Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be raised in a cemetery? Neil Gaiman’s latest children's tale, THE GRAVEYARD BOOK, explores just that. Inspired by Rudyard Kipling’s THE JUNGLE BOOK, GRAVEYARD follows the development of Nobody “Bod” Owens, an orphaned baby who escapes his house while his family is murdered and wanders into the neighboring graveyard (which is only referred to as “the graveyard”). The ghosts of Bod’s family follow him to the cemetery gates, but cannot enter because spirits are only allowed where their bodies are interred. So, the dead mother appeals to the cemetery residents to protect her vulnerable baby from their murderer. The graveyard adopts him, grants him “the way of the graveyard” and raises him as the dead’s own.
Bod ages with each chapter, creating a lovely structure where each episode reads like a short story while building onto the novel as a whole. Like most precocious and lonely children, Bod gets into many threatening situations--from an antagonizing babysitter to kidnapping goblins--but most from the living who want Bod dead. I’ll resist specifics, because the novel was a swift read and filled with subtle nuances and surprises that my enthusiasm could ruin. But the book is light enough for children and dark enough for adults.
For more information on Neil Gaiman: www.neilgaiman.com
Recently I made a whirlwind trip to London that allowed me to gorge my eyes and ears on banquet of art that filled up the early winter emptiness of my head with a mad swirl of invention. First up, I hit the Andy Warhol exhibit, "Other Voices, Other Rooms" exhibit at the Hayward Gallery at the Southbank Centre. The guidebook lists its contents as "21 films, 1 clouds installation, 40 screen tests, 6 videos, 42 tv-episodes, 16 drawings..." and on and on. I'd never really thought about the direct link between Warhol and Capote, but it's impossible to miss in the midst of this exhibit. That shared hunger for absorbing the rich and famous drove them both and, one might predictably say, cost them both a lot, but what's amazing to see in this jumble of time capsules and ephemera as well as the completed work is just how rich a vein they both mined. Rather than a shallow wallow in pursuit of acceptance (not that it wasn't that as well) there's an endless fascination for what fame is and what people will do to achieve it (almost anything sometimes).
The hunger seems to be at an all time high at present, which amazes me. I'd love to be able to make loads of money with my writing, but I'd prefer that people express no interest in the person behind the words (besides, I am incredibly dull, always talking about the blackness of black pudding, for instance -- you would be bored) and have no interest in being interviewed on chat shows (yes, I am peculiar that way). Warhol had a genius for touching that hunger in others and expressing it in often macabre and funny ways. You know the celebrities he invented from the talented folks like the Velvet Underground to the more ephemeral "stars" like Edie, Candy and Holly. You already know them, they're the super stars. The surprising things were the tv soap project which was very funny even though it was little more than bickering, and the fun snippets that filled the tv-scape and the simple delight of the Silver Clouds installation -- mostly because there was a window so you could watch other people go through the room. They tended to just push the mylar balloons out of the way and walk into the gift shop (the latter surely the capstone of the exhibit). They missed out: playing with the giant balloons was a delight, though. Too many adults just can't play.
Saturday was Rothko day at the lovely Tate Modern, my favorite museum. The turbine room was filled with bunk beds and monstrous thingees as part of Dominique Gonzalez-Foerster's TH 2058, but as many reviews had said, it was better in idea than execution. I liked the giant dino skeleton, the big spider, and immense apple core, but it wasn't quite enough. Scale alone isn't enough (big is big, though). I'm not sure what was missing, but it never really affected emotionally and that's a miss.
How was Rothko? Amazing, utterly amazing. Repetition and variation -- things that obsess me, too -- are keystones of his later work. As Rothko said, "If a thing is worth doing once, it is worth doing over and over again." Immenseness of scale and depth of color -- so many of his paintings had been brought together for the first time. It's hard to write coherently about these works. They're hypnotic. Rothko's paintings strike directly into my subconscious. I don't know many painters like that.
The exhibition focused on his late work and the series painted for -- and then withdrawn from -- the Seagram building. Honestly, what were they thinking? Who could eat with those paintings hanging overhead? How could such intensity allow you to break your gaze away? The huge middle room where eight of the Seagram murals were hung was always chock full of people and murmuring conversation and still all I could do was stand there with my mouth open, staring. Prams everywhere, children running around and all I could think was, why? I realise people want to expose their kids to great art, but some of these late paintings are so intense and despairing it seems cruel.
Rothko tends to be one of those painters you either love or hate. I adore him. I've spent hours in the Rothko room at the Mod, written stories there, and filled my head. I've experienced the cool calm of the Rothko chapel, a little oasis in the middle of Houston. For others, the canvases are simply color splashed across a surface. In an exhibit this big, you can really see the amazing variety even within sequences of similar colors and the layering of paint and color that show the process Rothko worked so patiently to achieve. Absolutely stunning and a singular chance to see many of these works in one place.
Sunday was Bacon day, so I headed over to the Tate Britain in the cold cold drizzle (it always seems to rain when I go over Pimlico way). I had expected wonders from the Rothko exhibit, but I hadn't quite realised how much the Tate had gone all out for Bacon, including a bunch of talks (none while I was there, alas!), study days, a symposium and family events including "Bend it Like Bacon" where you could try to recreate the figures in the paintings and "Bacon for Beginners" where young artists would look at Bacon's beasties and then create their own. How can you tell it's not an American museum? No, no, not because it's publicly funded (although that's a giveaway, eh?). It's because that session was labeled "for under 5 years." Despite the recent panics over knives (admit it, it's a panic), there's still a willingness in Britain to let children do scary things WHICH THEY LOVE! I remember it well.
The exhibit is enormous. The layout is odd as you find yourself in cul-de-sacs wondering whether you've reached the end, only to peer around the corner of the room you already went through and find there's another room you haven't seen on the other side. The rooms bear names like "Apprehension" and "Crisis" and "Epic," stark labels that the paintings match. If you only think of Bacon as gaping grimaces and tortured flesh, this exhibit serves as a reminder of all the variations through which Bacon passed and offers many surprises, from the 1933 crucifixion which hints at all the early paintings destroyed to the unexpected whimsicality of a sudden spray of water which seems to splash right out of the frame among his late work. There is a reel of BBC interviews that show Bacon murmuring with erudition in that silky voice which always seems so at odds with the frank violence of much of his work. Wonderful! There's also a fantastic exhibit catalogue -- highly recommended.
My first introduction to UK band Reticents (not "The") was their 2007 disc OOJIMAFLIPS, which was passed to me by their drummer, Paul Hamilton (co-editor of the book HOW VERY INTERESTING: PETER COOK'S UNIVERSE AND ALL THAT SURROUNDS IT which I reviewed in UATW 4). To my considerable relief (well, it's always nerve-wracking evaluating friends' works) it was a brilliant CD, chock full of witty lyrics and catchy hooks. From the opening paean to football superstar George Best ("Even at my very worst, I'm Best") to the hypnotic buzzing of "Bee Sting Lips" and the touching heartbreak of "Old Timers' Disease," the disc rocks and rolls and works its words into the brain like a cheap drug. The DIY-look cover did the project a slight injustice, suggesting a slapdash approach that the music's craft belied.
Their latest CD, BAD LINE (2008), couldn't be more different in that respect. The cover images are arresting. The candy-slick red makes the black and white pop and the faux underground map provides a novel way to convey the writing and production credits. The whole project is more sleek than the previous efforts, providing a step up in production values and all-around sound. From the clanging chords of "If Only We Could" that open the disc, it's a fast ride that clocks in at about 35 minutes, but still satisfies. A lot of this is due to the rambunctious tone of the music, from the callous "Nothing Personal" to the clanging "Hall of Blame" and "Blue Shirt," the latter a spirited attack on our tendency to overlook the person behind the uniform ("How would they know? They merely flirt / Let's put our hands in the fire -- let's get burnt") and features some really brilliant drumming.
I have a soft spot for "Carrier Bags," a tribute to "gentleman of the road" Bronco John, the panhandler who nonetheless hung out with the likes of Peter Cook and Peter Sellers. The grinding guitar opening is a perfect accompaniment to the well-knit words conveying the lost life of this iconic tramp, who slept rough yet died with £5,000 in his carrier bags:
The lampposts are bending over They're listening to what I say Eyeballs in every letterbox Watching, hoping I'll walk away
Following this upbeat downbeat song with the plaintive power chords of "Who Needs Luck?" seems to imply "everyone" (and fair enough). The guitar clangs much more on this third CD than the first two; "Missing Person" even finds a plaintive note in the grind as they wail through a tale of every parent's nightmare. If you begin to suspect there's a connection here -- yes, it's true. Visit the band's website and you'll find a link that reveals the narrative behind the songs. While this is an example of the oft-dreaded "concept album," there's no reason to fear. The teen narrator's disjointed tale isn't essential to appreciating the disc, but it amplifies the connections, in particular augmenting the sequence of "I'd Dial for You"/"They Died with their Phones On," which link together a surprisingly melodic barrage of ring tones and improbable rhymes ("multiple sclerosis" and "deep vein thrombosis") into an effective collage. While it always reminds me of the Paddington crash (news stories reported how phones rang in the wreckage for days afterward), it also speaks to the distancing and isolation that ubiquitous communication has not bridged. Like the spoken word cut "The Long Haul" on OOJIMAFLIPS, this sequence pushes the boundaries of what 'mere' pop songs can be and signals a band ready to take chances with form and expectations.
The CD ends by revisiting tunes: a softer acoustic version of "I Got You All Wrong" introduces a note of melancholy missing from the initial version and a sassy reprise of "Nothing Personal" with female vocalist puts the callous shoe on the other foot. If this leaves you with a slightly depressed feeling, I think that's deliberate, although a trifle unfortunate. I find myself at times preferring OOJIMAFLIPS to BAD LINE, despite its more uneven qualities, because I'm a sucker for good lyrics and I think those on the former CD are better or perhaps simply more playful ("If you love me blow up Parliament / raise an army, bring down the government. / Take me where the rainbow ends / and buy me an ice cream cone"). There's also a deleted first CD, GRASSHOPPER, which has perhaps the most blisteringly vitriolic break-up song ever, "Happy Birthday to You," which features the refrain "Enjoy the present, return the past / Happy Birthday, darling -- I hope it's your last." This is a band that does bitter very well.
Great lyrics, catchy hooks, and three CDs in as many years: there's a lot to like here from a band with a winning sense of humour and plenty of ambition. Visit their website or MySpace page for lyrics, photos and a couple of goofy-fun videos.
