New York Times Corrections: “A picture in The Arts yesterday with a chart listing television shows that portray women kissing, to increase ratings during sweeps weeks, misidentified the actress being kissed by Alyson Hannigan in ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer.’ She was Iyari Limon; Amber Benson is another actress kissed by Ms. Hannigan in the series.”
Month / February 2005
Miller Gone
Arthur Miller has passed away. He was 89.
I have a tremendous amount of words to unload for just how important Miller was to me, along with considering the influence of The Crucible and Death of a Salesman. But it will have to wait until I get some time.
For now, all that needs to be said is that another genius has left the world, and we are all the lesser because of it.
The Romance of Reading Glasses
It’s not enough for Andrea Levy to win the Orange and the Whitbread. She’s just been nominated for a third award: the Romantic Novel of the Year Award.
Normally, we wouldn’t have any problems with this. We’ve long been awaiting Small Island‘s inevitable paperback version of a long-haired hunk mounting some bodice-ripped brunette against a conflagrating background — if only to have the hopeless Harlequin crowd accidentally reading a moving tale of two couples on an island.
The chief problem here is that the prize is sponsored by FosterGrant Reading Glasses. And while our librarian fetish is well documented, we have to point out that FosterGrant frames aren’t exactly daring or, for that matter, romantic.
And they damn well should be.
One would think that after centuries of eyewear technology, FosterGrant would have stumbled upon the ultimate solution — frames that provide practical vision for the far-sighted while considering the requirements of lascivious literary types.
Expansion of eyewear translates into expanding ideas of romance. And for far-sighted novelists, we’re talking a sharp dropoff in “slither slither” Wolfe-style bad sex and a veritable rise in “romantic novels.” So what of it, FosterGrant? Where are the reading glasses I can wear for the dominatrix? If we can’t be indecent on television, then we can surely be naughty in literature.
In Praise of Bart Davenport
Berkeley singer-songwriter Bart Davenport is, in fact, the second scrawniest singer working in showbiz today. (I won’t name the scrawniest. I’ll only say that seeing such an exceedingly gaunt man run up and down trying to prove his virility was one of the most unpleasant stage experiences I’ve encountered in five years.) Davenport’s weight, however, should not be held against him. Because, believe it or not, he cuts the mustard. While Davenport has yet to realize that wearing three layers of clothing (here’s a hint, Bart: lose the jacket) draws attention to his disturbingly thin physique, he is, nevertheless, well worth seeing. He sells himself live with an endearingly spastic stage presence, which involves perpetually dilated eyes, a somewhat perplexed disposition, and an inveterate passion for Mick Jagger-like histrionics that comes across as unexpectedly innocous. Such was the initial impression that Davenport made on me when I saw him open for Of Montreal several months ago (where, to my surprise, he won me over after the third song); such was the impression he made on me when I saw him again for a record release party on January 29 at Bottom of the Hill.
Davenport has unveiled three albums so far. The first, a self-titled affair, signaled a man unapologetically mining the depths of acoustic 1970s rock with a 21st century lo-fi sensibility. One of the strongest tracks, “Summer Afternoon,” was a Nick Drake-inspired ballad that provided a moving transformation into subtly funky prog-rock. Drake’s undistilled influence held sway on such tracks as “New Cool Shoes.” But not to be undone, Davenport’s quasi-adenoidal voice worked in his favor for such light-hearted, drum-machine romps as “Terri’s Song.”
His second album, Game Preserve, broadened the palette with sunny acoustical work (“Sideways Findways”), dreamy straight-shooter ballads like “The Saviors” and the irresistably Van Morrison-tinged “Euphoria.” The album suggested an inveterate record listener who had somehow managed to make sense of his many influences without coming across as an outright bandit — no small feat, given the current clime of endless brother-sister acts whose work, however fresh, was hindered by the need to retain the sensibility of underground trash.
Davenport’s third album, “Maroon Cocoon,” is his most mature yet, although I suspect it’s an unintentional maturity. It offers a sharp contrast to the first two albums, while retaining autobiographical aspects that Davenport may not be in the know upon. He has clearly been raked across the coals because of a bad relationship. But where this would prove a bane for other artists, with Davenport, it allows him to expand his influences into unexpectedly intimate territory. Accompanied by curiously androgynous roommate/longtime bandmate Sam Flax Kenner on saxophone and recorder, Davenport succeeds with a scaled back sound. Aside from the unfortunate track “Sad Machine,” on the whole, Davenport’s lyrics suggest a man defiantly avoiding growing up. “Paper Friend” is a beautiful yet painful ode to a woman just outside Davenport’s grasp, while “Clara” represents the futility of identifying with a lover just beyond one’s existential reach.
On January 29, nearly every track on “Maroon Cocoon” was performed live. Davenport was stunned to see the audience reduced to quietude. (And, in fact, violence nearly broke out as two drunken oafs talked and were shushed with threats as Davenport bared his soul through “Paper Friend.”) I suspect that Davenport doesn’t truly comprehend the emotional cadences of his music (which explained his mystified reaction). But part of the fun of seeing him live is wondering just how Davenport will develop, while silently wondering if the emotional resonance of his songs will scar him in permanent ways.
If you’re interested in catching Davenport before it’s “too late,” he’ll be playing at Cafe du Nord this Saturday, February 12 (along with the groovy opener Call and Response). It’s definitely one of the best $10 shows you’re likely to find in the San Francisco area this year.
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The Voice of a Generation
We are, of course, beyond grateful that someone out there has seen fit to provide indelible evidence demonstrating just how malleable Mr. Lipsyte is in a supine position. Forget prose, plot, character, exposition, and a dependable collection of laughs. Hero worship is, after all, the m.o. behind any breakthrough novel.
These days, Mr. Lipsyte is more popular than Jesus. He is so hot that Bret Easton Ellis and Jay McInerney are now leaving long voicemails on Mr. Lipsyte’s machine, wondering if Stolid Sam might have any “leftover groupies” that might remind them of the glory days. Mr. Lipsyte, to his considerable credit, has vowed that he won’t be reduced to lecturing about wine in ten years. To which we offer him considerable props. Nor will he be languishing in Hollywood banging out novels revisiting the same territory explored in Home Land.
While this is the kind of tricky situation that might tarnish a one-trick pony, in Mr. Lipsyte’s case, it has worked out quite well. Because Mr. Lipsyte also has a short story collection to back up his streetcred.
So we’re exceedingly grateful to everyone promoting the current efforts. We were beginning to think that we were the only ones out here who read Home Land with a roll of toilet paper within arm’s reach. Splashy debut novels often have that effect on us. We reacted the exact same way when reading Revolutionary Road and Tender is the Night. In Mr. Lipsyte’s case, as we read the book, we laughed like a dormouse pondering the ineffectual cheese traps devised by pesky homo sapiens. Home Land: funny shit, yo. Pass it on. Pay it forward.
But (with all due respect, of course) wait for Novel #2 before declaring Sam the voice of a new generation. That’s all we have to say on the matter.
Incidentally, we’re back. The indignant Indians have fled the coop. We have a redesign in the works. We could offer a lengthy tale about our momentary bout with the flu and the fact that our computer died, but we’re just damn happy to be alive and well. Hoping you are the same.
[UPDATE: As Maud was kind enough to point out, Home Land is Novel #2. To prevent any future mishaps, we’ve enrolled in a six-week counting class that starts next week, discovered in our local extended education catalog.]