R.I.P. Jeff Hanneman, and Why We Need Slayer

This week saw the passing of one of heavy metal’s greats: Slayer guitarist Jeff Hanneman. Hanneman had been in poor health for a couple of years following an infected spider bite, but his passing took many by surprise.

I’ve taken some time to think about Slayer and about metal.

Metal tends to be a “take it or leave it” genre for most people. It tends to be music that you hate, ignore, or worship. No middle ground. Slayer, as one of the most brutal and extreme metal bands, is even more polarizing. Most people don’t even listen to Slayer, and most of those who do are immediately turned off by the hyper tempos, squalling and growling guitars, and rapid-fire vocals that are only occasionally intelligible enough to understand ”death” or “flesh” or “hell” or perhaps their most-used lyric, “blood.”

And then there is the core of Slayer fans who get full-back tattoos of the band’s logo, or carve inverted pentagrams into their flesh to show their love of the band. I like Slayer, but I haven’t gone this far.

I have seen Slayer twice in concert. I don’t think the guys in the band are evil. I don’t think they worship Satan or any of the other ridiculous charges leveled at them over the years. But their concerts are…unnerving. The darkness is a little darker than it is around other groups on stage. The red and orange underlighting could be flames, not floorlights. Smoke machines emit brimstone. You know you’re in an arena, but if you let go of the veil of reality for a few moments, you’re transported.  The guitars groan like tormented souls, the drums pound out primal, visceral rhythms, and Tom Araya, lead singer, declares in his sing-shouting voice:

Close your eyes
Look deep in your soul
Step outside yourself
And let your mind go
Frozen eyes stare deep in your mind as you die

You feel you could be staring not at a rock band, but into the yawning mouth of hell. You are listening to “Seasons in the Abyss.”

So why would anyone want to witness that?

My good friend Dave, my “Metal Mentor,” wrote a thoughtful and thought-provoking tribute to Hanneman, Slayer, and metal on Facebook.  Insightful as always, he nailed it:

The music doesn’t hide the bad parts about humanity. People are fascinated with evil, but they try to hide their fascinations. Metal bands however, in writing music which evokes a passionate response from fans, turn some incredibly negative things into a positive. It’s that conversion that I think makes metal such a great genre. Evil exists throughout humanity. People do terrible things all the time. In making music which expresses the side of humanity, it creates an outlet for negative feelings in a positive way.

In short, we need Slayer. We need artists who show us the beautiful and the sublime, but we also need artists to show us the darkness, the horror, the evil. It is the same reason we need Poe and Steven King and Black Sabbath and late period Goya. To acknowledge only the fairies and rainbows and cute puppies is to be blind to half of the world. By taking the negative– violence, evil, hatred– and turning it into something positive– a musical experience being shared by artists and fans, Slayer is necessary. They guide us to the light, but only by dragging us into darkness.

A Quick Update of Good News Type Things

Without winning a penny of prize money or publication, I received perhaps my biggest achievement in publishing thus far. My store “Little Me, Big Me” didn’t win, but earned an Honorable Mention in Glimmertrain’s New Authors competition. Glimmertrain is the big time, bigger than anything I’ve submitted to before, and to make it in the top 5% of over 1000 entries is incredible. It means someone noticed me!

“Little Me, Big Me” is perhaps my strongest story I’ve written, one that suprised me when I saw how powerful it was when it came out. That’s a great feeling, being scared/pleased with your own work. The story is thinly science fiction, and it’s part of my recent struggle with genre. I’ve found labeling things by genre to be limiting and pedantic. My last story that was critiqued on critters.org received a number of replies that it was marked “fantasy” but didn’t feel like a fantasy story. My thought was “Who cares? What did you think of the story?” But genre also sets up reader expectations. If I wrote a story called “Feast of the Dragon” and wrote a touching character-driven piece about a young man trying to learn how to feed his pet iguana and listed it as fantasy, I would probably irritate readers. Recently, I’ve been wondering whether I “belong” as a fantasy writer, if I should write more fantastic and science fiction stories to be more “that,” or just write and let other people call the stories what they want to call them.

So my question is this– how important is genre?

Bang Your Head! (Against the Monitor)

It’s been about six weeks since my last blog post. Between deaths in the family, an impending birth, frantic renovations (to prepare for said birth), a freelance project, and a nutty school schedule, the blog fell by the wayside. And in that time, I’ve had one of my short stories published in a new anthology, Song Stories: Volume 1. The story is “Equilibrium of Chaos,” which was published a couple of years back in another anthology (Hall Brothers Entertainment’s Villainy). The theme of the anthology is stories inspired by songs. “E of C” is exactly that. Megadeth’s Dave Mustaine may not be rock’s finest poet (or a nice guy, or even remotely sane), but he’s written some great riffs and some very cool songs. One of my favorites is “Hangar 18,” which is a fictional place that is reminiscent of Area 51. The song is a bit of sci-fi campiness, which transferred into my story. Once I developed a main character, the story really wrote itself. The antagonist, an ice-cold colonel in charge of the hangar, was a ton of fun to write. If you haven’t read my story before, pick up the anthology on Kindle here and try it out.

The authors in Song Stories: Vol. 1 are doing a blog-hop on the connections between writing and music. I have lots to say on this topic. I could address what I listen to when I write (classical, ambient, electronic, jazz, computer game music, anything without lyrics– can’t write with other people’s words in my head). I could talk about how music inspires my stories (the aforementioned Megadeth. I once wrote composed a story listening to Rage Against the Machine’s cover of NWA’s “F— the Police” to get in the narrator’s mindset. My novel I’m working on is thematically tied to Queensryche’s Operation Mindcrime). But I’d like to talk, instead, about being a performer.

One author I like (I forgot who) once said that many authors are frustrated musicians. I can relate to that. I’ve been playing music since age ten or so. I began playing violin in the 4th grade. My parents were incredibly supportive (quite a feat, if you’ve ever heard a kid learning the violin). I stuck with it all the way through high school, usually enjoying it but never becoming great. In high school, my musical tastes expanded beyond classical, and I began learning guitar. This past year, I’ve begun to teach myself bass. I’ve never had a band, though I’d like to be in one. If I couldn’t be a writer, my next choice would be to be a rocker. I just lack the musical talent. I can play the instruments, but I can’t really make them sing. My gifts (if I may humbly call them that) are in the written word, not in the performed note. But this doesn’t change that ache I have in my bones to perform and share the music.

Confession: sometimes I sit at my computer desk, writing a story, and when the words are flowing, I imagine myself writing the words in front of 20,000 screaming fans, sweat pouring from my brow in the heat of the spotlight, the stage thundering under my feet.

Maybe what I really want– since I know I’ll never make a living playing a musical instrument– is the feedback that musicians get. When a musician performs, he’s there, in the moment, playing the notes. If he plays them notes real good, the crowd goes wild. Hell, even if you don’t play well, if you play with enthusiasm and energy, that gets the crowd so worked up that the response is the same. But writers have a different fate. Their feedback comes weeks, months, years, or decades after the writing. There is no immediate joy or rejection. I’ve published stories that I wrote years ago, and it’s weird accepting praise for something that was part of me a long time ago. Maybe that’s why I like to imagine myself rocking out as I write– because for me, the thrill of being a writer isn’t in the dream of someday having a fanclub or signing autographs for two hours (though I would be honored). For me, it isn’t even about having my name on a handsome hardcover in a bookstore. No, for me, the thrill of writing is in the composition. When I’m at the computer, I am on the stage, the drummer pounding away behind me, the guitars squealing, the bass thundering, and the crowd is right there with me, and we’re sharing the making of the music.

 

 

Myth and Presidents’ Day

If this were any other Monday, I’d be teaching 3rd period right now, but it’s Presidents’ Day, so I’m blogging. And I’ve been thinking about the two presidents who get the combo-birthday treatment, Abraham Lincoln and George Washington. (Don’t combined birthdays suck when you’re a kid? Why would we do this to our most revered presidents?) Between history class and the History Channel, we have an overload of information and interpretation about these two great leaders. This post isn’t about the facts. It’s about the myths.

I’m using myths here in the deeper, Campbellian sense. I’m not doing an expose on the lies we’ve all swallowed. I’m not myth-busting (besides myths can’t be “busted,” not if we’re talking about them in the original sense). When I’m discussing myth, I’m talking about the stories that carry deepest meaning for us, that carry out ideal we seek to emulate in our daily lives. The factual truth of a myth is immaterial.

Back in high school, I took a class called Theory of Knowledge. It was a broad, interdisciplinary exploration of all the humanities.  It was there I was first introduced to the truer meaning of myth, and there that I first wrote on this topic. The actual paper I wrote may be long gone (or maybe not; I tend to hoard the writing I’m proud of. I’m sure it’s in a box somewhere), but I tackled the myth of George Washington and the cherry tree.

George Washington: I Gots to Axe You a Question

Long story short, for those completely illiterate in American legends, when George Washington was a little tyke, he used his hatchet and chopped down a gorgeous cherry tree on his family’s land. Dad comes home and flips out. “Who the $(@! chopped down my cherry tree?” Lil’ George says “I cannot tell a lie. I chopped down your cherry tree.” Dad gives him a big ol’ hug and says “No biggie. Your honesty is worth so much more than that tree!”

Aside from some of the obvious questions (six year old kid with a hatchet, unsupervised? Super parenting! And a politician who professes to be honest? Never heard THAT one before), the thing most people wonder is “Did this really happen?”

In a word– no. An author with the very 18th century name– Mason Locke Weems –was a bookseller who penned a volume of anecdotes about the new president. It contained the Cherry Tree story, along with several other “colorful” (fabricated) stories that he thought people would enjoy because they illustrated the values people wanted to see in a leader. And they ate it up! Weems said that the title was the second most popular on his shelves, aside from The Bible.

But the better answer to the question “Did this really happen?” is another question– “Does it matter?” Weems’s little tale about GW isn’t true from a factual point of view, but it symbolizes an ideal that we want in our leaders (honesty, even at the cost of personal consequences). Historically, it is untrue. but mythologically, it is deeply resonant.

Abraham Lincoln: Fear the Beard!

Beards are awesome. As a man who struggles in the facial hair department, I am in awe of our  legends. ZZ Top. Brian Wilson. Santa Claus (Made with 100% Yak Hair, for those of you who can’t grow one naturally). How about Abe Lincoln?* That slammin’ beard he sported was allegedly grown in response to a little girl’s letter, saying it would hide his weak chin and make him way hotter for the ladies. Fact or fiction?

Fact. That really happened. The girl’s name was Grace Bedell; she was only eleven at the time but she knew where it was at with face fuzz.

*By the way, I found this site in my very informal research about Lincoln. It provided me with 2 minutes of delight, and thus I share it with you.

But as with George Washington, it doesn’t really matter if this story is historically true or not. We love  a candidate who could be so in tune with the everyday citizen that he’d grow a beard on the advice of a little girl. Can you imagine that today? Campaign managers and PR specialists would go berserk. 24 hour news networks would overanalyze every hair (I can see Fox or MSNBC doing an ongoing “Beard Tracker” segment.) The myth of the President as a man of the people is enacted through the story of Lincoln’s beard; that’s why this little historical tidbit keeps coming back to us. Because it’s a myth, and myths don’t get busted.

 

Gettysburg Revisited

So I was home sick last week (for only the 2nd time in 12 years) and there’s something about staying home sick that makes us revert into little children.  I was pretty sick as a kid, and so in a strange, unwelcome way, this sick day was a chance for me to flashback to my childhood. With many hours to kill and a desire to watch something I didn’t really have to watch, I popped in my DVD of Gettysburg.

Gettysburg has a prominent place in my life. I’ve been watching the film since its release in 1992. Before I was ever able to visit the battlefield, my mother’s cousin, who lives in southern P.A., sent me an envelope full of photos of key places, along with descriptions. Then, in high school, I read The Killer Angels and had my first visit to the battlefield. I then attended Gettysburg College my freshman and sophomore years, and during my spare time I wandered every inch of the National Park, often spending hours of alone time in the eerie, hallowed places. I taught myself to run by the Eternal Peace Light and Reynolds Woods; I huddled in the Pennsylvania Monument during a windstorm to meet my parents when they came to visit; I conducted interviews for an Anthropology 101 experiment with the tourists at the High Water Mark. The battlefield, the stories, the heroes, Gettysburg is in my bones.

I was a little wary of putting the DVD in the player. I haven’t watched the whole film in at least ten years, I suspect. My critical abilities are a lot sharper than they were a decade ago. When we’re children, we accept wholly the things that are important to us. The nuance of more sophisticated criticism (“I enjoyed this actor’s performance, while the other one seems stilted.” “I thought perhaps the musical score was overbearing,” etc) isn’t developed. And I suspect kids are better than adults at repeatedly viewing or reading the things they love. At least, I know I am. When I reread a book or rewatch a film now, it’s a pretty significant event. When I was twelve, watching Gettysburg or The Neverending Story or Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade again for the umpteenth time was hardly noteworthy. So I put the DVD in, huddled under my blanket with my tea and my animals, and watched.

The verdict: while my grown up critic saw things that the twelve year old didn’t, I was nevertheless swept up in the epic that captivated me as a young man. Sure, the acting ranges from competent (C. Thomas Howell) to stunning (Stephen Lang, Jeff Daniels, and especially Richard Jordan, in his final performance). And there are Law and Order moments, where characters explain things that they’d never realistically explain to one another. There’s the question of PG violence– the movie was made for TV, and as a result, there is very little blood, masking viewers from the real horrors of war.

But the sweeping depictions of battle and heroism, the moving score, and the attention to minute historical detail made for a powerful viewing experience. And then there are the stories: Chamberlain, the professor colonel who rises to great glory at the Battle of Little Round Top; Robert E. Lee, the infallible general/god whose one moment of overconfidence dooms the Confederate army; Longstreet, the general whose mind is bent towards strategy over heroics, forced to command doomed attacks and take the blame for their failures; Armistead, facing Fate and his best friend on the battlefield; Pickett, young, cocky, eager to fight, and irrevocably scarred by Lee’s misuse of his division. To me, Gettysburg has never been an exercise in dry historical recitation. It isn’t “the turning point of the Civil War,” as every high school textbook will tell you. It is the collision of many men’s fates on a single battlefield.

Gettysburg is by no means worthless dreck; I’m certain other boys my age gorged themselves on far trashier fare as kids. But the film isn’t without flaws. Who cares, though? My realization after watching: when rewatching or rereading the stories that formed us in youth, criticism is meaningless. That film formed some of my fundamental ideas of heroism and warfare and kindled my fascination with the Civil War. And no amount of critical analysis can take that away.

An Unexpected Blog Post

My first blog post here was back in August, about the announcement that The Hobbit was being made into not two, but three films.
Well, The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey has now been out for nearly a month. Most of us who have hoped to see it have seen it. What did we see?
Ian McKellan is Gandalf again, and his portrayal of Gandalf is a touch lighter, more playful than in the first films. The two principal character newcomers—Martin Freeman as Bilbo and Richard Armitage as Thorin, are both very believable. Armitage’s proud portrayal of Thorin was compelling, as well. Thorin is proud and prickly, but sympathetic, and Armitage evokes all those feelings. When I heard Freeman would be Bilbo, my first thought was “My God, he already LOOKS like a hobbit. Just give him prosthetic feet and a wool coat and I’ll believe it!” And sure enough–.
The scene stealer (as usual) was Andy Serkis. His Gollum performance is right on par with what he did before, perhaps even better. The Smeagol/Gollum split is distinct, both facially and vocally, and he uses it to great comic/horrific effect. Though Gollum isn’t on screen long in the film, his presence dominates my memory of the film.
All the other goodies are abundant, as well. Lush New Zealand landscapes, sweeping musical score (including some refreshing updates on old themes) from Howard Shore, and seamless visual effects. There’s so much to love about the film.
So…much…
And that’s also the chief complaint against the film, that there’s just so much. The Hobbit, the novel, is a story for children, told in 300 pages with a single narrative. It’s an epic, but a small, focused one. The Lord of the Rings, on the other hand, is a three-volume, multiple narrative, sprawling epic across Middle Earth. Sure, it took Peter Jackson three films to tell the story, but it took Tolkien three books to tell it, as well. The Hobbit should be small; The Lord of the Rings should be big.
But this film feels as big as the LotR films, or at least it’s stretching on its tippy-toes to be so. And here is where the film feels tedious. There are scenes when old characters are introduced that interrupt the narrative flow, such as an unnecessary stop in Rivendell to see Elrond and Galadriel and bicker with Saruman. There are scenes where new characters are introduced (Radagast the Brown) who only seem to bog the story down with additional back story and information, and distract from the quest.
“But wait!” you protest. “Be patient! Jackson is surely setting up developments for the next two films!”
I agree! But there’s just…so…much.
I don’t blame Jackson entirely, though. He’s kind of been pushed into this. The first three films set the bar very high for Quality (which he could have matched with The Hobbit) and for Size (which he couldn’t). If he’d made a single-film version of The Hobbit, even it were great, people would leave feeling unsatisfied. So his choices were to leave the audience feeling hungry or leave them feeling overstuffed.
No, I don’t fault Jackson for cramming The Hobbit with unnecessary stuff. My only objection to his direction was his tendency to blur the line between the heroic and the ridiculous. In the heroic mode, seemingly average, normal individuals take on tasks bigger than themselves and rise to the challenge. Bilbo represents this. However, there are moments in The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey when I found myself doubting the plausibility of the characters’ actions. This was most pointed in the Goblin caves. The dwarves, who had been set up as a group of ragtag refugees, definitely NOT warriors, slay dozens upon dozens of useless goblins. Sometimes, to make things efficient, they simply take ladders and other parts of their environment to sweep the foes into the pit. I’m not looking for Black Hawk Down here, but battle scenes should leave me pumped up and breathless, not scoffing.
That said, go see it. You probably have already. Just be sure to stock up on popcorn and patience before you go in.

Honestly– E-Readers are Here, and Does it Matter?

For Christmas of 2010, my wife and I bought each other Amazon Kindles for Christmas. We had a backpacking trip through Europe coming up the next summer, and knew that dragging along a trunk full of books was not feasible. By that time, it was already pretty clear that E-Readers were no fad, but an evolution, and really the only tough choice was Kindle vs. Nook. (We’re both Amazon shoppers, so the Kindle won).

At the time, a debate of old vs. new, tradition vs. innovation, and tangible vs. conceptual was raging in the book world. It’s a familiar debate, and years old already, but essentially, many people worried if E-Readers would supplant paper books, making physical bookshelves akin to vintage vinyl collections– charming and archaic. And there was this very familiar argument:

I don’t care how useful these things are; there’s just nothing like the feel of a book in your hand. I love sitting in a big comfy chair with (insert beverage of choice) on a rainy day, enjoying a favorite read.

Fast-forward to Christmas 2012. Europe was lovely. I read twelve novels while waiting in lines, sitting in hostels on rainy afternoons, riding trains, and a pair of trans-Atlantic flights. The Kindle–the “Must-Have” gift of 2010– is now a dinosaur. There are newer generations, the Fire, and the Fire HD, which Kristin received for Christmas this year. The Nook has undergone similar innovations. We bought my mother, who would apply for Queen of the Luddites as long as the application wasn’t online, a Nook SimpleTouch.

And on Facebook, I’m still reading the same concerns from non E-book users:

It just won’t be the same as the feel and smell of the paper of a physical book.

Look, I’m rarely the first to jump on a tekkie bandwagon. I probably would’ve held out much longer for the Kindle, if not for the impending travel. But now that I’ve owned one for two years, I must say…

It doesn’t really make that much of a difference!

Maybe if you’re reading a leatherbound Lord of the Rings or The Complete Works of Shakespeare, or a favorite Bible, I could understand. There is a heft to such volumes that makes the reader feel pretty damn literary. But for most reading experiences, it didn’t take long to adapt to the new format and all its advantages.

The only two contentions I had with the Kindle are:

1) It is more difficult to flip through pages and look back at something I’d read earlier.

2) It’s cool to have a bookshelf, because when guests come over and see what you own, it can be a great starter for conversation (and a bit of an ego trip, to tell the truth).

But I’d love to hear a compelling argument or anecdote that illustrates how E-Reading creates an inferior reading experience. Such defenses of paper books stem from nostalgia rather than reason. If it’s “just your personal preference,” cool. But please, let’s not bemoan the downfall of civilization and future generations because reading is being done on screens rather than on paper. Because reading is reading, and as long as it’s occuring, our civilization and future generations have hope.

So on that note, I’m going to go sit in my window chair, listening to the sleet chatter against the window, relaxing with a kitty cat or two and a beverage of choice, while turning the pages on a great novel.

On my Kindle.

Hark! The Clockwork Angels Sing!

Clockwork Angels is the sort of project I admire and envy. I’ve often dreamt of a project bridging music and narrative. Well, 2012 saw the collaboration of the prog-rock band Rush and speculative author Kevin J. Anderson. Neil Peart had wanted to work with Anderson for decades, and it was on this project that everything finally clicked (as noted in the novel’s endnotes). Both the novel and album  tell the same story, but through different media. So let’s look at each.

First of all, I should mention this is my first encounter with Anderson. I know he is an extraordinarily prolific author, but he’s one that just slipped through the cracks for me. I will say this for the novel: the story was stronger than the writing. Clockwork Angels is a hero’s journey story, the tale of young Owen Hardy. His life is quiet, safe, and pretty much mapped out from birth. The Watchmaker, a sort of benevolent dictator, has established The Stability that keeps everything safe and predictable. Of course, Owen finds himself dissatisfied, and soon falls in with circus carnies who embrace a wilder sort of life. Owen’s path crosses with The Anarchist, the Watchmaker’s nemesis, whose sole goal is to disrupt the Stability. Throughout the course of the novel, Owen bounces from one adventure to the next, being used as a pawn by both sides, until he is finally able to create– or realize his power to create– his own destiny. As a heroic adventure, and as a philosophical exploration, it is wholly successful.

That being said, the prose is rather…prosaic. Not every author needs to be Cormac McCarthy or Michael Chabon, but Anderson’s prose is littered with over-explanation and telling rather than showing. A typical passage might run like this:

At the man’s refusal, Owen hung his head and sighed. He was very disappointed that the man rejected his offer.

The second sentence is unnecessary, as if readers need an explanation for every gesture (we don’t).

I don’t wish to imply that the novel was boring or unpleasant to read. It was quite a fun adventure. I was just a little disappointed that the grandeur of Rush’s album and music was lost in such unadorned prose.

Another shortcoming of the novel is that the story is driven by Idea. Specifically, the battle between Order and Chaos, and Owen must find his own way between the two. As such, it’s a novel of Ideas and Philosophy, rather than Character or Story. The characters’ depth really ends at their roles as symbols rather than as people. Owen is the only character to acquire much depth, but again, it is a depth of symbolism rather than of psychology or emotion.

One of the most pleasurable parts of reading the novel was detecting the Rush references that Anderson sprinkled throughout the story. He drops names of songs and albums all over the place, and this makes the novel more than a standalone book; it makes it a gift to the readers and fans. I was going to make a list of all the references I found, but in the endnotes, Peart suggests that some sort of contest for readers may lie in the future. And far be it from me to give anyone a leg up on that opportunity…

As I stated before, Clockwork Angels is Rush’s first concept album. And it’s a challenging listen. The music continues in the direction it has followed in the past decade– harder rock sound, darker lyrics, and more focused lyrics. By “challenging,” I mean there is no apparent single that standouts. No “Tom Sawyer,” no “Subdivisions,” nothing I’d expect on the radio. Instead, the quality is spread throughout the album.

There are some albums that have immediate impact on the listener. Some need two or three listens to get into. Clockwork Angels required eight or ten. But now, I can’t get it out of me. Reading novel greatly increases appreciation for the songs. The driving, pulsing rhythm of “Caravan,” the angry, big guitar swagger of “BU2B.” On the other hand, the album also carries melodic, gentler tracks like “The Wreckers” that ache with regret and bitterness. The knockout track here is “The Garden,” the closer, which provides us with complete catharsis and retrospect.

Musically, another shift listeners might notice is in Geddy Lee’s voice. No doubt, his voice is distinctive– high, chirpy, and to some, grating. Well, whether the result of stylistic choice or of age, his voice has come down out of the stratosphere (without losing its power). If you want to give CA a try but can’t bear to listen to an hour of Lee singing, give it a try. His voice is lower but no weaker, and more nuanced than in the past.

This may get me drawn and quartered by Rush fans, but I’ve found a number of Rush song’s lyrically disappointing. When Peart has an axe to grind, his songs come off more like essays, and frankly, I don’t listen to music to be taught or lectured. I listen to them to experience story or emotion. Thus, songs like “Freewill” or “Nobody’s Hero” don’t do much for me. They lack the grace or imagery that I want to see in song lyrics. I don’t think all Rush lyrics are like this. “2112″ is pure story (saturated though it is in philosophy), and “Subdivisions” has  a big axe to grind, but is delivered with striking imagery. Even Snakes and Arrows, which is loaded with anger at social injustice, is written with nuance and style.

So we come to CA, and of course as a concept album, it’s all about story. Yet, as mentioned above, the story is largely Idea driven, Extreme Order vs. Extreme Chaos. And that’s what makes this album so remarkable to me, that it is so philosophical, and yet has a nuance and grace that it might not have been written twenty or thirty years ago.

And that’s why I declare this album an utter success. It’s not an easy listen, it’s not something you can pop in and be amazed by the radio-friendly tracks, but give it several listens, and you may find it to be some of Rush’s most potent and gracefully executed music they have ever written.

So in recap: The novel: great story, hampered by mediocre prose. The album: not Rush’s most accessible work, but some of their best.

Side note: This story could make a fantastic film. The story is there, and the imagery potential (think of all those clocks and gears and steamships…) is boundless. You hear that, studios? Get on it, already…

UPDATE: A draft of this blog post was written before the EXCELLENT news that Rush was just inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of fame. Congratulations to the R&R Hall of Fame for finally getting it right!

Writers Writing about Writing: Bradbury and King

I don’t read many books about writing (the Craft is better learned by Doing than by Studying), but I recently read two such texts. I was hoping for a bit of a jump-start with my own writing, which has tailed off as the school year dominates my life.

The first book was a collection by Ray Bradbury titled Zen in the Art of Writing. The book is not one cohesive essay, but rather a series of essays he wrote about creativity throughout his career.  Some focused on particular projects (“Investing Dimes” is about the composition of Fahrenheit 451, “Just This Side of Byzantium” is about Dandelion Wine), while others explore his more general ideas about where creativity comes from, and about his writing process. The playfulness and nostalgia that is evident in his fiction also comes through in his nonfiction; one can almost see him grinning and hopping from one foot to the other as he composes. He engages in some “woo-woo” writing mysticism. The idea of the writer as a magician who can create amazing Somethings out of Nothing is a common one. Readers believe it because writing fiction seems like a confounding art: “How did he even THINK of that, much less write it?” Writers believe it because we like to think we’re tapping into something pretty special and unique when we compose.

My only real objection to Bradbury’s collection is the title. As a student of Zen, I find myself annoyed by pop culture’s appropriation of it to mean “anything mystical or illogical.” While there are some concepts in the essays that conincide with Zen principles (one must let go of Art in order to capture it), for the most part, Zen has nothing to do with the content. “On Creativity” or simply “The Art of Writing” would have been more appropriate, but tacking “Zen” on something can boost sales, right? The title actually comes from the final essay, in which Bradbury explains how writing can be an expression of Zen principles. A little closer, but in the essay he offhandedly confesses that at the time he wrote the essay, he had learned about Zen two or three weeks previous. So essentially, he says, “I’ve spent a lifetime writing, and I just learned this other thing that’s sort of like it, so now I’ll write on it as though I am some sort of expert.”

Stephen King’s On Writing is one of the few books I have read several times. It is the book that first pushed me from “I like to write” to “I want to be a professional writer.” The first part is an autobiographical sketch that highlights aspects of his life that led him to writing. The second part contains his thoughts– all very practical and applicable, and invaluable for a new writer– about the craft. And the third part was written after his horrific accident in 1999, when he was nearly killed by an out-of-control van. The book affirms the power of writing to make life worth living, but he never claims it to be mystical or magical.

In fact, he doesn’t dramatize writing at all. King’s attitude is very workmanlike– he says writing is not much different than laying pipe or driving long-haul trucks. This aspect of his attitude has always appealed to me. A writer (unless he or she is one of the few, freakish geniuses out there) isn’t born a brilliant wordsmith. A writer works, and works, and works. As a writer whose work ethic is greater than his inborn talent, I take this to heart. A writer gets better by writing, and writing a lot.

So while Bradbury and King come to their treatises with much different views, they actually unite on one single, all-important point. To be a good writer, one must write. King emphasizes this point while Bradbury tends to bury the fact that he wrote 1000 words a day for twenty years when he was starting out. But reading these books back to back did the trick– I’m squeezing in minutes of writing time now, even if don’t think I can afford to. On notepads at home, sitting on the train to work, getting up at an even more inhuman hour of the morning, whatever it takes. I will do what I must to serve the Craft.

Reading Stephen King in the Dark in the Aftermath of Sandy…

I live in northern New Jersey which, like the entire northeast, was directly in the path of Hurricane Sandy. But we were more directly in the path than most, and I live one block from the waterfront, so our town was hit particularly hard. No power for four days (Monday night through Friday night).

What’s a safe, comforting reading choice in this time of anxiety and destruction? Stephen King, of course! Here is my review of his collection, Night Shift,which I reread last week with more wisdom and appreciation than I first approached it with ten years ago.

And before I sign off, yes, our town was hit hard, but a lot of places down the Jersey shore had it worse. Our home was without power, but others have no homes to return to at all. Donate something– time, money, canned goods or clothes– to help those who have nothing left.