Chrome Dreams II

I find old rockers fascinating.  The likes of Paul McCartney, Mick Jagger, and others is not entirely unlike the fat lady at the circus.  A few weeks ago, Sir Paul happened to be on PBS.  I found myself drawn to the spectacle, completely oblivious to the music.  Here is this man as old as my grandfather with his face pulled as tight as a drum, dressed in Seventeen Magazine style.  As hard as he tries, he's not fooling anybody.  Sir Paul moves like a senior.  I write this as respectfully as I can.  Sir Paul was a Beatle, and his contribution to rock and roll is unequaled.

Then there is Neil Young.  He's old like the others and he knows it.  He has written about youth and aging since his early days, and continues to do so.  Recently, he has written songs about his empty nest, his father's death, and he even seems to anticipate his own passage.  The thing that I find striking is the quality of his new material.  In the fall of 2007, Neil released Chrome Dreams II.  In my opinion, this is some of Neil's best material to date.  Amazingly, I remember thinking this in high school when Neil released Harvest Moon.  Even back then, I thought he was an old man with his best years behind him.  It just occurred to me that Neil is like a volcano that refuses to go dormant.  There are other giants out there, long since cool, standing as a monument to the past.  Neil's still spewing fiery slag everywhere, and when he's done there will be nothing left.  Of course, he said it better years ago:  It's better to burn out than to fade away.  -And he lives it.

Notes...

 - What you just read is the worst CD review ever.  Chrome Dreams II is good.  It has elements of much previous Neil Young stuff:  Harmonica, solid lyrics, lap steel, and a fair amount of screaming from Old Black.

 - Yes, there was an original Chrome Dreams.  It was never officially released, an I don't think Neil ever acknowledged its existence - until the release of Chrome Dreams II.  I've read the original was destroyed in a fire, and I have also read that Chrome Dreams refers to a drawing.

 - On a completely unrelated note, I am playing at the Busy Bee on Saturday and the Gallivan Center on Thursday at noon.  Following these, and one or two other scheduled dates, I am officially retiring from public music exhibitions.  It's good to know what it's like, but now is not the time, and dive bars are not the place.

Shelter me from the powder and the finger...

 

A Book Review From The Soap Box

...Or the demise of modern American Literature in popular culture

I recently read Thirteen Moons by Charles Frazier.  I picked it up at an airport, motivated primarily by my enjoyment of his earlier novel Cold Mountain.  Thirteen Moons is adventurous love story set in the Cherokee Nation.  The timeline covered is relatively vast, as the story is told by the 100+ year-old protagonist.  A young boy is sold into servitude by relatives following the death of his natural parents.  Against all odds, he becomes wildly successful, is adopted by a Cherokee Chief, fights in the Civil War with his tribe, loses his fortune, and eventually finds it again.  Mr. Frazier includes interesting events that appear to have historical significance, yet he also includes a bold disclaimer pertaining to locations, individuals and events.  In the end, it can only be accepted as a work of fiction.

Despite raving reviews from the Los Angeles Times, and The Boston Globe, I disliked this book.  On a scale of -3 to 3, zero being neutral, I would give it a -1.  It would be possible for me to recommend a zero, but I will not recommend anything lower.  There is one word that came to mind repeatedly as I read:

contrived |kənˈtrīvd|

adjective

deliberately created rather than arising naturally or spontaneously : the carefully contrived image of party unity.

• giving a sense of artificiality : the ending of the novel is too pat and contrived.

I will briefly explain:

 - Thirteen Moons and the Native American in popular culture.  The use of "moons" to measure Native American time is overdone in various media, including literature.  So overdone in fact, it is used frequently in parody.  Mr. Frazier uses the moon and its phases to measure time throughout the novel.  He also uses various Cherokee names for moons as an attempt at symbolism.  I found it transparent and, well, contrived.

 - Sex.  Sex.  Sex.  Two people love each other. We'll make it clear with sex.  Not just once, but hundreds upon hundreds of times.  On top of mountains, on sunny rocks in rivers, you name it.  Sex is the easy way out.  It is a cheap shot.  It's Jerry Springer.

 - Rags, riches, rags, riches.  A tiring cycle with a happy ending.  What happened to Hemingway? Steinbeck?  Melville?  The list goes on and is unbelievably long.  The timeless classics are crafted with care and reveal tiny bits and pieces of intricate humanity in a way that begs interpretation and contemplation.  The entire story seems somehow trite.  The lone white boy, adopted by a Cherokee Chief, eventually growing to fight the evils of Manifest Destiny and the wicked machinations of Jackson, O'Sullivan, et al.

And that is the end of the review.  Here's where I go off-

Within hours of putting a novel down, I have the inclination to discuss it.  Thirteen Moons was no exception, so I unloaded my disappointment upon my beloved.  It turns out we both share a good deal of dissatisfaction with many novels of the day.  Once the water had boiled to steam, it was apparent that our disgust relates to lack of creativity, the abuse of cliche, devaluation/abuse of profanity and graphic sexual encounters.  Far too often these "tools" are used to resolve plot deficiencies or compensate for general literary weakness.  Should you choose to disagree, I would recommend Shakespeare's Richard III.  Shakespeare paints a scenery of darkness and evil using common, yet well-placed words.  Even today, his words ring in the ears and stir the soul.  Consider the often elusive opening:

Now is the winter of our discontent 

made glorious summer by this sun of York;

Wow.  Talk about the archetypal metaphor!  The disfigured Richard refers to himself as the winter-ending sun as he plots to overthrow his brother's kingdom.  Read it.  An hour could be spent discussing a single sentence at the climax of the play composed of about seven words.  With my limited understanding of Shakespeare and literature in general, I have not been able to identify any cheap shots or short cuts.  Though there my be cliches of which I am unaware, The opening sentence of this play has taken life unto itself.  It does this because it lives.  You likely know exactly what the "winter of our discontent" feels like.  Prior to Shakespeare, this had not been placed into words.  So profound it is, that Steinbeck used the line as a title for one of his novels, and  Steinbeck was no hack.

Richard III

Just this morning, I read Isaiah chapter 2.  Is it any wonder that the likes of Robert Hunter (lyricist for the Grateful Dead) mined the bible for language and symbolism?

19: And they shall go into the holes of the earth, for fear of the Lord and for the glory of his majesty, when he ariseth to shake terribly the earth.

20: In that day a man shall cast his idols of silver, and his idols of gold, which they made each one for himelf to worship, to the moles and to the bats;

22: Cease ye from man, whose breath is in his nostrils: for wherein is he to be accounted of?

Isaiah chose uncommon, yet appropriate symbolism, and these are the images that stick.  The act and reason for throwing one's idols to the moles and to the bats is clear.  So clear in fact, I have been thinking about idols, moles and bats all day.  Had I read some impotent regurgitation reviling idolatry, I'd have probably bought a motorcycle by now.  I have ideas about verse 22, but I am not completely sure.  The imagery of breath within the nostrils stuck, probably because it is somewhat uncommon, and it possibly references the creation of man found in Genesis.

I'm too busy for senseless posts like this, and I'm the fool for expecting meaning out of a little piece of fiction.

Oxblood Oxfords

The title of this silly little post is compliments of my good mother, who decided to honor my "red" shoes with a truly dazzling color.  As I polished them tonight, it struck me that they are nigh ten years young.

As much as I'd like to polish them with sentiment, they're really just nice Italian shoes that I bought off a discount rack.   Here's what I remember:

 - I bought them for about $80 US.  It's not much now, but that's somewhere near $300 in '98 dollars.  That was a good chunk of rent in those days.

 - I wore them to my sister Katie's wedding.  I remember this because my grandmother commented that my shoes reminded her of her father.

 - I wore them when I interviewed once with Merck, and twice with Pfizer.  They're not particularly lucky shoes.

 - I wore them to work at the University of Utah on the day I found out I had to pull a bunch (tons in a very literal sense) of coaxial cable out from under the floor.  Fine day to wear the nice shoes, thought I.

 - I managed to get a toe jammed in a Trax rail walking downtown with the old man & brothers.  There was a nasty scuff on the toe, long since buffed to a glistening sheen.

 - These shoes are churchin' animals.  Watch out!

I don't think I'd care much about these shoes if they didn't look so dang good.  I couldn't resist the urge to figure shoe-years out.  I reckon the average shoe lasts maybe two years.  Since 80 is ripe old age for people, we'll just extrapolate.  Forty shoe-years per earth year.  That puts these fine oxfords at 400 shoe-years old!  Since the result is so rewarding, I'll stick with this formula in favor of a more believable (and therefore boring) one.

As wonderful as these red shoes could be, I would be remiss should I fail to disclose flaws inevitable.  The heel treads are worn down to the stacked leather, and the inner leather lining at the heel is worn completely through.  The laces have worn into the tongue, and there are a few deep scratches that insist on remaining.  Now that I think about it, they have another flaw worth mentioning.  They are slow.  They're not uncomfortable, but the boot-stomping Sam could catch the red-shoe-wearing Sam in short order.  In fact, that is one reason why they wound up getting jammed in the train tracks.  I was trying to walk fast, and drove the shoes to protest.  That was about a hundred shoe-years ago, so I don't remember it clearly anyway.

I'm beat.  I wonder what I'll think about this when I read it awake.