I have been reading Neal Stephenson’s The Confusion, the lovely second volume in The Baroque Cycle. But as much as I love historical fiction that takes the “historical” part seriously, I needed a break this week. Not so much the holidays as the fact that I’ve finally finished drafting Enoptromancy and wanted to let my brain reboot for a few days before I start on something else (or, alternatively, go in with the machete and start hacking). Enter a lovely gift I got this holiday season from Reenie—the collected Phonogram, by Kieron Gillen (writing) and Jamie McKelvie (art).

Let me preface this by saying that Britpop saved me from Grunge as a teenager, so it holds a special place in my heart. While my fellows were depressed over Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and the Stone Temple Pilots, I was listening to Oasis, Pulp, and the Manic Street Preachers. This does not reflect intelligence or good taste on my part (I’m rarely accused of either) so much as my inherent inability to express anything but the barest emotional outbursts, not because I’m a tortured genius but because I’m a horribly shallow human being who wouldn’t know deep if I drowned in it. Britpop just let me be unapologetic about it, whereas Grunge was busy apologizing for everything. And I never had the patience for that.

So when I began Phonogram, the first impression came from the head-in-arse main character, David Kohl. I should’ve seen where that was going immediately, since I’m turned off by any and all musical and/or artistic wannabe pretenders only because a little part of me has always been one, and I have the sense to keep it in check and expect others to do me the same courtesy. But since there’s very little I enjoy more than falling in with a despicable character, it was a bit exciting. And rightfully so, as there is some clever character development in store for him, the smug little bastard (and oh, how that phrase encompasses the Britpop swagger…)

The stunning premise: Britannia, goddess of Britpop, has been dead for ten years. The main character, the aforementioned David, is still defined by her.

Hm, aren’t we all. And no, that’s not meant as a question.

You can see where this is going, but I won’t spoil the fun bits. I will say that, as a former teenager also defined by this same goddess in the most metaphorical sense, this was a remarkably entertaining ride for me. It’s not that it offers any fresh insight; It offers instead a brilliant codification of the negligible insight of the mid-nineties musical phenomenon from which it came. Gillen might seem to be attempting introspection and deep thought and failing, but I think knowledge of the material makes it look a lot more Warhol-esque in intention. You look at Britpop, what it was, and you realize that Phonogram is one of those magnificent instances of art reflecting life reflecting art reflecting life that makes pop culture so goddamn fun. The defining quote evidenced being one from, appropriately, Richey Edwards of the Manics. I’m pretty sure he said it after the infamous incident where he carved the phrase “4 Real” into his own arm in reply to an interview question.

He said, “I know I believe In nothing, but it’s my nothing.”

It’s utterly ridiculous. And all it boils down to is “fuck off.” Yep. Defining.

The art is great as well— McKelvie’s simple lines and storytelling are perfect for the urban fantasy vibe here. After a childhood tormented by Rob Liefield drawing the X-Men, I’m appreciative that Jarvis Cocker was so very, very recognizable. And the cover art, each a take-off on an iconic album of the time, is fantastic. Though part of me is disturbed that all that remains of Liam Gallagher on the floor in the Definitely Maybe parody is a chalk outline. You know, the part of me that still makes me go and see Oasis every time they’re in the country. A very, very large part of me, by the way. (Hm, maybe I should take a hint from David Kohl. Ha, just kidding. Not effing likely.)

The whole series will seem indulgently, pointlessly nostalgic to those who don’t care. But enough of us grew up listening to the pertinent music for there to be quite a large appreciative audience out there. My biggest complaint is that the glossary, while probably very helpful to those not in the know, will get absolutely no use. Seeing as those not in the know wouldn’t make it past the first issue, and even if they did it reads like crap nineties rock journalism anyhow; The random subjective tags of good, better, crap, crapper, decent, poison combined with the unasked-for recommendations. But it’s forgivable since he’s pretty much right about all of it. (Well I won’t get into my Kenickie scars, but anyhow.) Still, for those of us who do care, it sings a great song that is rather familiar, whether uncomfortably or not.

That, and it gets Motorcycle Emptiness stuck in your head.

-Katey

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Now playing: Manic Street Preachers – Send Away The Tigers
via FoxyTunes

“My great tragedy is that I put my genius into my life—and only my talent into my work.” –Oscar Wilde

If I had to pick one thing about Wilde to really love, it’d be his strange, frighteningly apt little aphorisms. I assume that would please him.

I’ve just finished Neil McKenna’s “The Secret Life of Oscar Wilde”. I thought it was an excellent biography—very frank, painstakingly researched, and as little colored by partiality as we could reasonably expect from someone in love enough with his subject to spend years researching him. In spite of McKenna’s belief, touted in the end, that Wilde was one of the first and most important modern martyrs for the cause of gay rights (a point I can’t imagine anyone can refute), he’s still brutally forthcoming about the man’s deep flaws of character (so described by Wilde himself, near the end of his life). But then, those flaws are what make him so wonderful as a character, to the point where his life seems fantastic, and not in the “wonderful” sense, but in the “that can’t be real” sense. I always want my characters flawed and mostly unlikable. If there’s something they’ll stand up for in the end, even better.

Admittedly, I had to put the book down for a few weeks in the middle. Lately I’ve been reading more than one book at once, which is odd for me, but since there’s been a lot of nonfiction floating around in the last few years it’s been easier. I can’t just read nonfiction, so I need to add a few more to my list to keep me going. But this book I actually laid aside because it was a little too detailed, or really just exhaustive, on subjects that grew tedious quickly. Another schoolboy scandal involving Wilde or his friends, the state of his bed-sheets and nightshirts every morning when the maid came in, a list of boys he bought things for and petted and kissed in public, a trail of rent boys he and his friends brought back to their lavish hotel suite for champagne and the inevitable enjoyment of their “sugar-lipped” sweetness. But in spite of the fantastic state of the life described, it is nonfiction, and therefore commendable in its attention to each little detail (most of which really did come back to haunt him in the end.) It just makes the middle of the book drag more than I wanted—I’m not as in love with Wilde as some, maybe. As a writer, yes. As a person, it’s academic, though I’m eternally thankful that people like him stood up in defense of homosexuality at a time when it was considered a worse crime than murder. (Boggles the mind, I know.)

But the second half of the book flew by, as it’s mostly about things falling apart. And my god, if the first part was fantastic, the second is impossibly surreal. The evidence that there was a large plot against him, geared toward getting him into prison and away from his persecutor’s son (with whom he had the “great love affair” of his life), is astounding. Not to mention presented so engagingly that it becomes even more of an impossible tall tale. But it’s not, and love him or hate him, he was a remarkable man.

Naturally my interest in what his life was about comes from a desire to know his motivations. It’s hard to read “The Picture of Dorian Gray” and not realize what’s going on, the “Uranian” subtext of the whole thing is… pretty much not subtext at all. Wilde had all the subtlety of a modern slash fic writer about it. But the book, its characters and themes have always fascinated me. What makes a man write this as his one novel? What kind of life leads to this kind of art? He says in the prologue, ironically of course, that “All art is quite useless”, but I think that’s absolutely true unless it says something about the time and place that created it. (And there’s the art historian in me. Oh yeah, could see that one coming.) So as an exercise in trying to carbon date, society-wise, what made one of my favorite books and several of my favorite plays, it was really useful. And flat out interesting, in a morbid sort of way.

Which is my favorite, obviously.

-Katey

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Now playing: Ocean Colour Scene – The Day We Caught The Train
via FoxyTunes

The site is coming right along– Becca has the vast majority of the content sorted out and looking a great deal better than I have a right to expect. The excerpts are settled, the descriptions of each project are satisfactory, and I can’t help but be excited about it all. I guess after five years writing (and doing very little else), it’s kind of fun to see it here in some coherent, presentable form.

Thank god for my uber awesome friends who have been to great pains to edit it all into shape, right?

On an unrelated note, I went to see No Country For Old Men last night. I’ve never read the book, but obviously I should get on that.

Everyone says you have to read to write, and I couldn’t agree more. I start feeling any creativity I might have in the first place start to drain away after a week without a good book. Even nonfiction, which I’ve been on a kick over lately since I went book shopping at the Lincoln Memorial like a weirdo, can do the trick. But I learn a ridiculous amount about storytelling every time I see a good movie too. I’m sure everyone discusses this and I’ve just not run across it, but it amazes me every time.

I’m a fan of the Coen Brothers anyhow—The Big Lebowski is definitely one of my all time favorites. I’m constantly in awe of their attention to the most nitpicky detail on the screen, and the authenticity and purpose of each action. The smallest thing can unravel an entire tapestry and let you see what’s behind it.

And now come the SPOILERS, so stop reading if you’ve not seen this movie and plan to any time soon. (I won’t ruin the story completely, don’t worry.)

BEGIN SPOILERS

Still here? Okay.

In this particular film, there’s a lot of violence, death, and blood. But they never show the important deaths. Sometimes you’ll see blood or a body afterward, but no character who has any major plot importance is actually shown getting a bullet in the head, in direct contrast to… well, pretty much everyone else in the film. In one particular case, no evidence of a particular killing is shown at all, which might make one wonder if it really happened at all.

The proof is in the subtlety. Every time this particular man kills someone, he’s extremely careful of his feet. After one, he takes his blood-soaked socks off before he moves on and searches for what it is he wants in the room. After another, he ever-so-carefully picks his feet up and places them on the bed to avoid a spreading puddle of blood. And after this one I speak of, the one of which we see or hear nothing directly, he walks outside and checks the soles of his boots.

Could I be wrong? Did he not murder this one? Oh yeah, clearly possible. But either way, it’s hard not to think that tiny detail was entirely intentional after they so carefully placed it throughout the film. And either way, it’s brilliant.

END SPOILERS

So that’s what I wanted to bring up. That, like the South Park kids, I learned something today. From the Coen Brothers.

-Katey

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Now playing: Gruff Rhys – Gwn Mi Wn / Yes, I Know
via FoxyTunes

That’s right, first post! The lovely admin, Becca, just got the site up and running. And while I’m horribly embarrassed at the shameless self-promotion this all represents, well that’s the name of the game, innit? I’m working on getting a list of projects and some excerpts up right now, so hopefully I can manage without too much difficulty.

And then I’ll be back to working on my newish work-in-progress, with the somewhat unfortunate working title of “Enoptromancy.” Because it can’t all be vampires with superpowers. Sometimes it has to be even creepier.

Right on.

-Katey

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Now playing: The Clash – Koka Kola
via FoxyTunes