Article 5, a Flawed Pastiche

Article 5 (2012)

Kristen Simmons

Tor Books ISBN # 978-0765329588

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Article 5 is the latest entry into the dystopia market for teen and young adult readers. It’s the debut novel from Kristen Simmons, a social worker-turned-writer, and it bears many of the earmarks of a first book, particularly a not-so-original story and less-than-sparkling prose. It is, in essence, a mash-up for teens of several much better books: Margaret Atwood’s Handmaiden’s Tale (1985), Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower (1993), and Cormac McCarthy’s The Road (2006). Just for good measure, the book’s central relationship is vaguely reminiscent of The Hunger Games.

The book won’t win any originality awards, but it’s a decent pastiche. Its setting is a not-so-distant future in which the United States has been devastated by an unexplained war. Many of the cities have been abandoned, those that remain have degenerated into self-contained neighborhoods beyond which one does not wish to stray (á la Parable of the Sower), and the Bill of Rights has been scrapped in favor of something called the Moral Statutes. The new governing authority is one part theocratic and one part military junta–think a Christian version of the Taliban.

We meet Lori Whittman, a freewheeling/free loving single mom living in what used to be Memphis, presumably in one of those suburbs populated by holier-than-thou evangelicals. In post-apocalyptic America, those Christian patients now run the asylum–literally. Women are now fair game and Lori is about to be arrested by the Federal Bureau of Reformation–whose officers are nicknamed the Moral Militia, MM for short–and sent away to a reeducation center for her ex post facto sins. Moreover, Lori’s transgression of Article 5 morals codes also taints her daughter, 17-year-old Ember Miller, who will be sent to a reform school until she is 18. She will be expected to cleanse her spirit, abandon her will, wear modest clothing, defer to men, and conform to the patriarchy that governs the United States. (That’s the Handmaiden’s Tale part.) To make matters worse, the arrest force includes Chase Jennings, a young man on whom Ember once had a serious crush, but is now a dead-eyed MM foot soldier.

As in all such books, Ember is too strong-willed to adapt to the Dickensian reform school to which she’s sent, or to put up with its sadistic head mistress. She is fixated upon escaping and rescuing her mother, though readers are as clueless as Ember on how she’s going to do this. Chase aids her flight, but can she trust him? (Think the dynamics of Katniss and Peeta in The Hunger Games.) The two set off across burnt over and burnt out parts of country, where they will have to fend off desperate postwar survivors who would be happy to rob and kill them. They are making their way toward South Carolina, allegedly a refuge beyond the control of the MM. And, of course, they meet with Resistance fighters. (The Road, anybody?)

We’ve seen all this before in much better literary form and with far greater dramatic development. Simmons’ novel has logic holes through which one could drive several commandeered vehicles. For all its obvious flaws, though, the book is a breezy read–a classic guilty pleasure. Grade it a B for pastiche, a C for drama, and a D for originality. It’s also pretty much a PG-13 book devoid of sex or graphic descriptions of violence. Assuming you’re a non-evangelical parent, the book could be used to discuss with teens important issues such as the role of women in society, who defines morality, and who watches the moral watchers. Adult readers will probably find it little more than light airplane reading that sends them back to Margaret Atwood. Who can begrudge a book that renews interest in that fine North American woman of letters? --Rob Weir

PS– ­While I’m handing out grades, how about an F for our current state of society? As an educator, I’m alarmed by how few young people have the slightest belief in the possibility of utopia, but can easily conjure a Hunger Games/Article 5 nightmare future. What does it say about our society when vampires, zombies, and a Mad Max future populate the teen reading world?

Rani Arbo and daisy mayhem Break Down Boundaries

RANI ARBO & daisy mayhem

Some Bright Morning

Signature Sounds 2076

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Some Bright Morning was recorded in Massachusetts, but Ray Bonneville’s guitar contribution for “Travelin’ Shoes” was sent from Texas–an apt device for a project that obliterates lots of boundaries. Categorizing daisy mayhem’s music is a challenge. Arbo has a penchant for gospel music with a secular tinge, which one will hear to beautiful effect on “Crossing the Bar,” her musical scoring of the famed Tennyson poem. But then there’s Anand Nayak’s cover of Bruce Springsteen’s “Reason to Believe,” which is what The Boss might have done it if he was feeling a little bit country. Nayak confounds again On “Johnny Brown” with his down-and-dirty electric guitar that’s somewhere between Chicago-style and Delta blues. And, of course, the band follow with a tune called “Fall River” that sounds as if it was penned to honor the hamlet in southern Tennessee, not the city in southern Massachusetts. That’s also closer to the neck of the woods Andrew Kinsey explores on “Fire in the Sky,” with a vocal that sounds like he’s channeling Ralph Stanley. But when the band gets to an honest-to-goodness Appalachian chestnut like “East Virginia”–a variant of a Child Ballad no less–we get a slowed-down and soulful treatment with sensitive fiddle and guitar solos, not the expected bluegrass breakdown. And let’s give a nod to the singer songwriter tradition while we’re at it. Arbo has two (completely) original compositions on this album, “Bridges” and the “Miami Moon.” The first is Arbo’s musing on the parallel destruction done by Hurricane Irene and the dissolution of a friend’s marriage; the second a swingy song to honor a departed neighbor who loved to dance. Try to get the chorus of “Miami Moon” out of your head. Give up? Complete surrender–that’s my suggested response to everything on this fine album.

Watch and listen to the kick-butt opening track "Here Jerusalem Moan."  

Séan McGann: Beyond Great Big Sea

SÉAN McCANN

Son of a Sailor

Lean Ground Music 2-000063

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Originally published in SingOut! Magazine 54:4

Longtime Great Big Sea (GBS) mainstay Séan McCann also indulges his singer/songwriter persona. Son of a Sailor is his second solo release and the material and feel of it suggest he’s evolving a new genre: Salt Water & Western. The album consists of ten songs that explore blue-collar life, plebian dreams, and everyday heartaches. To set the mood, McCann varies his vocal styles. Sometimes he’s a smooth tenor, sometimes a winsome (and ironic) Irishman, and at other moments he’s earnest, raspy-voiced, and contemplative. Above all, he’s a storyteller. “The Reply (the ballad of John and Mary)” is an across-time love song based loosely on his grandparents that’s like a conversation between two hearts beating in unison. “Soldier’s Song” is an interior look into men deployed away from home that reminds us that they generally think about family, not manufactured warrior ideals. McCann also sings of the lure of the sea (“Rather be a Sailor”), but he balances the ideal with the real. In “Another Long Goodbye” he cleverly uses the romantic ambience of the tune to strip away overly romantic notions of what hard work and seafaring entail. Those who know McCann only from GBS will find his solo efforts less rowdy, more personal, and more folksy than pop. You have to make your way to “Back to You,” the final track, before you get anything that approaches GBS in energy. That’s not a dig; McCann’s quiet, reflective side is sublime.

-Rob Weir    

What if the Rapture came and All the Wrong People Left?

LEFTOVERS (2011)

Tom Perrotta

St. Martin’s 978-031235034

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What if the Rapture occurred, but it was nothing at all like the End-of-Times evangelical Christians—called dispensationalists, if you care—said it would be? What if millions of people suddenly disappeared but there was no discernible rhyme, reason, or pattern? What if way more children, reprobates, animists, Buddhists, Muslims, Jews, non-devout Christians, and everyday sinners disappeared than Born-Again fundamentalists? How would the world react? This is the intriguing question novelist Tom Perrotta poses in Leftovers, a book clearly aimed at the smug certainty of Tim LaHaye and Apocalypse-worshipping devotees of his Left Behind novels. (Perrotta also had the good fortune to have this book hit the shelves when Christian radio loose cannon Howard Camping predicted the world would end on May 21, 2011.)

Much like cartoonist Matt Groening (The Simpsons), Perrotta chooses a white-bread suburbia to play out the drama of the post-disappearance world. His Springfield is called Mapleton, a place that feels like one of those fixated on 50s-style family values ‘burbs in the Bible Belt (think Greater Atlanta). As one might expect, what was dubbed the Sudden Departure caused range of responses in Mapleton. The Rev. Matt Jamison is among those men of the cloth who insisted that the event was not The Rapture. His unique proof of that assertion is to become a one-man smut-and-truth exposé squad who reveals the affairs, substance abuse, and general unworthiness of those who vanished, which he duly broadcasts to Mapletonians. Learning that her husband was a philanderer is not helpful to Nora, an attractive young woman who lost her spouse and two children to the Sudden Departure and is so depressed that she spends her days watching the Spongebob Squarepants reruns she once shared with her offspring. Even those families left intact are confused. Perrotta focuses on the Garveys. Paterfamilias Kevin has just been elected mayor of his shocked town, while his wife, Laurie, becomes unglued and joins the Guilty Remnants, one of the many cults that emerged. The Garveys’ son, Tom, is also in a cult—one run by Holy Wayne, a former UPS driver with a harem of young Asian women. Too young …  as it turns out. When Wayne is carted off to jail for pedophilia, Tom loses most of his faith, though he accepts the task of ushering one of Wayne’s wives to a safe house as she is alleged to be bearing a son who will be the new messiah. Daughter Jill chooses a live-for-today route; she befriends bad girl Aimee, who moves in with the Garveys about the time Laurie moves out, and assists Jill’s transformation from honor student to angry low-life.

The book is provocative and, as one might expect, has been widely denounced by those who believe in The Rapture. The Guilty Remnants are especially controversial, as their level of fanaticism suggests all manner of unsavory things about those who live beyond reason. The GR—as they refer to themselves—dress in white, take vows of silence, and make it their mission to become worthy of being raptured by shaming the rest of Mapleton. Their presence is generally heralded by their smell; they chain-smoke, a thoroughly modern mortification of the flesh that’s easier to accommodate as cigarettes are more attainable than hair shirts.  Many of their mannerisms reminded me of the Ellen Jamesians in John Irving’s The World According to Garp.

Perrotta also dares to ask what would happen if years passed with no more disappearances and no explanation for the ones that did occur. Is it possible to move on? Can, for example, Kevin and Nora ease their individual sorrows in each other’s company? This is the sort of question Kevin Brockmeier raised in a different context in his own The Illumination, though he handled it better than Perrotta. I reveal nothing by telling you that many readers will be unsatisfied by how Perrotta’s novel ends. Don’t let that deter you; Leftovers is the kind of book that sparks spirited and needed debates over the presumptions of faith, public morality, private guilt, and collective healing. Sometimes the book’s ideas outclass its style and plot, but there’s nothing wrong with that.  --Rob Weir

Ewan McLennan a true Emerging Artist

EWAN McLENNAN

Rags & Robes

Fellside 235

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This review originally ran in SingOut! Magazine issue 54:4

“Emerging artist” is an overused phrase, but I’m happy to make an exception for the stunning debut release of Ewan McLennan. With songs such as “Arthur McBride,” “A Man’s a Man,” and “I’m a Rover,” the Edinburgh-raised McLennan covers familiar ground, but he does so with a gentleness and a freshness of voice that makes the old new. It’s a quiet album reminiscent of Andy M. Stewart’s post-Silly Wizard solo work in mood. And, like Stewart, McLennan’s tenor voice is unique. It has the timbre of a contemporary such as Paul McKenna, but with more vibrato and with a hint of a rasp. If that sounds gritty, the effect is quite the opposite; McLennan keeps all the ornaments under control and croons with a soothing smoothness. Thus he transforms the feel of a rough roustabout song such as “Tramps and Hawkers” into something that sounds like carefree lads at sport. Equally affecting his velvet-gloved version of “Jack Stewart,” which emerges as less of a drinking song than fellowship with an elderly friend. Each of the fourteen tracks pleases, and each leaves you wanting to hear what McLennan will do next. 

Rob Weir

The Tiger's Wife Way Better than Recent Pulitzer Winners

Téa Obreht

The Tiger’s Wife (2011)

Random House 978038543831

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Count me among the stunned when this year’s Pulitzer committee declined to name a winner for fiction–virtually every novel I’ve read this year is superior to last year’s honoree, Jennifer Egan, and her mediocre A Visit from the Goon Squad. [See review.] Any list of superb novels for 2011 should certainly include Téa Obreht’s stunning debut, The Tiger’s Wife.

The blood-soaked Balkans forms the backdrop for the novel, and a curious incident from World War II provided the inspiration for the title. In 1941, the Germans bombed Belgrade; a misguided missile hit the local zoo and liberated animals it didn’t kill. This included, briefly, a tiger. Obreht uses this incident as entrée into looking at a more recent Balkan tragedy: the terrible civil wars that ensued as Yugoslavia disintegrated between 1990 and 1995. She introduces this through the eyes of a young girl, Natalia Stefanovic, whose prewar ritual accompanying her beloved grandfather, a local physician, on his periodic visits to the zoo to view the resident tiger. The kindly doctor always carried a copy of The Jungle Book with him, an appropriate prop for a man whose later life was consumed by storytelling. Flash forward to the early 21^st century and we find Natalia as a young adult who has followed her grandfather into the medical profession, though she’s come to think of him as a compulsive oddity and appears to have been less shaped by his stories than by 1960s-style folk music, 70s/80s rock and roll, and the ennui tempered by cynicism emblematic of a generation trying to pick up the pieces left by years of war. We meet Natalia and a colleague, Zóra, in a neighboring breakaway nation, where they try to administer help in a Balkans-style Physicians Without Borders program, but are met with stares, suspicion, and resistance that serve to deepen divisions rather than heal them. To make matters worse, Natalia has just received word that her grandfather has died on a trip to visit her, a sojourn about which she was unaware, but needs to explain.  

Phew! That’s a lot of claws scratching at the plot and plenty more unfurl in the pages to come. Luckily, this is not a conventional novel and Obreht can play loose with facts, chronological sequencing, and objective reality. The book isn’t about the Balkans or Natalia per se; it’s about regional identity, antagonisms, family, and those transcendent moments in which shared humanity dissolves individual and cultural differences. Obreht writes in a magical realism style that brings to life folk tales, fables, and incredulities. Do not think of this is a single, coherent story–it is actually a collection of short stories, each of which provides threads from which a larger truth can be spun. The stories intersect, but you’ll need to be on your toes. Don’t look for objective history either; Obreht deliberately elides historical detail, falsifies geography, infers ethnicities, and obliterates judgments so that we concentrate on the individual human dramas that would otherwise be lost amidst the larger tragedies.

Her grandfather’s native village, for instance, is rendered as Galina. (I seem to be the only reviewer to have noticed that this is Russian for Galen, the name of a famed Roman physician.) The 1941 zoo bombing has been moved to this city, which is patterned on Mostar. (The allusion to the bombing of a famed bridge gives it away.) The tale that gives the book its title involves a deaf-mute woman, who is also Muslim, who has been badly abused. Her husband, Luka, was tricked into marrying her, the latest disappointment in his life. He is the local butcher, but he had dreamed of becoming a poet and gusle player. (The gusle is a one-stringed instrument favored by poets and troubadours.) When Luka meets his demise while trying to hunt the tiger, his wife is assumed to be in league with the animal and villagers whisper that she has bedded the beast. (The tiger, in this sense, appears as a Satanic symbol for superstitious and Islamaphobic Christians–another metaphor for the Balkans wars.)  

Another tale that makes numerous appearances is that of the Deathless Man. It does not matter how badly he’s abused or disfigured, he survives his horrors with little more to show from his traumas than scars and a voracious thirst. This one intersects with a 21^st century story of a villager hell-bent on finding the bones of a relative he hastily buried during the recent war. One could easily see both as metaphors for the indomitable human spirit–perhaps even as symbols of how humanity survives despite its best efforts at self-annihilation. Those who wish can probably find symbolism in just about everything. The tiger, for instance, could be a play on TIGR, the acronym of a Slovene anti-Nazi resistance group during World War II. Who knows? As I said, Obreht does not name or point fingers. Want to complicate things more? She’s actually of Croat descent, but her family left Yugoslavia before the Balkan wars and she grew up in the United States.

The beauty of this book is that you can play detective and try to connect all the dots and match the fictional scenes to real places and events. Or you could just surrender to the mystery and magic. I won’t pretend that The Tiger’s Wife is an easy read, but it’s moving, thoughtful, and uplifting in very unexpected ways. And it sure is better than anything that’s won a Pulitzer lately.--Rob Weir

Grateful Dead Film Super Musical and Problematic Historical Chronicle

THE GRATEFUL DEAD (and others)

Dawn of the Dead

Sexy Intellectual, 2012, 138 mins.

The Grateful Dead machine continues to pump out merch. Even diehard Deadheads admit that Grateful Dead films stretch the definition of surrealism, hence Dawn of the Dead will come a revelation–it’s easily the most comprehensible film project ever done on Jerry Garcia and the lads. The hardcore may not be as pleased to see their heroes as just part of a larger drama rather the movers and shakers of all things groovy.

The Grateful Dead is placed solidly within a broader context: folk music, jug bands, avant-garde modernism, and emerging subcultures. We see the Dead emerge from late 50s/early 60s ethos in which the Beats slowly yielded to hippies, with a big assist given by the Merry Pranksters. The film smartly documents the musical evolution in the Bay area, a reminder that acid rock owed as much inspirational debt to protest singers, bluegrass pickers, experimental composers, and jazz artists as Stanley Owsley’s prowess with a chemistry set. Once the Bay area scene unfolds, the film makes The Dead central, but the video gives lots of screen time to others, including: Monterrey Pop artists, The Jefferson Airplane, Janis Joplin, The Charlatans, and Quicksilver Messenger Service. Members of the latter two groups have as much to say about what went down as Dead insiders such as Rock Scully, Phil Lesh, and Bob Weir. We witness the rise of mid-‘60s utopian dreams, which culminated in Family Dog Productions, the Diggers, Bill Graham and Fillmore West, and the 1967 Summer of Love. We also see the magic dissipate amidst San Francisco’s post-‘67 urban chaos and the 1969 Altamont festival, The film is one of the best explanations I’ve viewed of the Americana musical retreat beaten by former psychedelic artists fleeing to the relative sanity of Marin County and beyond. Overall the film is a dizzying tour of musical (and hippie) milestones between 1960 through 1971.

As a musical history it is absolutely first-rate. Its major weakness is that it could stand to lose a few music critics in favor of consulting some social historians. There is an unintentional reductionism to the film in that the Bay area is viewed as way more representative of the 1960s than it really was. There is not question that San Francisco occupied a mythical psychic space for those seeking the Flower Child vibe, but that was just one of many paths followed in the Sixties. The filmmakers elide the counterculture, politics, and ideology, and fail to tell us that America often looked quite different once one strayed beyond Haight-Ashbury. There is also a tendency to view all young people as homogeneous, as if hippies were also politicos, for instance. Many–including the notoriously apolitical Grateful Dead–were quite separate, just as the East Coast scene was often very different from the West Coast. (This film culminates in 1971, but The Grateful Dead are not a major phenomenon in the East until later in the 1970s.) Dawn of the Dead is a superb musical chronicle, but don’t trust the social commentary.--Rob Weir