One round Tom...

...has a new blog

I prefer my pic.

Perec

Good article here

China Mieville, William S Burroughs and one exciting package

Sometimes you don't feel arrogant enough to blog, or life isn't interesting in a way you want to tell the world about. It's all about books anyway, and I have some more to talk about now.

Finished 'The City and The City' by Mieville. It was excellent, and sort of showed me how my first, test run novel could have been if it had actually been any good. The central conceit of two cities existing separately in one place is made to work more easily than it must have been to write. Characters are good, and it's a page turner.

Even better is the Burroughs; Cities of the Red Night. This book leaps around from democratic, pirate societies in the Eighteenth Century to a murder trail in the contemporary US and South America, with psychic ceremonies, terrifying diseases and lots of sex in between. Almost everyone is gay and addicted to Opium. It's sort of like a less benevolent, more demented Pynchon, and as such it's absolutely fantastic.

And, finally, my signed first edition of the new Bret Easton Ellis arrived from the US, badly photographed above. I'm having to restrain myself from moving straight onto it, but it's testament to the Burroughs that I haven't.

Quote of the day

'Moralising is to morality what artiness is to art.' - Michael Burleigh

Rural bliss

In Leeds for a week, or rather a place called Leathley, in the countryside north of Leeds. I've been learning to fly fish, much to my father's delight. It's great fun, harder than it looks and thrilling when you catch a fish. Those are my mother's pride and joy up there; Silky hens and ten new chicks. I've been hunting out newts in the pond and looking out for big Red Kites looming overhead. I even had my first surprise birthday party yesterday, and a whole lot of whisky.

Reading: The City and The City by China Mieville. Read a lot about it and Will had started it. It's great so far; atmospheric, dark and based around an intriguing central premise.

Other birthday books: Cities of the Red Night - Burroughs. Was put off him by Naked Lunch's dreadful prologue about junk addiction. This is the book that might convert me.

The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao - Junot Diaz. Can't remember how this got onto my wish list but it looks good. It won the Pulitzer, which could be a bad thing. But hey, at least it wasn't the Booker.

Molloy - Beckett. I've never read anything of Beckett's and I'm very embarrassed about it. This is Will's generous attempt to sort me out.

Sniper One - Sgt. Dan Mills. Ahem. Thanks Chris.

Dalston grunge

There's been an emergent guitar scene in the UK for the last couple of years, with its London base in Dalston. The papers have called it the grunge revival, which I'm sure pisses the bands off. It's not completely off the mark though. The bands (Male Bonding, Mazes, Pens, Wavves, Spectrals) have been known to wield Jagstangs and Jazzmasters, a sure reference to the early '90s. Also, dare I say it, there's the odd plaid shirt on display. I think it's quite exciting, partly because I was a sucker for grunge the first time round, and partly because the scene is genuinely open and friendly. Gone is the haughty hipness inspired by retro-rockers like The Strokes. Instead, the bands and fans actually let themselves go and display a far more inclusive attitude. It's all DIYish and fun. The best bands are Mazes, Spectrals (especially live) and Male Bonding. The latter are signed to Sub Pop, which I can't help thinking is sort of great too.

A genuine Alan Warner madonna

Went to see Alan Warner reading at the excellent Book Slam last week. He was great, as is the new book. There should be some video on Book Slam's site soon. The best part was getting my book 'signed,' with what he referred to as 'one of my maddonas.' I know, fanboy strikes again.

Dels

We've just signed Dels. He's brilliant, everything we're about as a label really. Even the Myspace is great. He's playing Cargo at the wonderfully convenient time of 8pm tonight, so come along.

David Eagleman and Alan Warner

Hearing positive things about this book, and the first story here (only one I've had time to read) is really good. He's reading with Alan Warner at Book Slam a week today.

Stephen Malkmus and The Jicks

My prejudice has bitten again, but it's a double edged sword. On the one hand, an unfounded idea that Stephen Malkmus' post-Pavement work would be disappointing has kept me from enjoying two albums that are true works of genius. On the other hand, I find so little music that I really love these days that it's quite nice to have true works of genius to enjoy, and two new albums in my all time favourites. His albums with the Jicks; 'Pig Lib' and 'Real Emotional Trash' are, genuinely, as good as 'Crooked Rain' by Pavement. They're so rich in content, ideas and execution that I've been listening to them endlessly for two weeks and still haven't tired of them one bit. The songs are often long, usually catchy, and achieve that tricky lyrical mix of being clever and keenly felt.

There's a great trick the band have of starting a song in one place with a hint of something to come, then delivering on that hint in bucketloads in the last third of the song. The effect is that something you hadn't realised you were craving appears out of nowhere, and makes you feel how cravings do when they're relieved. (That means really fucking good, for those without cravings.)

Check (Do Not Feed) The Oyster, 1% of One, Dragonfly Pie and Cold Son.

Actually don't. Just get both the albums.

Aonach Eagach

Weather permitting, I'm going to try and do this route in Scotland in September. It translates as the 'devil's staircase,' and it sits just north of the stunning main road through Glencoe. A friend and I did Ben Starav a couple of years back, and that was the most challenging walk I've ever been near. The summit was described by our map-book as being 'reached by three quarters of a mile of relentless ridges, which are rocky and narrow towards the top,' it was terrifyingly brilliant. There was lots of crouching down ahead of ten metre long, three foot wide paths with huge cliffs either side, encouraging each other before chimp-walking along them. At the false summit, we clambered up a vertical section, said cliffs now falling away even further, and came across two stalkers wandering easily along the path. Breathlessly, I asked them if this was the top. 'No,' the younger one said, in his West Highlands accent. 'See that bit over there, the bit that's obviously higher than this bit?' I nodded. 'That would be the summit.'

Excerpt from Imperial Bedrooms

I never thought I'd become such a fan boy of Bret Easton Ellis. I was so put off his books by people reading them for the gore at school that I nearly never gave them a chance. I assumed they'd be shock-lit without much else to offer. It was only when someone persuaded a friend of mine with similar views to read Lunar Park, and he persuaded me, that I realised what I'd been missing. That book was virtuosic; a post-modern experiment in self positioning, a deeply gripping ghost story, and finally a moving, redemptive book about a father. To do all that in one book is really about as good as it gets.

So anyway, I'm enjoying the hype machine winding up around the new book, a sequel to his first, 'Less Than Zero.' There's tweeting happening every day, interviews and a new website - with an excerpt. Read it this morning, and it had the desired effect on me.

As so much of my job involves - dare I say it - marketing, it's been interesting to see the 'campaign' around Imperial Bedrooms unfolding. They're doing exactly what we try to do with records; big social network campaign, new site, online tasters, tour, competitions... Doing it quite well, too.

Warner again

This was a good read. One of the re-jigged Observer's new style of feature. The concept sort of reminds me of when a magazine doesn't want to a do a proper interview with one of our artists and has them write something about their favourite t-shirts or some other such mulch. I guess the Observer pay the writers though! Anyway, the article has made look forward to my yearly Highlands trip more than ever. Bring on the stomping.

Pavement

I've been in a bit of a hole the last week or so, hence the lack of posts. I went to see Pavement last night though, which cheered me up. They're playing a four night residency at Brixton Academy, which surprised me when I heard, as I hadn't realised they were that 'big.' It was a funny experience. After years of small gigs around East London, populated by hostile, youthful hipster types, it was refreshing to stand amongst a crowd of older, casually dressed, earnest fans. Outside of Malkmus, the band all looked a bit old and out of synch with each other, and there were a lot of 'reunion smiles,' but it was still great to hear and see them. For his part, Malkmus looked - remarkably - just as stick thin and indie-boyish as he did sixteen years ago. Will says that it's all about not moving too much, when you get to that age. I'll remember that one.

Alan Warner

Where's my copy of The Stars in the Bright Sky, and why is there no major broadsheet press?

Found this earlier, which was worth a read. Odd that there don't seem to have been reviews in the Guardian or Times as yet though.

Here's hoping my copy lands soon.

George Galloway and Respect

Excellent piece here by Nick Cohen, who's always good to read. His comments about Galloway and Respect are spot on, and as a Tower Hamlets resident I hope they get beaten on Thursday. I hope Galloway loses down the road too. Thankfully he's off the airwaves now, and hopefully he'll soon be out of the Commons, which is his usual status anyway. Grrrrrr.

Marginal Gloss

This blog is really great. Moments like I just spent considering the possibility that the arts can be reduced to simple escapism, or actually numb us to reality, are really valuable to me. I remember when I had all day to consider things like this, and it's a source of constant regret that my ability to do that kind of thinking hasn't been practiced very often since finishing studying. It's a bit of a blog to aspire to I reckon.

Vote for policy

This is quite good. I did it this morning and had an interesting result - 60% Labour, 20% Lib Dem and 20%, ahem, UKIP. No idea how the latter crept in there since I'm firmly pro-Europe and opposed to everything their leader has been saying on the radio. Apparently lots of people have been getting surprising results. The friend who told me about the site said that a hippie girl at his work ended up with a strong BNP percentage. Hippie in hypocrisy shocker. Who'd a thunk it.

Ronnie O'Sullivan

He's out again, in a classical, borderline sulky fashion. Once he'd lost the lead he seemed to get fed up, and sink back into smacking shots around without giving them enough time. It's always very dangerous when he gets like that - unless he finds himself in abrupt top form, the shots go in and he gets re-invigorated. Most of the time (all of the time for any other player, really) if you start playing like that, you won't last long.

I don't like Mark Selby. He's very good in the reliable, robotic way that Hendry or John Higgins are, but he thinks his youth and hairdo make him the new Ronnie O'Sullivan. He has none of the flair or attitude, and as such he's nothing like as thrilling to watch.

Of course, it could just be sour grapes on my part.

Paris Suit Yourself

This is just amazing...

U-Turn

I went on a 20 mile(ish) bike ride on Saturday, with two friends. One is a bear-shaped bike obsessive with what the other referred to as 'split calves.' I gather that's something to do with having noticeably muscular lower legs. Anyway, I ended up borrowing one of said friend's fixed gear bikes. Now, I've been ranting about these for months to anyone who'll listen, ever since every hipster with a silly 'do and facial hair started wobbling around London Fields on bright pink examples, their spindly, none-split-calved legs creaking with the effort. Now I'm thinking about buying one. Maybe a single speed bike anyway, probably not set to fixed gear... The thing was, it was just very easy to cycle on such a light bike, and one that you're forced to peddle constantly. My other friend was on a mountain bike, and he was just visibly slower (sorry big man.) Anyway, it wouldn't be my first u-turn. I like to think of them as a sign of an open mind.

I can promise though, here and now, that I will always, always ALWAYS hate Banksy.

Bret Easton Ellis and David Foster Wallace

Yeah yeah, I know I go on about these two a bit. Ellis tweeted his latest reading the other day, and it turns out he's getting stuck into Although Of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself: A Road Trip With David Foster Wallace, by David Lipsky. Interesting, as Ellis was one of the people Wallace used as an example of (roughly) what was wrong with modern fiction. The interview will be online somewhere, excuse my laziness. To be somewhat simplistic, Wallace had a fairly conservative view of literature in many ways, and felt that it should have some sort of moral centre or message. Ellis, he felt, had none. It's the same thing friends who've read the latter's books have said to me afterwards. 'Yeah I liked it and all that, but what's it saying?' Personally, I don't think anyone has a responsibility to 'say,' anything, as long as they write good books.

Paris Suit Yourself and Mazes

We've just signed Paris Suit Yourself, the singer and bassist of whom you can (sort of) see above. I'm really excited about them, and it's great to be working on a genuinely thrilling guitar based band. The other band I've been listening to all the time recently is Mazes. They're very different sounding - more Pavementish than PIL-ish - but very good as well. Happily, they're both playing tomorrow night at The Macbeth in Hoxton, for free. More info on Big Dada's site.

Planes

Due to my self-induced personal strife, I'm writing in exactly the same spot I used to until almost exactly two years ago. It's a very weird experience. Last time I was sitting here I was working on a practice-run novel, the one before last. It all feels like a long time ago, and uncomfortably familiar. I haven't often experienced this sense of regression. Anyway, as I sat staring out of the window last night (I'm on the eighth floor and very high up) I suddenly remembered my main distraction last time I was here. Planes. I used to waste good periods watching them flying along their set paths, left to right across the window, disappearing behind the skyscrapers in the City at one angle and emerging again at another. Last night, of course, there were none. It only struck me just then how strange the sky was without them. There they are again now, blinking and moving, on their set paths, distracting me once again.

Bad advice

Heard the guy who runs this blog on Radio 4 the other night, saying that Nick Clegg should have marched on Parliament, prior to his debate win, to really capture the imagination of the country and get some attention. That seems an incredible misunderstanding of the British voting public on the part of a blogger held in apparent high regard. Marching on Parliament seems to me to be the surest way to get written off as a nutter by middle England. Incidentally, that's the line on Clegg the Tories are presumably planning to take, perhaps using Clegg's pledge to scrap Trident as the main angle. Clegg must be feeling relieved that a bunch of generals have come out asking questions about it themselves...

Heavy drinking

Is no answer.

David Foster Wallace: The Broom of the System

So after ditching the Peace I reverted to unpatriotic type. The very few people who read this blog regularly will know that DFW is one of my very few favourite writers, so it might seem weird I hadn't already read this. I think I worried it wouldn't be very good, as he wrote it so young and amidst his academic studies. I imagined it as a sort of over-learned, derivative-without-knowing-it kind of thing. Very stupid and odd to have thought that, really, especially as I remember being really keen to read Pynchon's 'Slow Learner,' for example.

Anyway, I'm glad I hadn't already read it, because it's brilliant and I feel both thrilled and comforted to be back in safe hands. Does that mean I'm on the 'comfort the disturbed' side of Wallace's fiction teacher's equation about good fiction? Anyway, like Pynchon and Perec, he's such a nice writer to be living with. It does feel like the work of a young man, but it's also reminding me just what a great writer he was, just in the traditional sense of ideas, character, plot, dialogue and prose.

I know from reading interviews with him years back that he only rated about a quarter of Pynchon's work, but the influence here seems really strong - no bad thing for me. There's the potentially signifying names; Biff Diggerence, Stonecipher, Rick Vigorous, and even at the early stage I've reached, there's the slightly shadowy Stonecipheco organisation.

It's long too. Nice and long.

David Peace: Occupied City

I've read David Peace's 'The Damned United' and 'Tokyo Year Zero' previously, and thought they were both brilliant. Given I love Yorkshire, Ellroy and British writers doing something ambitious, how could I not. I'd planned to pick up Occupied City for a while, but I read a worryingly negative Times review last year - something along the lines of 'if only he'd stop believing so deeply in his own genius.' Strangely, the main press quote on the front of the paperback is from The Times.

Anyway, for me the review proved correct. I very rarely put a book down after starting, but I have done this time. It just feels like he's pushed the repetition and 'I'm transcending prose' thing much too far this time. The opening was dull, overwrought and portentous. It just shows that the kind of writing that was so successful in Tokyo Year Zero walks very close to the line.

I'll probably give it another go soon, just in case it's me.

Further to that...

...the writing about Israel (and maybe by some sort of extension, Western Jewishness) via Sam's visit to Jenin seems to me to be as serious, unflinching and fascinating as Phillip Roth's. A big claim I know, but you'll just have to read it.

All The Sad Young Literary Men - Keith Gessen

Is turning out to be a goodie. I thought that, given the title, it might be a bit of a modish, US emo-lit type of thing, but it's far less pretentious than that. It tells the stories of Sam - a failed writer of the great Zionist epic, Keith, a failing writer of Democrat political commentary, and Mark, a failing historian of the Mensheviks. Sad is the right word. All three men move from the promise (and the loves) of their twenties into loneliness and disappointment in their 30's. They make a mess of their love lives, put on weight, go bald, obsess over and alienate more women. I'm only two thirds of the way through, so things might improve, but there's a background hum of melancholy that verges on bleakness.

Gessen has a really likeable, honest voice, and the book is often funny and is very compelling.

Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately?) it's sort of painfully timely for me, reading this book. Just hopefully not in the literary failure half of things.

Christ, this entry really was book review-ish.

The Soft Pack

Will put me onto this band, formerly known as The Muslims. I guess it's understandable they got scared about that one. Their eponymous album is fantastic. It's just spirited, loud, power pop really, but it has that extra something. My current favourite is Answer To Yourself, a sort of manifesto on how to live and fulfill talent. It should be cheesy, but it isn't. The singer sounds a bit like an indie-rock Bob Dylan, but in a good way. I know it's a good way, because I don't like Bob Dylan, and I do like The Soft Pack.

Dum Dum Girls: I Will Be

The album's every bit as good as I'd hoped. Just the right balance between dreamy and raw; catchy as hell and lyrically convincing. Current highlight is 'Rest of Our Lives.' The singer is called Dee Dee, and her voice is knowing and sweet all at once, and sort of sounds... experienced? I've been avoiding finding anything out about her or the band - to break the habit of a lifetime - in order not to break the spell.

Wells Tower: Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned

How to express how great this book is? I'm having to restrain myself. My awful snobbery was in full effect before I started it; the fact he's written for the achingly hip McSweeny's, the fact that his name sounds more like a modern movie star's, the fact that the book's being mentioned everywhere amongst what I suppose are literary tastemakers. It's actually so good that I lost the urge to hate it within about three lines. The simplest way to describe it would be a cross between David Foster Wallace and Bret Easton Ellis. That's as crude as all such comparisons, but it gives some idea of the range across unflinching brutality and warm, everyday compassion that Wells Tower covers.

One of the first things I noticed and enjoyed was the exactitude of language. It's always the perfect word that is used in an image or description. A character pours a 'long grey dose' of sunflower seeds into his mouth, in one example. I evangelically pressed my copy of the book on Scuz as soon as I got home last night, so I can't quote the other lines I wanted to for fear of getting them wrong. Trust me, he's a very good writer, and seems to quietly revel in language.

Anyway, it's just excellent. Behind it all there's a sort of unobtrusive morality that you can take or leave (hence DFW comparison) and often there's a really shocking nastiness to the characters (hence BEE,) and it's hard to shock, these days. One character recalls his contrarian, bullying father - a lawyer - telling him as a child to 'fight to the death if a man tries to put you into his car. You're probably dead either way, and it's better to check out before they get creative on you.'

My snobbery has been well and truly confounded, once again. One day I'll learn.

Nabokov: Invitation to a Beheading

I take most of it back on this book, it ended up pretty fantastic. I still think Nabokov's supreme confidence is a little less controlled than in later novels, but the blend of slapstick, farce, horror and dread makes for quite a firework display. It does get better as it develops, and as the stinking, odious presence of M Pierre invades the novel. It's also (unless I'm reading it wrong,) very, very dirty. Surely the scene in which Cincinatus reflects on his promiscuous wife eating a pear is a barely concealed description of her giving another man a blowjob? Quite strong stuff for the 1930's.

I actually read a copy with one of those fantastic Penguin covers from the 1980's with a modern art image, but I couldn't find the picture online...

Mike Ladd

This one brings back memories. I think this must've been at the XEN: 10 Years of Ninja Tune party at Scala, 2000. Mike Ladd is one of the few musicians who was one of my very favourites then and still is now. This was in his crazier days (obviously,) but to give him his credit his live show hasn't lost an iota of its energy since then. For me he's always made raw, literate, black punk music. He constantly seems capable of being visceral and cerebral all at once, which is no easy feat. Great poet too, as in actually great, rather than the 'great' people normally use about musicians writing poetry. We're finally putting his new record out in May, and it's really fucking good.

Billy Childish

Great quote to finish up the Radio 4 program on him today. When asked what he wanted to achieve with his art, music and writing, he replied 'I want to mature, I want to be a better person, I want to be closer to god... And you can't do that just by winning.'

That's pretty much how I've always felt about art, except I'd have gone all long winded and couldn't have brought myself to say anything about god.

I just love this pic.

It comes from some film and was used to illustrate the review in The Times of The Eerie Silence: Are We Alone in the Universe? by Paul Davies. The book sounds really interesting, although I'll never read it as I just don't get round to non-fiction. Two things highlighted in the review: That sending out signals to announce ourselves to any intelligent life could be akin to 'a smiling child attempting to make friends with a crocodile.' And the idea that intelligent life, wherever it may exist, may not last very long because it simply burns itself out through its violent impact on environment. Human life may exist for a fraction of time only, relatively speaking, and if the same applies elsewhere it's very unlikely that two intelligent civilisations would exist at once. The metaphor Davies used was a town of 100 houses whose lights came on for only a few seconds each night. Communication would only be possible if two house's lights came on at once, making it virtually impossible. Haunting thought that.

Stanza, structure and Invitation to a Beheading

It's been a week of varying success so far, partly as I'm struggling with my new project. I'm not sure if the structure works, and I seem to be getting distracted easily which is always worrying. I'm thinking about doing a third session on Sunday mornings. In other news, Stanza for iPhone is amazing. I turned my new book into an ebook and transferred it over, and now I can read through it easily on the tube. Funny things iPhones. They're irritatingly good, in the sense that they're so good that everyone who has one wants to talk about them, which is irritating.

'Invitation to a Beheading' is the first Russian Nabokov I've ever read. Obviously, I'm not reading it in Russian. It's maybe a little denser than the English language, later books. Although it has all the trademark playfulness and black humour, they're a little less controlled and a little more... showy? It also feels less startling in its originality than the later books, with a bit more existential (dare I say it) cliche. Still, it's good.

Here's hoping next week is better, writing wise.

Finished

Even the Dogs. It's really very good indeed. The prose is torrential, tough and lovely. It's full of astounding, nail-on-the-head images, the plot is great and the experimental narration and structure a wild success. It's also harrowing, moving and extremely convincing. Bloody hell. There are few downsides. I wish Robert's alcoholism hadn't been sort of explained or reasoned out by the revelation of his head injury. I just don't think there needs to be a reason - not that the book offers it as a full explanation or a justification. I wondered if repeating the intermingled images and narrative technique so often was maybe slightly indulgent, but hell, it's pretty effective to read. The only other thing was Steve being surprised that soldiers got shot in Northern Ireland. I wasn't really convinced by his 'my country lied to me' mantra. Apparently Lee Rourke is asking himself why he hasn't read Jon McGregor before, somewhere out there on the internet. I'm asking myself the same thing.

News

Had some good news this week, fingers crossed. If there's any more soon, I might even tell people.

David Foster Wallace: Archived

Just read this in the Guardian. DFW is one of my favourite writers, and I was really upset when he died. These archives that get put together when a writer dies leave me strangely unmoved. I guess I'd like to flick through a notebook, but I'd feel a bit guilty doing so. I certainly wouldn't want to pore over the lot for hours. I once saw a notebook of James Joyce's with part of the original, handwritten draft of Ulysses in it. That was exciting because it was the actual text - the most important bit - and it was in his wild, scrawled handwriting. I'm not sure I'd want to see the nuts and bolts and ideas and techniques and plans behind a writer's work, at least not masses of them. It'd sort of ruin the surface tension that gives a book its magic.

Also, without suggesting that anyone would ever be interested in my notebooks, there's no way I'd want them displayed anywhere, or read by a single other person. My notes and plans are interspersed with reminders, notes to self, lists of excruciatingly personal/ embarrassing concerns etc etc. Do these writers write notes with a view to them being looked over, or am I just unusually weird?

Pavement: Quarantine The Past

Pavement have sort of crept up on me as one of my favourite bands ever. It's only recently struck me that I've probably spent as much time listening to them as I have to anyone else. The last few days I've been listening to this, their best of, constantly. (Apologies to my co-worker Nicky.) It's an excellent compilation and has a typically Pavement, uncompromising and knowing sort of edge to it. At their best they evoke that feeling of, say, walking along on a sunny evening, after work, when everything is right with the world and yourself for just one moment. When the inner monologue has mainly good things to say. 'Frontwards' is my current highlight. Stephen Malkmus has a really excellent balance of irony and passion, and the way they play their perfectly imperfect pop songs is best described by the title of their debut album, Slanted and Enchanted.

Even the Dogs

Is scarily good so far. I'm right at the very beginning, but it's really quite masterful. It's narrated by what seems to be a group of characters, who speak in one collective voice. The opening of the novel describes the discovery of a body in a block of flats, and there's an incredible few pages in which scenes from the present and past intermingle. The images of Robert (it's his body) moving in with his wife, their decorating and lovemaking, are interspersed with the flat's later descent into ruin; his drinking, the holes punched in the walls, the damp and decay. It's breathtakingly well done actually, and very sad. I have a feeling it's going to be one of those books that's kind of painfully good. Ah well.

Dum Dum Girls

Are really quite excellent. I wish the album was out, or I knew who to blag it from.

James Sallis and Kurt Cobain

I went to what just might be the poshest Oxfam shop in the country on Saturday, in Harrogate. The books and records section upstairs was being run by a lady who looked like the Queen, but I suspect someone else was responsible for the displays of Mo'Wax 12"s and Las albums that would have put most record shops to shame. The books section was just as good. The second place I've ever come across to have a second hand copy of 'Coming Through Slaughter.' That familiar sense of almost wishing I hadn't bought and read it already. I picked up 'Ghost of a Flea' by James Sallis, Kurt Cobain's Journals, and 'Invitation to a Beheading' by Nabokov.
The Sallis book is excellent so far. Apparently it's the last in a series of 'crime' novels centred around ageing novelist and private eye Lew Griffin. I haven't read any of the others, but it doesn't feel as if I need to have, or won't be able to later. The book is full of uncontrived, casual philosophy and quotes from people as diverse as Pascal and Pynchon. It's all set in a grim, tough, faded New Orleans, and the tone is elegiac towards Lew and his 'past tense' friends, and the city itself. I'm riveted and can't wait to finish. Incidentally, Sallis' 'Driver' is also brilliant. He obviously hold genre snobs in disdain, and any such haters of the crime novel should certainly read him.
Kurt Cobain's journals? I just couldn't quite resist them. I'm still fascinated and enthralled by him. His band were the single biggest musical influence in my life, both in terms of sound and in attitude towards music in general. The journals are really interesting. So far they've mainly consisted of letters to The Melvins, other friends and sacked drummers. They detail Cobain's obsession and dedication to the band, how much time and money they spent, and that depressingly familiar suspicion of record labels. The wonderful Sub-Pop cops a lot of shit, that's for sure.
There's some bad, consciously stream-of-conscious writing about dream states, and some excellent comic strips. My favourite is the one about the red neck whose unborn son puts his foot through dad's head.
As for Nabokov, that might be the one after Sallis I guess.

New books

Just ordered:

'Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned' by Wells Tower

A buzz book which would usually put me off, but it's been recommended and the short story in my wanky McSweeny's app was good.

'Even The Dogs' by Jon McGregor

Not sure if this will be a dark, inventive British masterpiece or a slightly Booker-ish, 'edginess for squares' sort of thing. Sounds good though, and I liked his piece on coroners in the paper. (Guardian / Observer I think?)

All The Sad Young Literary Men

No idea about this. Again seems a bit hyped but also appears highly rated.

Bring em on.

Trundlespike

Has resurfaced. Look the fuck out.

Matthew De Abaitua's 'The Red Men' and Harry Matthews' 'Cigarettes.'

Are the two books I've been reading. Finished The Red Men last week and enjoyed it thoroughly. It's imaginative and ambitious as well as being very British, which was great. There's an obvious love/ hate thing with Hackney going on - mainly love - which I enjoyed too. My only criticism was that the characters didn't talk like people, but more like manifestos, or writers. For a man that spent a period as Will Self's amanuensis though, that's probably to be expected.

Harry Matthew's 'Cigarettes' is a work of genius. I've read 'My Life in CIA' and 'The Sinking of the Ondradek Stadium' previously, and I think this is the best of the three (although I haven't finished it.) Matthews was (is?) the only American member of the Oulipo, a great friend of Georges Perec, and a tirelessly experimental writer. The book tells the story of a set of well to do (on the surface) Americans in New York between the 30's and the 60's. It does so via a series of overlapping chapters exploring the relationships between a particular pair of these characters.

The writing is so fluid and compelling, and the characterisation so masterful and deep, that you forget that a tremendous amount of plotting and planning must have gone into the book's structure. I really admire the subtle, restrained writing of the relationship between Phoebe and Owen, as their relationship descends into something horrifying, sinister and damaging. On the other hand, the explicit, unflinching account of Lewis' sexual predilictions is equally brilliant. Not many writers have confronted the desire to be physically and ritually abused and humiliated, at least not in the form of actual crucifixion.

The consummate ease with which this novel works is both inspiring and shaming for me currently. I've started a new project with an experimental structure and I'm finding it increasingly difficult. It takes a certain mind and a certain love for complex, puzzle-like plots to write these things. I've never been one for giant sheets of paper all over the walls with lines between characters etc etc. Still, I persevere. At the very least I might be able to hack a straight novel out of it anyway.

More from McEwen

A few fine quotes on Ballard's influence on the art of Adam McEwen here

Sadly, I think he says it better than me...

Filling the void part 2: William T Vollmann's 'Riding Toward Everywhere'

After I'd visited the gallery, I wandered into Bloomsbury, past the hall of residence I lived in ten years ago, and into my favourite book shop, Judd Two Books on Marchmont Street. It was the same as ever, reassuringly staffed by the borderline surly (Scottish?) bloke with the voluminous hair. They had a copy of A Handful of Dust with a cover that made me wish I didn't own it already, and a few other odds and ends. I was tempted by a book of short stories by T.C Boyle, as I'd read one of his in last Sunday's paper earlier in the day. In the end, I quite wimpishly didn't go for it due to its having no stamp of approval from another writer I liked in the form of a quote.

I operate a policy of immediate purchase on finding anything I don't own by William T Vollmann. Judd had a copy of 'Riding Toward Everywhere,' which I'd never heard of and purchased immediately. It turns out it's another of his odd, idioscyncratic 'non'-fiction/ documentary novels; this one about trainhopping, hobo-style, on the freight trains of the US. I went across the road to the Lord John Russell (feeling slightly nostalgic by now) and drank two pints of Deuchars whilst reading it. The first chapter is the most revealing thing I've read yet about what this strange and brilliant writer is actually like.

In an effort to discuss the relative freedoms of America across its recent generations, he compares himself to his father and grandfather, his attitudes to theirs. I knew he'd done drugs (crack with addicts in San Fran) and he refers to this here. 'My father believes that drugs should be legalized, regulated and taxed. So do I. My father has never sampled a controlled substance and never will. I have proudly committed every victimless crime that I can think of. My father actively does not want to know which acts I have performed and with whom.' Funny that, fathers' abilities to decide just not to ask. Also, I'm not sure drugs qualify as a victimless crime in any sense. In fact, given the vast amount of crime (the majority of crime in the west?) committed due to drug addiction, funding the illegal trade in any way would appear to be contributing to the plight of addicts.

Interestingly, Vollmann also likes handguns. 'My father... is a sucker for the latest gadget. I enjoy the few mechanical devices which are simple enough for me to understand, such as semiautomatic pistols. My father occasionally shoots handguns with me, but has come to disapprove of civilian firearms ownership, an attitude which disappoints me.' This is the first time I've been able to actually locate some of Vollmann's attitudes, and they're very different to your average 'liberal' writer. I agree wholeheartedly with him on guns, just not the American system of licensing them. Britain can at least claim to have had that entirely right, prior to the foolish, unnecessary ban.

The loss of freedoms in America is making Vollmann 'angrier and angrier.' Apparently, he's pushed so hard against the system that he's been interviewed by the FBI! Twice! No mention of why. Finally, he reveals that to get around the law by which a man who uses his car to pick up prostitutes may have it confiscated, he says he 'uses somebody else's car.' Brave, I suppose.

I'm not sure it's healthy, but I do think all this madness makes him a very interesting and singular writer. And of course, books like The Rifles and You Bright and Risen Angels are up there with the very best fiction of the 20th Century.

Filling the void part one: Crash: Homage to JG Ballard

My other half left the flat for two weeks in Thailand today, and I'm contending with solitude. It's not something I'm very good at, despite the fact I'd like to be. I've done lots of good and interesting things all day, but the sense of joy which comes from prattling on excitedly about them with Scuz is sorely lacking. Still, they were interesting indeed.

Firstly I went to see Crash: Homage To JG Ballard. It's at the Gagosian Gallery on Brittania Street, WC1X 9JD. That information is important, as there are two galleries, and I went to the Mayfair one this morning by mistake. The exhibition is utterly brilliant. Not only is the gallery itself the perfect place to look at art (polite attendants, nice big spaces with interesting angles) but the collection of art they'd put together was spot on. Highlights for me were Hans Bellmer's brutally pornographic, Dali-esque drawings, Jake and Dinos Chapman's 'Bang Wallop,' (I'll come back to that,) and Paul McCarthy's mechanical pig. The latter is a lifesize, lifelike model of a pig that lies sleeping on its side. Four movement detectors set it into motion, and it breathes, snores, twitches and, well, grins. It was unsettling, beautiful and spellbinding.

I very often go to galleries and kid myself I'm enjoying it/ being moved. At this one, I felt shivers of excitement. It's full of brave, clever, transcendental works about violence, machines, death and sex. I think I was expecting to scoff at some of the art that they'd chosen as 'inspired' by Ballard, but there wasn't a single piece that didn't arouse the same feelings his books do. There's something about it all, something about being turned on by icons of doom, that both he and all of these artists convey brilliantly.

Just to indulge myself, and to do it justice, I need to also recommend the terrifying, bitter-laughter-in-the-face-of-death effects of Adam McEwen's 'I'm so tired,' and, very strangely for me, Damien Hirst's 'When Logics Die.' I hadn't realised he'd ever done anything good.

And the icing on the cake? One of the first things you see as you enter the gallery is a stack of books. The cover carries a painting of a mangled car against an orange background, and is titled 'BANGWALLOP,' by J & D Ballard. It turns out that this is a version of Crash by Jake and Dinos Chapman. From a first glance, they've interspersed the original text with random phrases and keyboard symbols. Every time I open it, I read something strange and interesting. You can pick one of the books off the actual display, take it to the counter and pay £20 for it. There's only 1000. I might have just bought my first work of art.

Alan Warner and Bret Easton Ellis: new books

It's 2006 all over again, and I've placed my first ever pre-orders. I'm equally excited about both Alan Warner's 'The Stars in the Bright Sky', and Bret Easton Ellis' 'Imperial Bedrooms'. Not only are these two of the finest writers alive (alongside Pynchon and William T Vollmann, for me,) but they're also very different. Perhaps the only similarity is that both novels are reprises of the casts of previous books. In Warner's case, the teenage girls of the Sopranos, and in Ellis' the teenage rich kids of Less Than Zero. Otherwise, Warner's lyrical, affectionate, darkness-and-light prose couldn't be further from Bret Easton Ellis' unflinching, stripped down writing. It's very exciting that there'll be two (hopefully) masterful books in two different styles this year.

In particular, it'll be interesting to see how Warner's book goes down. There was a little sniping and disappointment around the reception of The Worms Can Carry Me to Heaven in 2006, despite it being up to his usual standard (if not a huge step up.) BEE. on the other hand, published what I think is his best book that year - Lunar Park.

Twitter, finally

Twitter, like Facebook, has never made sense to me outside of a way to promote oneself. Updating your status or twittering on about where you are and what you're doing seem to me to just be two more ways of showing off. Admittedly, so is blogging. At least with a blog there's a little more space, though. Despite all this, I finally got twitter last week, and all because I found out Bret Easton Ellis tweets. Pathetically, and in keeping with my fan boy leanings, I felt no dismay that he'd joined the twatosphere, just excitement that here was the real BEE, saying stuff, that I could read. I make no apologies about this. He's one of the very few greatest living writers, and the idea of him knocking out random thoughts on the internet was thrilling.

And random they were. The most recent at the time was a celebration of Salinger's death. In the face of lots of standard-type solemnity amongst all sorts of rent-a-quote dullards, Ellis said 'thank god,' and that it was 'party time.' Will's theory is that he must've been compared to Salinger since day one and is/was probably sick of it.

His last tweet is about Andrea Arnold. She made the film Red Road, which is truly excellent, and apparently her last, Fish Tank, is brilliant too. The tweet managed to combine praise of her film, praise of Quentin Tarantino's underrated 'Inglourious Basterds,' and a shameless reference to the misogyny I suspect is more commonly held than most men would admit.

This is a pure fanboy gush innit? Apologies