The Interestings: Good, but not Great

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THE INTERESTINGS  (2013)

Meg Wolitzer

Riverhead Books, 480 pages, 978-159488399

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Entertainment Weekly Magazine proclaimed The Interestings one of the best novels of 2013. That's quite an exaggeration in a year in which its list did not include The Goldfinch, which just happened to win the Pulitzer Prize! But one can certainly understand why the editors of a pop culture magazine would like it. The novel's major characters were born in 1960, which technically makes them Baby Boomers, but these are kids for whom the mythical 60s were passé before they got out of grade school. They talk about the 60s, but as parrots mouthing lines from their parents and TV. In actuality, their blossoming values owe more to the Stoicism-meets-pragmatism-and-materialism of the emerging generation. In fact, you might want to think of the last half of The Interestings as Doug Coupland's Generation X grown up–a bit like some of those on recent EW boards.

The Interestings opens in 1974, when Jules Jacobson finds herself at the Spirit of the Woods summer camp. She's a gawky, frizzy-haired, Jewish middle-class kid amidst the spawn of the rich and would be the proverbial fish out of water if she had the faintest clue of who she was in the first place. Her forays among the rich and beautiful convince her that she wants to escape the bourgeois 'burbs but as projectiles go, she's more sponge than skyrocket. At the camp, she hangs out with five others above her socially: Jonah Bay, the son of a famous folksinger; Ash and Goodwin Wolf, well-heeled New Yorkers; Cathy Kiplinger, who yearns to be a dancer; and Ethan Figman, an imaginative but dorky-looking guy who lives in a dream world of his own invention and illustration. Jules gets by with snark and obeisance, the six dub themselves The Interestings, and they revel in pretensions of their own superiority whilst sipping vodka and Tang cocktails. Amidst the solipsism, Jules and Ash become best friends.

The book follows the six across the decades and against a (stereotypical) backdrop of the cultural markers: cults, women's liberation, Nixon's resignation, New York City's descent into near-bankruptcy, the Yuppie greed of the Reagan years, MTV, AIDS, TED-like conferences…. Personal journeys evoke the age-old question of whether it is better to flameout in youth, or to suffer the disappointments of adult life. Jules dreamed of becoming a comic actress, but instead became a psychologist married to the steady but average Dennis and wonders if she ever had any aptitude for much of anything. Cathy never became a dancer, the gifted Jonah gave up music, and the hunky Goodman's only talent was for being a jerk. There's also the frustrating question of proven soulmates who know they cannot be together, as in the case of Jules and Ethan. Ethan has become fabulously successful and rich–his boyhood fantasies converted into Matt Groening-like cartoon, TV, and film franchises. He and Ash are married and she is a successful feminist playwright. They are also best friends with Jules and Dennis, but there is an enormous wealth gap between them, which leads Jules to realize that it has always been such. An attempt of Jules and Dennis to turn back the clock is particularly poignant because we know what they do not–you can never go home again.

This is a book that probes whether or not the identities we show others are reinvention, subterfuge, or charlatanism. It is also about dreams and frustrations, social class and assumed privileges. Many reviewers, like those of Entertainment Weekly, have given it more gravitas than it deserves. Wolitzer's characters are well developed and their back stories keep our interest, but there simply aren't many layers to either. Similarly, Wolitzer's peeks into American society feel more like contrivance than relevance. The book is also relentlessly New York in its outlook–a bit like a Woody Allen script with more believable dialogue. Like an Allen movie, The Interestings is filled with delicious moments and vignettes, but its characters are hard to admire or love. They are the sorts with which we sometimes identify, but just as often want to smack with a plank. I suppose this gives the book an air of verisimilitude, so I give this book a qualified recommendation. It is a diverting read that has occasional insight, but don't buy into the hype. –Rob Weir

Ginger Baker: Jazz in Semi-Retirement

GINGER BAKER

Why? A Sampler

Show of hands—who remembers Cream? If you do, you'll probably also recall that Ginger Baker was the drummer backing Eric Clapton and Jack Bruce. Baker was so identified with Cream and Blind Faith that few know that his first love was American jazz, not rock and roll. Baker is now 75 and lives in South Africa, but he's still playing music. He even hits the road occasionally, though it's almost always with the quartet Jazz Confusion. If the three-song sampler I recently received is any indication, there's plenty of verve and energy left in Baker's sticks.

The other members of Jazz Confusion are Pee Wee Ellis on saxophone, Alec Dankworth on bass, and Abass Dodo on African hand percussion. I am simply not qualified to judge the merits of Jazz Confusion or Baker's role in it. I have never played or listened to much jazz and, aside from a brief fascination with Buddy Rich, know next to nothing about jazz drummers. I can tell you that there's a lot of percussion on the sampler, including several Baker solos. The three tunes I sampled are in the bebop tradition. The tunes are thus conversations between the musicians with improv breakouts that Baker anchors with steady beats. Ellis–who has backed both James Brown and Van Morrison–is a marvel who draws so much inspiration from John Coltrane that you can be a jazz ignoramus and know that much. But make no mistake, this is exploratory jazz, even when the quartet interprets material such as "AikoBiaye," a Nigerian folk song.

Jazz fans should check out what Baker is up to these days. Those of you looking for "Sunshine of Your Love" should steer clear. "Why?" is the closest thing to rock on the sampler–it has gritty bass lines and pop hooks–but even it veers into the stratosphere. If you don't like this sort of music, Baker couldn't care less. On the other hand, I'd like to hear from those of you who like and understand jazz. This isn't my cup of tea, but I could be convinced to sip some more.  –Rob Weir

There's Always Room for Erin and Her Cello

ERIN AND HER CELLO

Petits Bisous

Erinandhercollo.com

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Attitude can be a curse or a blessing, but in the hands and voice of New York City-based Erin Hall it's a very good thing indeed. Like early Christine Lavin, Ms. Hall offers a collection of urbane, quirky, and insouciant observations of life, the city, and the crazy patchwork quilt called popular culture. But whereas Lavin was/is a folkie, Hall draws water from other wells: early 60s girl groups, vintage French pop songs, jazz, calypso, blues, and rock and roll. You never quite know what is coming next. Erin and Her Cello is the name of Hall's band and she does indeed play a bit of cello, but you'll also hear everything from boogie-woogie piano to glockenspiel.  

"2 Good 2 B True" has a Twittery name, but its musical core is that of girl groups, complete with oooh-aaahh backup singers. Hall wields her saucy little-girl vocal tones like a club she's been hiding behind her back. The clever and wry "The Doctor" also has a girl group feel, but the instrumentation is 50s style rockabilly, complete with a wailing sax. That's one of several songs that drapes satire with charm; another "Break Dancin' Man," has the tongue-in-cheek sardonic approach of trend send-ups such as Rick Dees' "Disco Duck." And we know that Hall isn't afraid to wield a lampoon harpoon; check her "Google Stock."

The above songs only scratch the surface (of vinyl, if you prefer) of this album's offbeat nature. Hall's musical inspirations include Peggy Lee, Cole Porter, and Serge Gainsborough and each gets an airing. Want some smoky, soulful, cool jazz? Try "Chaz." Prefer it with some black-note keys, a whiff of danger, and some tongue-twisting vocals? Check out "Damn." If that doesn't float you boat, how some Gainsborough-like French pop–in French no less ("Bonbons Chocolat" and the call-and-whistle title track)? How about some bouncy pop? Inappropriate attraction has never been so giddy as "Rebound Magnet." Too sweet for your taste? Try the rock shit-kicker "Walk of Fame." 

It's been a while since I reviewed a new release that's this much fun. Nor has dusting off the past sparkled with so much wit. Score one for attitude.—Rob Weir

PS: The YouTube videos aren't the best quality, but I think they show you what I mean.

Storied Life of J T Fikry is Sentimental, but Charming

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THE STORIED LIFE OF J. T. FIKRY (2104)

By Gabrielle Zevin

Algonquin 978-1616203214, 288 pp.

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How do you like your curmudgeons–redeemed or pure? Do books centered on how a child changes someone's life cause you to go "ahhhh!" or "ewwee?" I'm usually in the second camp on both questions, but The Storied Life of J. T. Fikry won me over in the end.

The Storied Life of J. T. Fikry is ironic in that it's the latest in a spate of novels set in bookstores to hit the market at about the time that bookstores are folding like an origami workshop. (The genre includes works such as Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore, The Bookshop, and The Shadow of the Wind.) Zevin uses the bookstore's declining appeal as part of her plot. J. T. Fikry is a Southeast Asian man who owns a bookstore on Alice Island–a dead ringer for Martha's Vineyard. He's a recent widower, his shop is struggling, and a prized and quite valuable first edition of Edgar Allen Poe's Tamerlane has just disappeared from his shop. Police Chief Lambiase, who investigates the theft, is like most islanders in that he tolerates Fikry because he's been on Alice Island for a long time and because everyone loved Fikry's late wife, a local gal. But he's also lukewarm about Fikry, who is a crank, misanthrope, and literary snob. The latter is among the reasons his shop is in decline. Heaven help the publishing agent who tries to interest Fikry in anything to do with vampires, zombies, celebrities, magical realism, postmodernism, or middlebrow pap. Mention names such as Stephen King, Danielle Steel, or John Grisham at your own peril!

Luckily the new agent for Knightly Press, Amelia, has been warned of Fikry's temper and tastes. She makes her way to Alice Island with a list of books sure to appeal to Fikry, but she's so charmed by the shop and the local scenery that she can't resist making a few small suggestions. They don't go over well, but to evoke a famed line from the movie Casablanca, it's the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Lord knows J. T. could use a few friends other than the two he has: Daniel Parish, a womanizing, egotistical one-hit island novelist, and his wife Ismay (who is also J. T.'s sister-in-law). Fikry's life is turned upside down when a note and a two-year-old biracial infant named Maya are left in his shop and the Alice Island ferry discovers Maya's suicidal mother floating in the bay. Fikry improbably decides to adopt Maya.

Zevin's novel spans the next sixteen years of Maya's life, J. T.'s odd relationship with Amelie, his even less probable friendship with Lambiase, and J.T.'s transformation from embittered malcontent to reluctant participant in island life. The story is at times touching and charming, but it will also test your credulity and your tolerance for coincidences.

I was won over by the book's good hear and Zevin's ability to develop memorable characters that make readers feel as if they have come to know them. She so lovingly describes the bookstore that one can almost smell the dampness escaping from used tomes. Full disclosure: I read this novel immediately after plowing through Elizabeth Catton's magisterial but challenging The Luminaries, so my enjoyment of J. T. Fikry was enhanced by the fact that it was a zippy, mentally non-taxing read. It's the kind of book that is extremely likely to be made into a saccharine feel-good film starring flavor-of-the-month celebrities. At the risk of sounding like pre-Maya J.T., I recommend you read the book before the inevitable movie comes out. I happen to share his dislike of least-common-denominator fiction.-- Rob Weir  

Sarah Miles Debut Has Identity Crisis

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SARAH MILES

One

SarahMilesMusic

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My biggest advice to young musicians is be yourself, not pieces of everyone else. One, the debut full release from Sarah Miles, has a serious identity crisis. The first of these is what to call it. Promo materials toss around labels such as folk, country, and pop. It's not a mélange–pop is the correct label. Second, there's the matter of her self-chosen comparisons: Mariah Carey, Sara Bareilles, Ingrid Michaelson, and Carrie Underwood, of which the first is closest. She has a high, girl-like whispery voice like all four, but she has the drama of Bareilles, but not her hipness; the (occasional) quiet demeanor of Michaelson, but not her attention to arrangement; and the sweetness of Underwood, but not the contrasting bottom tones to her voice. One is a "young" album that lacks confidence and tries too hard to impress us with how Miles can hit the high notes. Like Mariah Carey, she offers diva music with the forced drama of dance hall pop. (My personal comparison would be to English club ingénue Robyn.) On one track she actually sings "It's all about me" and, yes, there's too much of that going on.

I've been very harsh thus far, so allow me to temporize a bit. Miles has a promising voice that can take her places once she gets control over it and acquires better material. She has a nice catch in her throat and there are hints of husk when she puts the whispery tones on hold. (Please Lord–deliver us from little girl voices and lead us into the land of full-grown women!) One is an optimistic album, the bulk of songs being about being young and in love. Its best moments are generally the buildups to what are supposed to be hooky refrains, though the latter are overly processed, excessive, and generic.  When Miles dials it back several notches and sings to the song, not through it, the results are much stronger. We hear this to best effect on the title track, and again on "Take the Lead," the second of which feels like genuine joy rather than bludgeoned optimism. Duty requires that I dub this a very rocky debut, but I sure would like to hear Ms. Miles do something spare that connects more to an audience than to the Austin music biz.

By the way, her YouTube version of "One" is better than what's on the album.

Rob Weir

Tim's Vermeer: Portrait of Genius, Technology, and Obsession

TIM'S VERMEER (2013)

Directed by Teller

PG-13 Sony Pictures, 80 minutes

Tim Jenison has never painted a picture in his life. What would make such a man think he could re-create a masterpiece such as Johannes Vermeer's The Music Lesson? There have long been rumors that Vermeer (1632-1675) might have used optical aids to capture the minute details for which he has been acclaimed. That possibility, not Vermeer's exalted reputation, is what fascinated Jenison–an inventor/geek who made a fortune in visual imaging and post-production work for Hollywood and television.

Jenison's six-year search to uncover the key to Vermeer's precision is the subject of this fascinating documentary, which is directed by Teller and whose primary interviewer is his partner in magic, Penn Jillette, a friend of Jenison's. As noted above, Jenison wasn't the first to suspect that Vermeer's stunning use of light, color, and minute detail required the use of optical aids. In 2001, British scholar Philip Steadman put forth a compelling case that Vermeer might have used a camera obscura, a thesis shared by famed painter David Hockney. (Both men appear in the film.) Is it possible that one of Western civilization's greatest painters was also among the first to understand the implications of new optical technology? Vermeer lived at a time in which the Dutch were the richest nation in Europe and Dutch scientists pioneered in microscope lenses. In Jenison's mind, if Vermeer was using optics, he was as much a tracer as an artist and someone who had access to the same materials, studio conditions, and optical devices ought to be able to recreate a Vermeer. It was an audacious assertion, especially for one with an untrained hand–Jenison had in mind painting a Vermeer, not a likeness of one.

Vermeer's The Music Lesson

How does one even begin such an undertaking? It helps if you're rich and handy building things. How else could one build a replica of Vermeer's Delft studio in San Antonio, complete with the sort of tapestries, glass, and ceiling beams used in the 17^th century? How else can one afford to grind glass as it would have done in the 17^th century, or acquire the materials for the expensive pigments Vermeer used? Indeed, how else could one obtain a private viewing of a painting owed by Queen Elizabeth? Teller takes us inside Jenison's quest and makes the best case yet that Vermeer was as skilled with optics as with the brush.  

So did Jenison match the work of an undisputed master? You be the judge. For me, one of the remarkable things about this documentary is that it reveals one mystery and leaves others intact. It's still a near-miracle that so much talent could reside in one man, and the painstaking lengths taken by Jenison to tackle just one painting enhances my understanding of why there are just 34 known Vermeer canvases. Teller's documentary is a testament to genius, obsession, technology and God-given talent. If you think you are a person who does not like documentaries, trust me and rent Tim's Vermeer. I can practically guarantee that you will again never think of documentaries or Vermeer in the same way.  Rob Weir

Photo by me of detail from Young Woman with a Water Pitcher that shows photographic-like reverse imagery.

Nostalgia Good and Bad: The Revalists and The Bad Things

In 1959, novelist Peter De Vries dashed off a sentence destined for cultural glory: "Nostalgia ain't what it used to be." It's often used as a put-down for all things resurrected, but the phrase also implies that once nostalgia was what it used to be. I mused upon that phrase when two new releases made their way to me, one of which does a fine job of reanimating an old genre and the second of which may have its charms, but they were certainly lost on me.

First the good news: The New Orleans-based band The Revivalists makes no bones about dusting off old styles. Their latest self-titled EP evokes the mid-1960s when bands were grooving in the little seam that connected rhythm and blues to "soul" music. These groups were usually stripped down versions of R & B outfits for the simple reason that it was hard to travel with a big band. Some critics complained that the instrumentation was 'thin.' The Revivalists are a seven-piece lineup–large by today's standards–but they do sound thin if you compare them to ensembles such as those that backed Big Joe Turner. That's not the standard at which the Revivalists aim–try Van Morrison, whose tones lead vocalist David Shaw eerily invokes. This is R&B/soul at its sexy and mellow best–the kind that works up a sweat by degree, not a single burst. Shaw is a revelation–a voice filled with grit, spit, and power. Check out tunes such as "Mary Joanna the Music" and "Soulfight" and you'll definitely hear the Van Morrison influences. You'll also hear another very good thing about this band–keyboardist Michael Girardot, he of both the rolling thunder organ and the cool-to-the-touch piano. Loved this band.

Alas, I have less affection for the Seattle-based The Bad Things (not to be confused with Shaun White's band of that name) whose After the Inferno (Silent City Records) is the sort I might have loved back in 1979 or so, but which now feels like a bird that has flown. Aren't we all a bit tired of hearing about Seattle's grimy side? Especially when the antidote seems to be clash, thrash, and embrace the decadence? The Bad Things are a nostalgia mash up: the DIY ethos of punk at its height, an Irish bar band, and seedy cabaret. I admired the politics and snippets of the writing, but I couldn't get past the fact that lead vocalist Jimmy Berg lights no fires and that the instrumentation is more laconic than iconic. The DIY vibe of punk made sense during the stagflation of the 70s and heartlessness of the Reagan-Thatcher years, but it simply sounds sloppy now. That's among the reasons that punk mutated into grunge–a style that dressed up punk's anger with better sound and musicians. Were I in my 20s and hanging out in a down-market Seattle club, this band's sideshowspectacles might intrigue, but the bird of youth has also flown.   Rob Weir