The Nesting Has Loose Twigs, but Intrigues

The Nesting: A Novel (September 2020)

By C. J. Cooke

Berkley/Penguin, 368 pages

★★★

Folklore is tricky. Why do we tell fanciful stories? For instance, are monsters real or imagined? Metaphors? Jungian archetypes? Psychological projections? What about pantheistic religion? Are there nature spirits? Is nature sentient? Can it seek revenge?

These questions come into play in C. J. Cooke’s The Nesting. Its protagonist is down-on-her-luck Alexi Ellis, whose addict mother stuffed her daughter into various foster homes, each one increasingly worse. At one point, Alexi tried to kill herself. Now 28, she’s still a mess–especially after she’s left homeless when her boyfriend has had enough. Opportunity comes in an unexpected fashion. On a train, she overhears a phone call in which a woman tells a friend she’s abandoning a potential nanny job in Norway. Moments after hanging up, she asks Alexi if she will watch her laptop for a moment. Just enough time for Alexi to look at the job for which she is withdrawing and to scan her resumé. In a unique twist on identity theft, Alexi becomes Sophie Hallerton and applies for the job.

When you’ve been exposed to manipulative people, you learn some tricks. Alexi-as-Sophie has impressive credentials and aces her phone interview. Can she cook vegan? Of course! Can she teach using Montessori methods? She’s all about Montessori. She hasn’t the faintest idea about either, but, hey, that’s what the internet is for. Per the resumé, in her ten years of nannying she’s handled it all. Her future employer Tom Faraday, an English architect, is impressed; Alexi/Sophie makes her way to London and is then on to Norway to care for Coco, a toddler, and her precocious sister Gaia. There’s serious healing in need, as their mother Aurelia has recently committed suicide. Tom is drowning his grief in work. He is obsessed with building the dream house he and Aurelia planned on a clifftop piece land overlooking the fjord where she died. Tom is joined by his business partner Clive and his interior designer girlfriend Derry, but the only other resident is housekeeper Maren, who never seems to do any domestic tasks.

Sophie/Alexi gets on with the children so well that they crack her pouty, angry exterior, but the situation is more than weird. She learns that the first house was near completion but washed away. The old house on the property where they temporarily live is one in which things goes bump in the night; Gaia reports seeing elk tracks and a “Sad Lady” in the house on occasion and Sophie also imagines seeing a terrifying figure. Outside, strange phenomena take place.

Cooke’s novel is arranged in “then” chapters in which Aurelia is the narrator, and “now” in which Sophie, the children, Tom, Clive, Derry, Maren, and several supporting characters interact. It appears as if things began to go wrong when Tom diverted a river and, as Aurelia saw it, nature fought back. Much of the work crew from Tom’s money-hemorrhaging project quit because they are creeped out. There is talk of a vengeful nøkk, a legendary shapeshifting water sprite. In folklore, a nøkk–also called a neck, nix, or nokken–is usually just mischievous, but sometimes turns deadly and preys on pregnant women and unbaptized children. Is a nøkk seeking to punish Tom, who allegedly desires to build and live in absolute harmony with nature, but cut down a tree and tampered with an ancient river? Or are we reading about people losing their minds in a place too far from civilization for comfort? Is this a thriller dressed in bunad or a tale of the supernatural? Or perhaps a story in which one deception is piled upon other deceptions?

The Nesting draws us in, which is a good thing as it’s a bit clunky at first and, to be honest, I nearly bailed. It eventually becomes an unsettling page-turner, in good and bad ways. Cooke does a nice job with questions of identity. (Sophie/Alexi isn’t the only person who isn’t quite who she pretends to be.) She also deftly plays off of various meanings of the book title and makes you ponder which is the nesting. On the other hand, there are definite plot holes, including a rather large one involving a find in the cliff that goes nowhere. Cooke builds suspense well, but not entirely believably, and her slow simmer stands in marked contrast to resolution that comes so fast that it seems forced. On a personal note, I think she treads onto essentialist turf when she asks us to believe that someone of Alexi’s background is instantly transformed by proxy parenthood. The Nesting is certainly worth reading, but be forewarned that parts of it fail to fledge.

Rob Weir

Ramen Heads: Humble Noodles as You've Never Imagined Them

Ramen Heads (2017)

Directed by Koki Shigeno

Gunpowder and sky, 94 minutes, PG-13

In Japanese with subtitles

★★★

If your take on ramen is a quarter for a pack for dried noodles and a salty yellowish lump alleged to be chicken flavoring, you are badly misinformed. In Japan, ramen is serious, even gourmet, food. How serious? If you wanted to slurp–and that’s the only socially accepted way of consuming–a bowl of ramen at Osamu Tomita’s 10-seat ramen restaurant in Chiba prefecture, plan to queue at 6 am just for the right to punch your name into a machine. Stand quietly and hope that you can get a table time before all the reservations are gone. Watch as the unsuccessful contemplate hari-kari. (The restaurant is only open from 11am-5 pm.)

Ramen Heads is a fascinating, though uneven, documentary that peers into Japan’s ramen cultures. Notice I used the plural. Analogous to its Italian cousin pasta, ramen can be prepared in a seemingly infinite number of ways and in settings as humble as a Tokyo marketplace stall or as upscale as fine restaurant. The number of things that end up in ramen broth stagger the imagination and a few might make you queasy. Ramen Heads puts its focus on Osamu, and there are reasons why his shop is harder to get into than Harvard. We watch as he arises well before sunrise to make his way to the wholesale food market, where he purchases flours for his noodles and ingredients for the broth. The latter includes things such a pig heads, whole chickens, and bones–and he’s pickier about bones than most people are about their partners. Broth ingredients will simmer in caldrons for three days before he uses them, and only then after being combined with liquid from two other pots, one of which is leftover broth from the day before. He measures nothing and can tell by color and smell if the broth is correct.

If this sounds as if Osamu is obsessive, he is. He has a family, but ramen is his life and has been since he was an aimless youth who first wandered into the kitchen of legendary ramen chef Kuzuo Yamagishi. Osamu became a prize-winning chef in his own right and his perfectionism extends to making employees who do something wrong to take a time out and stand outside in shame as if they were naughty five-year-olds. Aside from an odd affectation of dressing like he’s part of a motorcycle gang, Osamu seems to have no other hobbies. He even takes his family to ramen restaurants when they dine out. I doubt his kids have ever been inside a MacDonald’s. 

The film has three parts, a look into how Osamu does ramen, a quick survey of ramen cultures elsewhere in Japan, and finally preparations for Osamu’s 10^th year in business anniversary fete. The middle part of the film gives a sense of how Japanese people share Osamu’s obsession with ramen in all of its guises, but is marred by some rather cheesy animation that could have been jettisoned in favor of a deeper look at humbler shops. The 10^th anniversary bash involves a collaboration between Osamu; Shota Iita, who has the top-rated shop in a different district; and Yuki Anisha, the first ramen chef awarded a Michelin star. The three men have very different styles, but work together as teammates rather than rivals.

Director Koki Shigeno had access to Osamu for 15 months. His approach is sometimes as much anthropological than biographical. This occasionally results in a drawback that’s more glaring than the dumb animation. Individuals in the film, especially Osamu, have flat affects. It’s as if the only warmth is the steam rising from the stovetops. One hopes, for instance, that Osamu has relations with his family and friends that go beyond the business-like exterior on display in the film. Perhaps the director simply wished to focus on obsession and the quality of preparation rather than emotions.

There is arguing results, though; Osamu’s shop has been voted Japan’s best ramen restaurant for four consecutive years. Oddly enough, he managed this without ever resorting to a 25-cent pack of dried noodles and a lump of yellowish whatever.

Rob Weir     

Simon the Fiddler Saws Too Many Sour Notes

Simon the Fiddler (2020)

By Paulette Jiles

HarperCollins, 352 pages.

★★

 

                             

Paulette Jiles’ previous novel, News of the World thoroughly enchanted me, as I followed the peripatetic Captain Kidd around the West as he old newspaper stories to barely literate settlers in the American West. Simon the Fiddler is also about a sojourner, a young tunesmith who makes his way across Texas at the end of and immediately after the Civil War.

 

Simon the Fiddler has many elements I should have loved, not the least of which is Simon’s love of music. Yet, I barely finished it and found it as tonally flat as parched prairie land. The central figure is Paducah, Kentucky-bred Simon Boudlin, whose weapon of choice is a Markneukirchen violin, also known as a German Cremona. They hale from a Saxony village where quality stringed instruments have been made since the 1700s and today sell for as much as $6,000. In other words, it was quite a big deal for a young man such as Simon to have one of these and carry it around the South through the Civil War and into Texas in its waning days. It is, in fact, one of many elements in the books that straddle the improbable/impossible line.

 

What Jiles does best in her new novel is capture the craziness that prevailed as the Civil War “ended.” I placed ended in quotation marks for a reason. Glib history often labels Lee’s surrender on April 9, 1865, as the end of the war. Do I need to tell you that wars are born from discontent, not reason? Or that they are messy and seldom switch on and off at the drop of a Kentucky slouch hat–Simon’s sartorial head covering? The war continued in numerous places for weeks after Appomattox and the final battle of the war did not take place until May 12, 1865, when a group of Confederates routed Union troops at the Battle of Palmito Ranch, where they declared victory and surrendered on the same day!

 

Our hero, Simon, reluctantly took part in that battle. Although he was 23, his pale complexion and boyish looks allowed him to pass for 15, thus too young to fight. Plus, in a time of war, good music and a demon fiddler were rare commodities to be protected. Simon might have pulled off his subterfuge, had not his hot temper lured him into a bar fight that made him look like prime soldier material. He entered the Confederate army, saw one battle, and absconded without either an official discharge–he entered the Confederacy under a false name–nor identity papers to pass freely in occupied Texas. How did he manage? More war madness. Texas didn’t officially surrender until August 20, 1866, and even then, there were parts that held on. There was no state government, so who was in charge? Good question!

 

Jiles does a fine job of thrusting us into a world that was more like the lawless Wild West than subsequent myths of said place. We follow Simon as he makes his way from Victoria, Texas, to Galveston–138 tough miles. He assembles a band consisting of tin whistle player Damon, Tejano guitarist Doroteo, and bodhran thumper Patrick. He also meets Irish immigrant Doris Mary Dillon and is instantly smitten, though she is meticulous to his raggedness and culturally polished in ways that extend beyond Simon’s one refined trait: musicianship. Dark-haired Doris is also indentured to the tyrannical Colonel Webb for three years. We follow Simon from yellow-fevered Galveston to muddy and heartless Houston and onto San Antonio, more than 400 miles altogether and most of it on foot. His pursuits are to play music, acquire land, liberate Doris from Webb, and win her hand. Along the way Simon has adventures and squirms out of more tight holes than a fat rattlesnake.

 

In essence, Jiles gives us an adult male version of the perils of Paulette. I adore music and am very familiar with many of the tunes Simon rosined his bow to play, but it’s hard to convey the feel on the page. Jiles–a whistle player herself–over indulges in music scenes that should have flavored rather than saturated her prose. The romance was quite conventional, which one would not have anticipated between two unorthodox figures, and the book’s cliffhanger resolution defied reason.

 

I found myself wishing that Jiles had simply written a small essay on post-Civil War anarchy in Gulf and central Texas and dispensed with–if I might–the fiction of fiction. Simon the Fiddler simply didn’t strike enough realistic chords.

 

Rob Weir

 

Arrival of the Animals at the Clark

Arrival of the Animals

Lin May Saeed

Clark Museum of Art (Lunder Center at Stone Hill)

Williamstown MA

Through October 25, 2020

(Click on images for larger views)

 

The Clark Museum of Art is open once again for visitors. (Call ahead for tickets unless you are a member. Midweek is a good time to go.)

 

A small but powerful current exhibit is on display at the Clark’s satellite Lunder Center at Stone Hill, a pleasant hilltop setting with lovely views of the Berkshires. The bucolic surroundings are perfect for Arrival of the Animals from multimedia artist Lin May Saeed. She is a German artist of Jewish and Iraqi descent whose exhibits have mainly been shown in Europe. Her provocative work deserves wider recognition in North America.

 

Allow me to drop two quotes from the Clark’s website that I think are a bit deceptive out of context. The first concerns the assertion that Saeed’s work is about “animal subjugation, liberation, and cohabitation with humans.” Yes and no. Her horror at subjugation is certainly obvious, but hers is not a mushy liberalism that envisions kind-hearted liberation at the hands of human masters. One of the more poignant images is a drawing of an ungulate staring at an array of goods made from leather hides. When we see animals liberated, it is either by their own efforts–a bull that has trampled a matador or an all-out war against humankind–or through cooperation with other animals.

 

Saeed even engages in some reverse mythmaking, such as a primate counterpoint to the story of St. Jerome and the lion. We see, for instance, a not-quite-human figure on an iron gate helping a lion, and then a drawing of a simian assisting a donkey.

 

The website also speaks of Saeed’s use of a “new iconography of interspecies iconography.” Again, this needs more illumination. The most powerful message that comes through is that animals can get along just fine without the guidance or care of homo sapiens. We see a panel titled “Panther Relief” amidst what we realize–even before the panel informs us– is “the remains of a Persian Gulf megacity,” one that also has elements of a “posthuman world” representing several periods of history. Ultimately, this is a double pun. The panther is in repose, but is also relieved to be living in the post-Anthropocene era. We see another relief of two large cats at ease amidst lotuses. The Arabic quotation is directed more at Ms. Saeed’s multiple identities, but irony lies in the title “Lion School,” one distinctly lacking human pupils.

 

Saeed works in brass, paper, canvas, paper, and Styrofoam. The last is also shot through with meaning. It is material such as Styrofoam that will contribute mightily should humankind perish. It is a worthless petroleum-based junk that is made solely because it is cheaper than eco-friendly alternatives. It does not biodegrade well and fragments of it are everywhere, including in our water sources. One might call it a lightweight monument to human arrogance. It is thus fitting that Saeed repurposes it to make bas relief, and to fashion it into animals such as a cow or pangolin.

 

Saeed offers both a powerful message and an equally powerful warning. We are eased into the exhibit

with drawings that explore human/animal relations, including Albrecht Dürer’s fame

d woodcut of St. Jerome at work in his study, while the lion whose thorn he removed sleeps at his feet. If only it were this simple. We also see Hercules wresting with a lion in a woodcut from Niccolò Boldrini. It and others remind us that liberation and subjugation are at odds an

d that, thus far, the latter has gotten the upper hand.

 

Can anything save us? Perhaps creative vision. Let’s focus on just one image from Lines from Life, an exhibit of French drawings on display downstairs in the Clark’s main building through December 13. It is Eugène Delacroix’s study for his 1798 canvas “Battle of Poitiers.” Look at the sketch and then the painting. Marvel of how we get from A to B. The painting is ultimately a war scene involving bloodshed and destruction. I prefer to contemplate the good to which such vision could be put to use.

Rob Weir

 

Picking Turkeys Might Be the MLB Highlight of 2020

Most Overrated Players in MLB

 

The baseball “season,” such as it is, is barely underway and might not make it past 20 games, let alone 60. A 60-game season would be the biggest joke imaginable, were it not for the Little League extra inning rule. What next? A mercy rule if a team is trailing by 10 runs or more after six innings? But it’s neither too early nor too late to talk about players who aren’t worth their paychecks. Here’s a look at each team’s two most overrated players, mostly those who we’ve seen enough of to judge. Listed in (mostly) team alphabetical order.

 

Arizona Diamondbacks: It’s a team that can score runs, but also gives up a ton. It may be premature, but I doubt Madison Bumgarner is the answer. He is damaged goods. Robbie Ray isn’t awful, but his reputation far exceeds his results.

 

Atlanta Braves: I’m not sure why Jhoulys Chacin has a roster spot as he’s been exceedingly mediocre (77-87 lifetime) on several decent teams. As a battery mate, isn’t it time to declare Travis d’Arnaud a bust?

 

The Baltimore Orioles are a mess, but even a train wreck has people you’d never miss. Chris Davis hits homeruns, but that’s pretty much all he hits. He’s not worth a quarter of what’s getting paid. David Hess is an offensive threat–for opposing batters. A career ERA of nearly 6 and one over 7 last year pretty much stinks.

 

The Boston Red Sox are a typical Dave Dumbrowski team—great for a year and then the well is dry. They should have dumped Jackie Bradley Jr. years ago. He can catch up to anything except a fastball. They signed Martin Perez!? Really? Tampa and the Yankees once tried out a guy named Tanyon Sturtze. He was electric in warm ups, but when the game started, he couldn’t miss a bat. Perez could be Sturtze in disguise.

 

The Buffalo Blue Jays can’t play in Toronto because of COVID, so let’s slam the boring side of Niagara Falls. Tanner Roark has been tabbed as a quality arm since 2013, but he’s been blah for the past three. Randal Grichuk has power, but he’s been a disappointing first round pick. At age 29, if he hasn’t come into his prime he probably won’t.

 

The Chicago Cubs have handed out some horrible contracts, including the one they gave to Jason Heyward, whose nickname ought to be Mr. Mediocrity. But it looks good compared to what they gave Yu Darvish. Darvish is done. Admit it. Move on.

 

The Chicago White Sox are a sexy wildcard pick. They have mostly young guys, but we can say that pitcher Ross Detwiler won’t help them very much. They are trying to protect rookie phenom Luis Robert in the outfield, but other than Eloy Jimenez, it’s doubtful anyone is up to the task.

 

The Cincinnati Reds are another Cinderella pick. I like what they’ve done, but Wade Miley has never impressed me, nor does he cause opposing batters to quake. Despite an uptick last year, infielder Freddy Galvis has simply never panned out.

 

The Cleveland Indians desperately need a name change. They also need to question whether Roberto Perez is the catching stud they think he is.  Carlos Santana is one of the greatest guitarists who ever lived. The guy in Cleveland with that name is a first baseman on the wrong side of 30. He might still be good, but he’s at the age of overnight decline.

 

Colorado Rockies: Ahh, the Rockies. Always okay and seldom great. A Daniel Bard comeback would be a nice story. It won’t be. A Matt Kemp comeback would be a nice story. It won’t be. Detect a pattern?

 

Detroit Tigers: How many teams are thanking their lucky stars they didn’t send a haul to Motown to acquire Matt Boyd? His ERA has never been below 4.53 and that says it all. I love Miggy Cabrera, but he ran out of gas last year and at age 37 there’s no petrol station in sight.

Houston Astros: The most-hated team in baseball is, alas, a very good one that could easily win another World Series. Overrated? Brad Peacock was unhittable in 2017 and ordinary since. I’ll go out on a limb and say that once the Astros’ cheating scheme was revealed and he no longer knows what’s being thrown, Jose Altuve has been good, but not otherworldly.

 

The Kansas City Royals signed Mike Montgomery last year, a true puzzlement for a guy against whom batters feast. Alex Gordon has been the face of the franchise, but he hasn’t had a great year since 2015 and at age 36, it’s probably time for him to abdicate.

 

The Los Angeles Angels keep adding bats instead of arms, which is why they’re still also-rans. They got Dylan Bundy from Baltimore and when you get pitchers from the Orioles, that’s the definition of hope over experience. The biggest drain, though is Albert Pujols, who has had a Hall of Fame career. It’s time for him to start the clock on his election.

 

Do the Los Angeles Dodgers have any weaknesses? They are odds-on favorites to win the World Series, so overrated pickings are slim. I suppose one could say that Kenley Jansen has shaky moments as a closer. I’ve also never been a fan of Joc Pederson, who has power but not plate discipline.

 

Does anyone give a damn about the Miami Marlins? Probably not, but on a team of no-names, a few guys as well traveled as a Salvation Army sports jacket are ready for the rag mill: outfielder Matt Joyce and 35-year-old infielder Sean Rodriguez, for instance.  

 

Milwaukee Brewers: I don’t like power-is-all guys who cost a lot of dough to hit .230 and that means Justin Smoak is a stiff. Ryan Braun has had a nice career, but he’s approaching 37 and has been a good-but-not-spectacular player for the past several years. They signed Avisail Garcia. Does this mean Braun’s days are numbered? His $19 mil to Garcia’s $3.5 suggests they are.

 

The Minnesota Twins always feel a piece or two short and, somehow, 40-year-old Rich Hill doesn’t seem like the $18.6 million answer. Byron Buxton is the Twins’ answer to Boston’s all-glove-no-stick Jackie Bradley.

 

The New York Mets would be better off not re-signing Yoenis Cespedes. He’s battled injuries, often has a bad attitude, and has been more promise than $29 million worth of deliverance. I’ve been a big Robbie Cano fan in the past. Key word: past. Another 37-year-old making too much to justify diminished output.

 

My overrated players on the New York Yankees will engender disagreement. I’ll start with Gary Sanchez. He’s young, inexpensive, and would bring back a haul in a trade. Do it, because he’s a terrible catcher, injury-prone, and brawn with a low OBP. Some guys are just not comfortable in New York and James Paxton looks to be one won’t reup anyhow, so wave goodbye. His career stats are deceptive–lights-out one start and out of the game by the third in the next.

 

Oakland As: Another team that doesn’t spend a lot, but they laid out $16.5 mil for Khris Davis. There must be something about that name, as he’s as big a waste of money as his (semi) namesake in Baltimore. Lots of HRs and nearly four times as many Ks. Joakim Soria in the bullpen? Yeah–ten years ago!

 

Philadelphia Phillies: If only dumping clueless Gabe Kapler as skipper were the only issue on a team morphing into the NL Seattle Mariners. Bryce Harper is the single most overrated player in baseball. He’s not and never was another Mike Trout. Have fun with another 11 years of a contract bigger than any numbers he'll ever put up. Aaron Nola hurled one fine year four ho-hum ones. He was supposed to an ace.    

 

Are the Pittsburgh Pirates still playing in the MLB? I hadn’t noticed. Call ‘em the Pennsylvania Marlins. Their highest paid player is Chris Archer and he allegedly has has great stuff, but it has translated into a 60-80 over 9 years, 7 with Tampa so no “bad teams” excuses. A lot of teams would like Greg Polanco. His numbers are decent but not great, so trade him for more hopefuls because hope is all they have in the Steel City. 

 

San Diego Padres: Can you put a team’s entire organizational staff on this list? Okay, how about these high-priced but pretty-average players? Manny Machado has been hailed as one of MLB’s best, but for $30 million per through 2028, you need to be better than .261/32/85. Lots of people love Wil Myers. So who will step up to buy the very model of unrealized hype, all for the bargain price of $22.5 million?

 

What has happened to the San Francisco Giants? Why is Pablo Sandoval still in the majors? Oh yeah, Boston is paying his salary! Allegedly Jeff Samardzija is a good pitcher. I’m not sure how 80-104/4.09 stats and 2 just years of more wins than losses justifies that conclusion!

 

The Seattle Mariners are the D+ student of baseball. Dee Gordon is good, but overpaid and what are the odds of a 29-year-old Japanese rookie, Yusei Kikuchi, who was merely okay in Japan, emerging as a star in MLB? You could say that anyone not named Kyle Seager is overrated.

 

The St. Louis Cardinals have long been a smart organization that cuts bait when needed. That might start with Andrew Miller, who simply hasn’t been healthy since 2017. Would the Cards trade Dexter Fowler, another guy whose ceiling turned out to be lower than predicted? It wouldn’t shock me.

 

The Tampa Bay Rays simply don’t spend a lot on players, so it’s hard to pick overrated ones. One candidate though is their highest-paid player, pitcher Charlie Morton. $15 million is a lot for a guy who is 36 and has a 91-88 lifetime record. Kevin Kiermaier is the second highest paid ($8.8 mil) and he’s not a great player, so I suspect he’ll be traded. 

 

The Texas Rangers need to continue cutting bait with those who don’t live up to their agents’ claims. This starts with Shin-soo Choo, the little train who didn’t. Elvis Andrus is a perfectly fine player, but he was supposed to be an elite shortstop, not middle of the pack.

 

The Washington Nationals won it all last year, but I don’t see a repeat in the works. It’s a good club with a fabulous pitching staff it’s paying a fortune to maintain. Stephen Strasburg is quite a talent, but he’s only made 30 starts twice in ten years and makes $38 mil/yr. Anibal Sanchez is a maddening pitcher in the James Paxton mold. How does this guy have a 108-109 W/L record? 

 

 

 

 

Long Bright River a Chilling Read

Long Bright River (2020)

By Liz Moore

Riverhead Books, 496 pages

★★★

 

Liz Moore’s Long Bright River is a dark crime novel/thriller/family saga that immerses us in a seedy world in which opioids, prostitution, police graft, urban despair, and murder collide. Moore intends her title as a riff on the Greek legend of the River Styx, which divides Hades from the living world. In her case, she muses upon a “long bright river of departed souls” and how long it would take those who have died of opioids or are in the process of killing themselves to make the long journey between the two realms. It opens and ends with a litany of the dead and almost-dead, and follows with a great line to draw us into the novel: “The first time I found my sister dead, she was sixteen.” Well… not quite.

 

The central character, Michaela “Mickey” Fitzpatrick, is both our narrator and a person who straddles the line between heroine and deeply flawed human being. She is 32-years-old and has been a Philadelphia cop since she was 20. Her beat is Kensington Avenue, which is dire enough to be Hades and make you think the Delaware River is a synonym for the River Styx. Mickey grew up nearby, where she and her sister Kacey were raised by their maternal grandmother “Gee” after their mother OD’d and their father disappeared.  Mickey was just a toddler and Kacey still an infant. Gee’s home was one in which necessities were barely covered and affection and encouragement were not viewed as among them. Mickey’s salvation (of sorts) came via Simon, a cop who ran youth programs and convinced her to enter the police force rather than follow in the footsteps of a beloved history teacher. (Reasons are explained in the book.) Kacey’s path was quite different; first teen rebellion, then life on the street as a druggie and hooker along Kensington Avenue.

 

The phrase “life is cheap” is too mild to describe Kensington Avenue. It is marked by abandoned factories, boarded homes, seedy shops, trash-strewn streets, and flophouses–all of which double as injection sites, assignation points, and temporary housing. And, in Moore’s novel, it’s also where a serial killer has been dispatching hookers to Hades. Mickey and Kacey have had a problematic relationship for years, but Mickey certainly doesn’t want her sister to end up in the morgue. Her heart is in her throat each time a new victim is found, but she’s just a beat officer and the single mom of 4-year-old Thomas. Her desire to investigate could get her fired, as it violates the orders of a direct superior who dislikes her, and transgresses the turf of detectives, which she’s not. Not that any of them seem to give a damn about Kensington Avenue street trash. Will Mickey go off on her own?

 

In such novels, of course she will! Mickey will confront old and new demons, call upon her old partner Truman for help, be drawn into the paternal O’Brien side of her family–a group that makes Gee seem warm and fuzzy–and open a can of worms in which the lines between law enforcement and lawlessness are blurred. No one is quite who he or she appears in this book, including Mickey, who often struggles with her identity and aspirations. All of this suggests that if life is cheap, honesty is on offer at a steep discount.

 

Liz Moore’s novel is set in 2002. She researched the book in 2009, and traveled with a photographer to document the area’s social problems. Everything comes off as so grim that I checked in with a friend who worked in Philly until last year; he assured me (if that’s the right phrase) that Kensington is a pretty awful place. A subsequent Google Images search suggests my buddy was engaging in understatement.

 

Long Bright River is a thrilling read, though not an uplifting one. As a novel, it is marred by some literary problems. Key among them is Mickey, who often seems neither savvy, bright, nor likeable. In a thriller we need a character to open Pandora’s box, but, frankly, Mickey comes off as too immature to be either cop or caregiver. For someone who has been on the force for a dozen years, her emotional IQ and coping skills are those of someone who ought to be writing tickets for parking violations, not pounding a dangerous beat. I am aware that we are supposed to see Mickey’s emotional scars, but it’s hard to get past the idea that this gal needs serious therapy, not life-threatening challenges. I leave it Irish-American Roman Catholic readers to sort out whether Moore’s take on this culture is unique or warmed-over Dennis Lehane, though I suspect the latter.   

 

I give Long Bright River a qualified thumbs-up. I found its resolution both too pat yet unsettling, which I can’t really explain without delving into spoilers. Still, I zipped through the novel and was both edified and chilled by it. My major takeaway was to cross off Kensington from my list of places to visit the next time I’m in the City of Brotherly–but apparently not Sisterly–Love.

 

Rob Weir  

August 2020 Music: John Prine, Great Big World, The Dead South, Kevin Krauter, Rose Hotel

 

Sometimes being a music reviewer sucks. I’d love to tell you that The Tree of Forgiveness is a great album. Alas, it may be the worst album John Prine ever made. Prine–who died of COVID-19 on April 7–is in my list of top five favorite songwriters of all time. Few had his mix of wit, poignancy, and earworm melodies; he was a classic laugh-your-rear-off/cry-your-eyes-out guy who kept things simple on the surface so he could bore into your soul. The last song he ever wrote, “I Remember Everything” grabs onto that. Alas, it’s not on The Tree of Forgiveness. The album starts with promise, but doesn’t sustain it. “Knockin’ On Your ScreenDoor” both honors and mildly lampoons country music: I once had a family/But they up and left me/With nothin’ but an eight track/Another side of George Jones…. He goes for this vibe again on “Egg & Daughter: Nite, Lincoln, Nebraska, 1967,” but it’s more forced and relied upon a lot of backing instrumentation to cover the rasp in his voice. A calypso “I Have Met My Love Today” was not his métier and not even Brandi Carlile’s backup vocals help. “Summer’s End” is a sweet song, but linking metaphors appear to have been chosen because they scan rather than make sense. I liked the dark “Caravan of Fools,” though it’s more like something Townes Van Zandt would have sung. Likewise, you’ll hear echoes of Leonard Cohen’s “That’s No Way to Say Goodbye” with Prine’s words in “No Ordinary Blue.” “God Only Knows” just isn’t a very good song. It’s an expression of Prine’s faith, which I respect, but comes off as a Christian camp singalong that probably would have sounded better around a camp fire. He ends with “When I Give to Heaven,” from which the album title derives, a combination of spoken word and a barrelhouse chorus. Prine’s wry comments bring a smile, but musically it’s run-of-the-mill. I wish Prine had left us with a bang instead of a gravely whisper.     

 

Epic Records’ A Great Big World is the New York-based duo of Ian Axel (keys) and Chad King (lead vocals, guitar). Many know of them because they recorded two singles with Christina Aguilera, “Say Something” (2013) and “Fall On Me” (2019). They recently visited Paste Studios to sing those two, plus “Darling It’s Over,” which will presumably be on an album scheduled to release soon. Maybe it’s heresy, but I like the first two songs better without Aguilera. “Say Something” is a gorgeous and deeply moving song anchored by Axel’s somber piano and vocals. It’s about letting go for various reasons (dead relationship, depression, impending death). Live, the focus is on the song; in the video version with Aguilera, she’s so busy vamping I thought she was going to make love to herself. The Paste version of “Fall On Me” is another tear-jerker with tight harmonies and a slow build that becomes lush and dramatic almost imperceptibly. It’s a plea to, fall on me with all your might, but tempered with the knowledge that, I want to believe in a world we can’t see. As for “Darling It’s Over,” the title says it all!

 

Sometimes social media works the way it’s supposed to. Back in 2014, The Dead South vaulted from obscurity to the limelight when its single “In Hell I’ll Be in Good Company” went viral. In case you missed the party and think this black-hatted band pays homage to the Confederacy, members are actually from Saskatchewan and the costumes are affectations for a group they jokingly refer to as the “evil twins of Mumford and Sons.” That’s a great way to describe a style we might call “darkgrass.” You can see them in a short Paste Studios concert. The first song is “Black Lung,” and if you know anything about mining, you know this one will be tinged with tragedy. It’s soulful, bluesy, has hints of gospel, and is paced by Colton Crawford’s banjo. He’s most prominent on the breakdown “Blue Trash” in which Nate Hilts’ baritone vocals are essentially the bridge to instrumental flourishes from Crawford’s banjo, Scott Pringle’s mandolin, and Danny Kenyon’s cello. (Kenyon often plays the cello as if it’s a guitar.) The set rounds off with “Broken Cowboy,” a bluegrass tragedy of a man slowed by age, regret, and the passing of an era. Good stuff from a fine band.

 

Kevin Krauter began his career as an indie pop performer, but his recent Paste set was an acoustic one with folk flavorings. He’s adroit in either genre, as you can hear in “Surprise,” both live and on the official video of the studio recording. As a solo act, Krauter keeps things simpler and allows his light tenor voice to dance amidst his guitar’s higher tones. This is gives it a fragile feel that fits the song’s themes of self-discovery. (He was raised in a Christian home and was home schooled, but recently came out as gay.) His new CD is called Full Hand, and features a jangly title track. With lines such as It’s time to reveal my full hand, it too plumbs the personal. “Pretty Boy” is a rare song in which the male gaze is toward another male. I really like Krauter’s voice, but it must be said that his set could have used more variety; the four songs were pleasant, but needed contrasting color.

 

There’s a Biblical parable often paraphrased as don’t hide your light under a basket. I admire the voice of Atlanta’s Jordan Reynolds aka/ Rose Hotel. I’m less enamored with the production on her debut full-length album I Will Only Come When It’s a Yes. There’s way too much going on, and it overwhelms Reynolds’ voice. “10 K” has a retro romantic ballad feel, though the song’s lyrics are about not knowing herself, the future, or what’s right. Reynolds has a big voice, but not big enough to punch through “Write Home,” which has a chanteuse feel but with too many layers. The guitar in “Running Behind” has kick, but again if the mix was punched down, Reynolds wouldn’t have to try so hard to provide mystery and ambience. “Honestly” is what Reynolds could become. We can hear clear vibrato and marvel at how long she sustains notes and how easily she shifts pitch. It’s just she, an acoustic guitar, and a song that sounds as if it was lifted from an old-style crooner such as Connie Smith or Kitty Wells (sans the twang).  

 

Rob Weir