The Martian: Contemplating the Worst

THE MARTIAN (2014)

By Andy Weir

Crown Publishers, 369 pp. 9780804139038 (e-version)

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Human beings are pack animals, which helps explain our fascination with such asocial themes such as hermits, survivalists, and marooned individuals. We can't help wonder what we would do if stranded on a desert island or cast adrift in the sea. Think of movies such as Jeremiah Johnson, Cast Away, All is Lost, Into the Wild, Wrecked, Behind Enemy Lines…. We are obsessed with the very idea of staying alive against long odds, as in Hunger Games or Survival. Of course, there is Western culture's most famous example of desperate individualism, Daniel Defoe's Robinson Crusoe, a book seldom out of print since it appeared in 1719. What would we do if we were literally the last person on earth?

As we see in all such productions, the islands are not "desert" atolls devoid of all survival tools, food, and water, or the film/book/show would be a very short one indeed. Likewise, the "last" person usually isn't–he or she is part of a small band, or a Friday materializes somewhere in the narrative. Andy Weir's page-turning science fiction novel ups the ante. What if you really were the last person alive in an environment with no soil, food, water, or air? What if there was no Friday to offer companionship and you knew if wasn't remotely possible for a rescue team to reach you for four years, assuming anyone even learns you did not perish in the accident in which your crewmates thought you were killed? When would you ingest toxins provided for such an eventuality?

 The Martian has been accurately called an amalgam of Apollo 13 and Cast Away. Some time in the near future the crew of the Ares 3 Mars mission is conducting experiments on Mars when a freak dust storm tears an antenna from its moorings and impales their colleague, Mark Watney, sending him tumbling down a ravine. The crew has seconds to enter escape pods and head for the mother ship before the storm envelops them. There's nothing that can be done as Watney's suit was punctured and the commander's reading of Watney's suit monitor confirms death, probably from an explosion of his blood vessels occasioned by sudden and total depressurization of his space suit. There's nothing to do but save themselves and return to the ship to mourn during their two-year journey back to earth.

Except Watney doesn't die. His own blood seals the puncture and he manages to scramble back to his habitat. Emergency self-surgery is the easy part. How can he survive in a hab unit with air, food, and water designed to sustain for months, not years? And Watney can't contact anyone–that suit-piercing antenna was part of the communications array. Mark's a resourceful guy, but each time he runs the supply numbers, the math comes up short–by several years. Should he just inject himself and become a for-real casualty?

Two things transpire, the details of which will astound science geeks. First, NASA has left behind all kinds of space junk–rovers, habitats, old suits, solar cells, etc.–that can be jerry rigged, especially by an outside-the-box thinker like Watney. He even figures out how to produce some soil for crops, though the explanation isn't for the squeamish! I'm no scientist, but Weir's explanations of how Watney produces food, air, and water sound plausible. But Watney also knows that if he has any chance of rescue, he will have to time a rover drive to the Ares 4 landing site at exactly the right time–a daunting task as it's 2,000 miles away, he'll have to recharge the rover, and its top speed is 15 mph. Are you up for a four-month drive in a vehicle you can't leave? And even if everything goes right, it's still going to be a crawl to the end in which he could die before rescue.

Once Watney begins to move about, an observant NASA official notices the activity. But what to do about it? As we are reminded in Weir's taut novel, NASA has to jump through political hoops, not just scientific ones. I don't want to give away too much, so suffice it say that this is a beat-the-clock story akin to The China Syndrome or The Andromeda Strain (with much better science). There is also the question of how long one can live with one's self, a reminder that hermits are more romantic in fiction than in reality.

Weir's book is thought provoking, smart, and intense. You don't have to be a physicist to read it (though it would help), nor do you have to be a sci-fi fan. (I don't read much sci-fi, though I loved this book.) The Martian is ultimately about the will to live versus real and imagined limits. It makes us contemplate hope, human ingenuity, and our personal tolerance for unspeakable loneliness.  Rob Weir

Note: To the best of my knowledge, Andy Weir is not related to yours truly.

Kris Delmhorst: Blood Test

KRIS DELMHORST

Blood Test

Signature Sounds #2065

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Back in 1996, Kris Delmhorst was a fresh new voice on the folk scene. Now she's an experienced performer and Blood Test–the titular song on her first collection of originals since 2008–reminds us she's been on the road long enough to lapse into a nostalgic mood: Remember how it used to be?/Nothing on the radio and nothing on TV/Just us and all those hours/The humming roads, the singing stars/We could listen in,we could drown it out... It's a blood test, tell me are you real? She returns to her past on "92nd Street," an homage to her New York childhood. Eighteen years on stage and six of motherhood give Delmhorst the right to be wistful. In fact, the tone of Blood Test puts me in mind of material from Patty Larkin's (or maybe Suzanne Vega's) backlist–especially the spare arrangements, the phlegmatic vocals, and lyrical twists that skirt the borders between description, irony, and unease. On "Bees," for instance, she sings: Well the leaves are turning gold/They're turning red and gold/God at least there's something changing.... Sameness also surfaces in "We Deliver."

Are these musings on the inuathenticity of modern life, reflections on social problems–a theme she decidedly explores on "Homeless"–or rumblings from her own soul? A little bit of all three? Deliberately ambiguous? Those answers would be her call, not mine. I can report, though, that there is a lot of light on this album to counterbalance gloom implied or real. "Bright Green World," for instance, is upbeat in theme and arrangment. Delmhorst was a big fan of The Cars, and this song pays homage to that band's pop-tinged-with-New Wave feel. There's also the jangly "Temporary Sun," which rocks out to Mark Spencer's electric guitar, Anders Parker's bass, and Konrad Meissner's drums. Add a few straight up folk songs and Blood Test passes the good album litmus test. I'll leave the rest to armchair pyschologists. Rob Weir

Places to Avoid in New England

There's still some summer left and folks from hot climes think about cooling off in New England. Leaving aside the fact that New England humidity is often a rude surprise, the region has lots of charming places to visit: Vermont, Acadia National Park, Newport, Cape Cod, the White Mountains, the Berkshires, the Maine coast from York to Bethel... Those wanting an urban experience will find Boston a cultural and historical gem (and foodie paradise), Providence full of pleasant surprises, and Portland , ME and Burlington, VT the kind of places that spark the question, "Why wasn't I told about this place?"

Lawrence: New England's worst. But it has competition

The key to a good trip is knowing also where not to go. In truth, there simply aren't that many "nice" American cities and New England has the dishonor of sporting some real cesspools. Connecticut, for instance, has some of the poorest cities in the country, even though its per capita income is among the highest. As a public service, here are places you should avoid at all cost:

1. Lawrence, MA: If you wanted to update Dante's Inferno, Lawrence would be the ticket. It's a played out mill town that's become a dumping ground for social problems. Too poor to live in an urban ghetto? Try Lawrence. Last or near the bottom in every negative category imaginable.

2. Bangor, ME: Motorcycle gangs, fast food, and desperate people spending what they don't have in a faux-glitz casino. Bangor, once a lumber town, has always been rough, but the modern city exudes bad vibes.

3. New Haven, CT: Yale is there and it has amazing museums, but do not get lost here. Think gangbangers and crime ranging from petty (breaking into cars) to murder. For the record, New Haven pizza is America's most overrated.

4. Springfield, MA: On a warm day the stench of the Connecticut River's Bondi's Island waste treatment facility will force you to close the car windows. And that's one of the city's better features. The gateway to the postindustrial nightmare of Holyoke, Springfield has very little to recommend it, except the Basketball Hall of Fame. Luckily, that's just off the interstate, though you can see/smell Bondi's from there.

5. Central Falls/Pawtucket, RI: No jobs, decaying factories, dead downtowns... Central Falls was recently voted the worst town in America. That's not true, but not even Rhode Islanders find charm within the joined towns of Central Falls and Pawtucket. McCoy Stadium­, which opened in 1942, is one of minor league baseball's oldest venues. Not much else has been updated in Pawtucket either.

6. Lewiston, ME: A city that has become a dumping ground for refugees–especially Somalians–but this place was a pit long before they got there and they've actually made the town better. It's Holyoke with a colder climate.

7. St. Albans, VT: Here's a handle you don't want: the heroin capital of Vermont. The only other thing for which it's known is a Walmart frequented by bargain-hunting Quebecois. This saint should be desanctified.

8. Worcester, MA: The Detroit of Massachusetts–that is, a blue-collar tomb of crumbling red brick, rotting triple deckers, crime, and truly scary-looking street walkers. There are some nice parts to Worcester, but unless you know the city well and can negotiate traffic through its incomprehensible "squares" (which never have that shape), you'll never find them and neither will your GPS.

9. Brockton, MA & Bridgeport, CT: Even if these cities were not crime-ridden there would no reason to vist them. Does anything at all come to mind when you think of these places? I didn't think so.

10. Manchester, NH: Back in the day, Manchester was the world's largest industrial city. That day was the turn of the 20th century. Buildings of the former Amoskeag textile firm still line the riverbank, but Manchester is the poster child of New England deinstrialization. It has a nice minor league ballpark and enterprising city leaders. Some day it might turn around, but that day's not here yet.

Springfield's Losing Bet

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Downtown Atlantic City. See any prosperity?

 Springfield, Massachusetts–a city as high on anyone's vacation agenda as, say, Detroit. Like Detroit it's a postindustrial hellhole–a dumping ground for recent immigrants and poor folks because of its vacant housing stock. It's been in decline since the machine tool industry collapsed in the 1960s. Ask Western Massachusetts locals to describe it and you'll get gang warfare, drugs, racial tension, substandard schools, and slums. It has its charms–the Basketball Hall of Fame, a decent art museum, a few colleges–but few rational people spend more time there than they must. If Springfield were a dog, it would have been put down.

It's hardly a surprise that Springfield lobbied long and hard to secure one of the three casino licenses approved by Massachusetts legislators. City officials such as Mayor Domenic Sarno speak boldly of casinos as economic engines to revitalize the city, though it's just public posturing. In truth, Springfield is grasping at straws. Casinos are the latest desperate grab, after an inner city mall and a new Basketball Hall of Fame failed to make a dent, and no minor league baseball team wanted to relocate there. I'm not sure anything can revitalize Springfield, but the only bet I'll ever make there is that casinos are not the answer. The city will try–assuming Bay State voters don't repeal the casino enabling law in November–but casinos are the worst idea yet for trying to deter Springfield from its an inexorable slide to become Botany Bay without the view.

First, casinos are going to cost a bundle: improved access to the site, water main upgrades, tax abatements, costly demolition projects, utilities of all sorts…. The city has no money; hence it will have to bleed schools and social services to get it. Expect the city's grim social statistics to get even worse in the short run. It will be sold as short-term leveraging to secure a glittery future. Sure–said the man down to his last thou as he doubled down for a last spin on the roulette wheel.

Casinos are destined to flop in Springfield for reasons that go beyond investment or the morality of gambling. They will flop because Springfield is Springfield. If you're a high-stakes gambler, do you have to go there to drop your cash? Why would you? Why wouldn't you jet off to Vegas, which at least has warm weather and other attractions? Or down to Florida where you can also catch some races and loll on the beach? If you want to stay close to home, why not venture down the Mass Pike to Boston, which will also have a casino? Springfield has all the lack of charm of Atlantic City, sans the ocean.

Speaking of Atlantic City, is nobody paying attention to what's happening there? Jersey casinos are folding faster than a man holding a pairless poker hand. Observers taking off their rose-colored glasses might notice that nearly four decades of legalized Atlantic City gambling made no dent in alleviating the city's squalor. Most gamblers don't even leave the hotel lobby for the Boardwalk, let alone frequent downtown merchants. Several casinos have express bus routes that literally go under parts of the city, lest gamblers be forced to gaze upon the city's urban wreckage. If Atlantic City, with its access to Philadelphia and New York City can't turn the corner through casinos, explain how Springfield can.

It's certainly not that gambling would be unique. The casino bus left the station a long time ago. Thirty-five states now have casinos, a list that includes neighboring Connecticut and New York. I'm at a loss (wordplay intended) to understand why someone from Hartford (27 miles to the south) would come to Springfield instead of driving another 10 miles to Foxwoods, an established casino in a considerably more pleasant location. Or why an Albany poker player wouldn't head for the sylvan delights of Saratoga. Who's going to fuel the gambling jet in Springfield? Locals? In a city whose median income is six grand below the state average?

I could go on, but my money's on the following: a casino opens, costs Springfield a bundle, exacerbates already bad social statistics, struggles, and in 5-6 years folds it tent. Springfield has it backward. You need to make people want to come by cleaning up Dodge City, not adding to gun play. Want to know what casinos will mean to the city? Take a trip to Detroit. Not comparable you say? Try Bangor, Maine. It has a casino and if it gets more grim than Bangor, I don't want to know about it.

Rod MacDonald: Protest with a Wink, a Smile (and some anger)

ROD MacDONALD

Later That Night

Blue Flute Music 107

Every few years the mainstream media drives a lame stallion out of the stable to see if he'll gallop. All of a sudden there will be a spate of articles on the disappearance of protest music and every explanation except the right ones will be trotted out to tell us why there is no Dylan, Ochs, or Seeger in our midst. I think it was Holly Near who incredulously responded to a journalist's question of where all the idealists have gone by remarking, "You must be hanging around with the wrong people." Anyone who doubts Near's wisdom should check out Ron Olesko's excellent piece on David Rovics in SingOut! 55:4 (Spring 2014). Or maybe listen to Holly's music instead of asking her stupid questions.

There are some big differences between now and protest music's heyday in the 1960s. Unwilling draftees don't staff American wars for one; the civil rights movement battles for justice more in courts than on the streets for two. Plus, as folks like the late Utah Phillips observed, liberal uses of humor and irony go down better with post-Baby Boomers. And let's not forget that performers draw upon personal as well as public events for creative inspiration and that they need to make a living. Need I remind you that one of folk music's greatest gifts is capturing the universal human condition, not just the evening news.

A young musician looking to strike a balance between righteous anger, bemused irony, and just plain old good songwriting should check out folk vet Rod MacDonald. Later That Night is Rod's fourteenth album and it finds him in well-tuned wit, voice, and melody. He takes down religion's nasty social uses on "Hole in the Bible" and gives the same treatment to the G.O.P. on his hysterical calypso/reggae/folk mash-up "Young Republicans in Love." If you wonder if humor can change things, check out MacDonald's six-minute narrative ballad, "White Flour," which recounts the 2007 tale of how clowns took down the Ku Klux Klan in Knoxville, Tennessee. MacDonald is no shrinking violet. Although it's quite different musically from Cheryl Wheeler's rap "If It Were Up to Me," MacDonald's "Joe Public" similarly refuses to excuse working-class louts who cite all manner of excuse and imagined enemies to explain why they act and vote against their own interests. That's not to say that he's unsympathetic. Every union hall in American ought to be playing his "Last American Worker," the best pro-worker song I've heard in over a decade. MacDonald names the real enemies, including banks, Wall Street, global capitalism, the health care industry, and greedy shareholders. His refrain, "He's the last American worker/And they've got him dead in their sights/They've taken away everything that he worked for/Somebody turn out the lights."  

But if you think everything is angst and gloom, it's not. "That's Why You Play the Game" is a series of vignettes of those who were declared down for the count and got up for a few more rounds–"That's why you play the game/Because you never ever know/What you can't do till you do your best/Till you put yourself to the test/And win or lose or show/You stood tall just the same/My little darling/That's why we play the game." Optimism also shines through on songs like "Raven," with its catchy guitar lick in the vein of "Here Comes the Sun," and the bluegrass-influenced "To My Dearest One." Even more impressively, MacDonald makes us hopeful when he takes on a tough subject such as mental illness ("We're All One").  

Sometimes MacDonald gets out of synch. "Big Time Record Contract" is an anachronism in the age of downloads that pay musicians a fraction of a penny; and "Don't Come Knocking" has a fun soul/blues groove, but the subject matter is a tired old sex joke. But call these two the defects in an otherwise sparkling gem. And the next time someone asks you where good protest music has gone, make that person listen to this CD.

Rob Weir

Run Away Dorothy Worth the Wait

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RUNAWAY DOROTHY

The Wait

Self Produced

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Runaway Dorothy’s music has been endorsed by Ryan Adams and Roseanne Cash. It has been compared to that of Jakob Dylan, Mumford and Sons, Wilco, and Counting Crows. The alt-country/alt-rock/Americana sounds of Counting Crows is indeed a good comparison–if you toss in the atmospheric arrangements of Snow Patrol and hints of Credence Clearwater for good measure. The Brooklyn-based quartet of Dave Parnell (vocals, harmonica, guitar), brother Brett (electric guitar), Warren Robbing (bass), and Evan Mitchell (drums) tend to walk on the sunnier side of life and the instrumentation could use more diversity, but they have just enough edge to skirt being twee.

The band’s usual fare can be heard on tracks such as “Sing with Me” and “Let the Right One In.” The arrangements line up behind Dave Parnell’s lead vocals. His voice is dry but not gritty, and emotive but devoid of affected stress. Toss in tight harmonies, some jangly guitar, and let it shimmer. In “Let the Right One In,” for instance, drums and lead vocal are in the foreground, whilst everything else pulses behind it–highlights rather than deep color. There are lots of relationship songs, the edgy nervousness of “Hurry” being a highlight, and even a breakup song such as “Background” hints of redemption. Those looking for anything darker will have to content themselves with “Blue Kentucky Rain,” which is a modern-day Dust Bowl song with a sweet chorus; until they get to the final track, “Ballad of a Dead Man,” a vigilante revenge tale.  

In candor, Runaway Dorothy will need to temper its formula if it hopes to break out of a crowded alt-country market. Their song arrangements, though not identical, have a sameness of spirit that leaves a listener feeling as if The Wait is eleven movements of the same song. The album is a thoroughly enjoyable album that will please immensely, though it seldom challenges. I can’t knock that, but I also hear a band in need of a signature rather than more comparisons. Rob Weir

Here's a YouTube of the opening track.

Belly Dance Music (Really!)

JALILAH

Jalilah’s Raks Sharki Stage Cuts

Piranha 2856

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Who can explain passion? The performer known as Jalilah was born Lorraine Zamora Chamas and raised in California. Thirty years ago she fell in love with the raks sharki dance style–that’s belly dancing to those of us whose midsections jiggle more than jig–and began a journey that’s taken her to Egypt, Germany, Lebanon, and Canada. She’s made six albums of belly dance music, usually with highly regarded Middle Eastern orchestra leaders such as we find on this culling from her previous recordings: Mokhtar Al-Said, Hossam Shaker, and Ihsan Al-Mounzer. If the music reminds you of music you’ve encountered in old black and white movies, it’s because Jalilah prefers the vibe and rhythms of 1930s/40s style dances. Her major nod to modernity is the realization that today’s audiences have shorter attention spans. These are indeed stage “cuts,” in that she’s taken music/dance performances that would have originally run up to twenty minutes and knocked then down to five or fewer.

Belly dance music, you say? Isn’t that a bit (as the British say) naff? It can be. Raks Sharki thrives in the seam between don’t-touch eroticism and melodrama. The music is look-at-me diva style that wiggles its way to the line separating dynamism and histrionics and sometimes transgresses it. You can close you eyes and conjure the jingling bells, slapped tambourines, swishing veils, gyrating bodies, and colored backlighting. How long can you hold the fantasy? How many dramatic pauses, sudden restarts, and swelling interludes are your limit? Some may find that sixteen tracks of this are too much, even in truncated form; others may wish for more. I wouldn’t want to listen to this every day, but it’s surprisingly good road music and it certainly serves to demolish any rut in which you may find yourself stuck. My bottom line is that I overcame my abiding dislike for performers with just one name and listened to the whole thing. It’s a small standard, I realize, but how else is one to judge something this far from one’s own journey?  Rob Weir

Here’s a clip of Jalilah doing her thing. And if you mail a check for $20 to my private bank account I promise not to post a YouTube of me attempting the same thing!