders and the workers, instead of the all-out anarchy of Potemkin. Could Metropolis be viewed as The Battleship Potemkin with a 'happier' ending? Both films argue for workers' rights, showing both a chaotic outcome and a better, albeit sanitized ending. I found it amusing that the theme of Metropolis, the notion that "the mediator between the head and the hands must be the heart," is really an insult to both sides. The implication is that the hands don't appreciate the intelligence of the head, and that the head assumes that the hands are content with thankless, backbreaking labor.

The characters of Maria, both the human and the robotic substitute, are curious depictions of women in society. Perhaps it's a nod towards women's rights (in the 1920s) that a woman assumes the role of the peacemaker and positive influence on the working class. On the flip side, the robotic version works as an early precursor to the 'femme fatale,' as her erotic dance late in the film incites the wealthy men into a lustful, rape-intended frenzy. Then again, this can be flipped yet again as a criticism of the men, simply viewing a woman as a tempting sex object. This dance sequence is both unsettling and revolutionary, as the quick jumps between the dance and the aroused men grows faster, along with a terrific shot composed of nothing but eyeballs, a pulsating blob undoubtedly sending the images of her dancing directly to the groin. I haven't seen any documentaries or read any texts regarding sexual depictions in the history of cinema, but the dance sequence is an essential example.

Some of the scenes from Metropolis are lost, yet it's amazing that enough of the film remains to tell a cohesive story (aided with recreated plot subtitles). The influence on future science fiction films is easy to recognize, and overall, this is one of the best films ever, silent or otherwise. However, I feel that my appreciation will be even greater once I familiarize myself with the context of 1920s German society. The social and psychological questions and depictions are quite clear, but as is the case with The Birth of a Nation and The Battleship Potemkin, I'm positive that even more can be gathered when framed alongside the sociology and day-to-day history of the era.

More Collaborations

Getting myself settled in Chicago has taken a little bit longer than I anticipated, hence the lack of posts in the past two weeks. I'm going to have myself back on track this week, with new essays, writings, and comments on the way. I'm very excited about the readings I have planned, and this should be a very fruitful, productive summer.

For now, I'd like to share a new project that was brought to my attention last week. Jeremy at Raccoon has started a new blog for music, specifically year by year songs for the 2000s. The blog, which can be found here, will run until January 1st, 2010. Here are Jeremy's ideas:

"So here's the plan.


I have acquired a blogspot domain with which we can play—http://aughtmusic.blogspot.com. From June 1, 2009 until Jan 1, 2010, I plan on posting at least few tracks a week (as MP3s) to this blog, along with short appreciative write-ups. I don't intend on writing them all myself, though, or even choosing all the tracks—that wouldn't be very collaborative, would it?


So here's how you can help out:


1) Pick a song you like.


2) Write a short appreciation of it. By "short" I mean that around a paragraph is fine, but longer is OK too. [Note: I'm intending to proceed chronologically, starting with a few weeks devoted to songs / tracks released in 2000, and moving forward from there, finally wrapping up with 2009 around the end of the year. So for now, I'm only collecting write-ups for tracks released in 2000. I'll let you know when we're getting ready to move on to 2001.]


3) Send me the appreciation in an e-mail, and attach an MP3 version of the track. [If the track is too long to fit comfortably as an attachment, or if your e-mail client balks for some other reason, touch base with me—we can work something out.]


4) Repeat as desired.


That's it! I can host the file and handle the back-end leg-work of turning your write-up into a blog post.


Collectively, you form a very eclectic group, but this seemed like a good way that we could all share our opinions with one another, enjoy some camraderie, and end up with a nice collection that celebrates a decade of good music. What say you?"

So anyone interested in the wonderful music from the past decade should check it out, and better yet, contact Jeremy to make your own contributions. I'll have the link posted on the bookmarks to the right of your screen.

Analytic Contradictions

My views and interactions with the writings of Jonathan Lethem are beset by contradictions. I've read only two of his novels, yet I consider him one of my generation's best novelists. So far, I've read only one of his essays, yet "The Ecstasy Of Influence" (a look at plagiarism) is, to me, a perfect example of the complexities and forms of the modern essay. Lethem's written talents are undeniable, and I say this with full knowledge that I'm behind on his canon. So, it's only fitting that when I was about to read "Ava's Apartment," his latest short story (originally published in the May 25th issue of The New Yorker), I was fully expecting a near-perfect piece of fiction, despite (surprise!) that I haven't read any of his previously published stories.

As of this writing, I've read "Ava's Apartment" three times, and there are still contradictions going through my head. I wouldn't consider it one of the better stories I've ever read, but given my admiration for Lethem, I find myself going down every analytical path, trying to give it the benefit of the doubt, and therefore elevate it above my initial reactions. Just as the Vietnam War has been exhausted in film, New York City could very well (in the future--this hasn't happened yet) be exhausted in fiction. However, Lethem is one of the best describers of the city, especially in his 2003 novel The Fortress of Solitude. "Ava's Apartment" is no different, with intricate physical details coupled with the long-expressed notion that one can be very much alone in a city of millions.

"Perkus's shoes were, of course, inadequate for the depth of freshly fallen snow. He'd have walked the eight blocks home in any event--the migraine nausea would have made a cab ride unbearable--but there wasn't any choice. The streets were free of cabs and any other traffic. Some of the larger, better-managed buildings had their sidewalks laboriously cleared and salted, the snow pushed into mounds covering hydrants and newspaper boxes, but elsewhere Perkus had to climb through drifts that had barely been traversed, fitting his shoes into boot prints that had been punched knee-deep. His pants were quickly soaked, and his sleeves as well, since between semi-blindness and poor footing he stumbled to his hands and knees several times before he even got to Second Avenue. Under other circumstances, he'd have been pitied, perhaps offered aid, or possibly arrested for public drunkenness, but on streets the January blizzard had remade there was no one to observe him, apart from a cross-country skier who stared mercilessly from behind solar goggles (Lethem 65)."

Perkus Tooth. It amazes me that there are books available devoted to giving tips on naming fictional characters. Lethem pretty much has the monopoly on intricate names for his characters (Sadie Zapping, a character who appears later in the story, is another fine example). His names work along the same lines as Guy Ritchie's film characters: descriptive, bordering on ludicrous, yet absolutely essential all at the same time.

After being snowed out of his apartment, Perkus takes up residence in an abandoned building being used as a dog shelter. He bonds with Ava, a happy, three-legged pitbull whose personality and devotion aid him as he attempts to create a new identity, one separated from his unhappy existence as a rock critic. In a sense, Lethem flips the usual ideals of the "person meets dog" story. Bookstores are packed with tales of people bonding with animals to overcome physical and emotional setbacks. With Perkus Tooth, the intention is skewed; he uses his connection with Ava to distance himself from his normal human interactions. Yes, he's overcoming an emotional setback, but his ultimate goal is solitude with a very social creature.

The story's ending is rife with intentional ambiguity, with Perkus hinting at a return to his "human" life. Perhaps the story does end abruptly, but going back through the major plot happenings in the previous pages, the ending comes at a logical point, given Perkus's ennui with everything except Ava. His quick actions (leaving an acquaintance's house early in the morning, being denied access to his own apartment, going to the rundown animal shelter) could lead a possible theme being "What really constitutes home?" However, I think Lethem is too talented to have that be the only true question raised by "Ava's Apartment." Personally, my main thought was one that goes against the meanings of a given short story. I could not help but wonder how the story would work as a novel. Lethem moves the actions along strictly, with barely any room to expand or look on the reasons why a given action took place. The characters and elements are in place to be given longer, more precise treatment. There's no reason to question why Lethem doesn't give more personal details on the characters, but given his normally wonderful writing, I was left wanting more. In a sense, this is a compliment rather than a criticism. I wanted more details, because I know that in a Lethem-esque novel, they would become so much more.

(NOTE: I'm going to leave the end of this essay alone, but as I searched for the link to the story, I learned that "Ava's Apartment" is indeed an excerpt from Lethem's next novel.)

Work Cited:

Lethem, Jonathan. "Ava's Apartment." The New Yorker, May 25th, 2009.