Children of God - Mary Doria Russell

Children of God (Mary Doria Russell, 1998)

I was excited to learn The Sparrow had a sequel, though it's not so much a sequel as a direct narrative continuation. It starts where the first novel leaves off, and early on I was just as entranced as I had been by The Sparrow. However, where The Sparrow is powerfully focused, Children of God suffers from multiple personality disorder. The scattershot plot and jumpy timeline prevent a high level of character development, and the characters we have left over from The Sparrow change almost beyond recognition.

I do think it's worth a read if you've read The Sparrow, so I won't spoil any of the better parts, but I will say this: the book lost me when Sandoz withdraws from the priesthood and starts a romance. To me, that seems completely out of character, and it gives the lie to the otherwise debilitating side effects of his interplanetary experience, which, though they were letting up at the end of The Sparrow, persist throughout Children of God to the point of artificiality. Sure, bad things happened to the guy, but he doesn't have a monopoly on suffering by any means.

The plot starts out promising. The Jesuits are preparing to send a second mission to the planet Rakhat, and they want Emilio to teach the languages to the new group, secretly hoping he will consent to return with them. Meanwhile on Rakhat, the legacy of the first mission results in serious changes to the structure of the society. Traveling at the speed of light, the second mission will arrive on a Rakhat that is thirty-five years removed from Emilio's departure, and those thirty-five years play out in ways the first mission could never have foreseen.

I think I would have enjoyed the book more if it had a clear direction. The problem is, it's about too many things: loneliness, regret, violence, political upheaval, revolution, survival, destruction of one culture, evolution of another. Even autism, genetics, and music play significant roles in the narrative, not to mention a whole host of new characters we barely have time to meet. With so many disparate and competing elements, it's more a catalog of events than a story. Still, it is well-written, and I did enjoy it for the most part, despite the character dissonance mentioned earlier.

Arbitrary rating: 3.5 out of 5 apostate Jesuits

Rock Bottom - Robert Wyatt

Rock Bottom (Robert Wyatt, 1974)

1. Sea Song - 6:31

2. A Last Straw - 5:46

3. Little Red Riding Hood Hit the Road - 7:40

4. Alifib - 6:55
5. Alife - 6:31
6. Little Red Robin Hood Hit the Road - 6:08

After a fall from a window left former Soft Machine/Matching Mole drummer Robert Wyatt paralyzed from the waist down, his career as a rock drummer was ended, but his songwriting muse reasserted itself. For the set of songs that would form Rock Bottom, he trimmed back musical excess, creating simple yet moving songs with oblique, charming melodies, impressionistic lyrics, and a few touches of the outré.

The songs flow together nicely. “Sea Song” is an ode to girlfriend Alfreda Benge (“Your lunacy fits nicely with my own”) sung over warm synthesizer and haunting Mellotron voices. It ends with a trademark Wyatt scat, yet the performance is harrowing, almost like he's crying forth emotions that can't be put into words, instead of just singing “la-la”s. “A Last Straw” features more straightforward lyrics and a climbing chord progression, building slowly to the Latin rhythms of “Little Red Riding Hood Hit the Road,” complete with horn section. The singing is hard-core British, though, including an “Oh blimey!” and even a monologue by Scottish poet/comic Ivor Cutler about hedgehogs and sleeping in traffic. The words are delightfully insane, calling up the image of someone trying to hang onto the tattered shreds of a mind, seeking solace in silliness in the face of despair.

The second half starts with “Alifib,” the spare instrumental arrangements shrouding a solitary vocal, singing mostly nonsense syllables to a melancholic yet classical melody. The nonsense is strangely moving, especially after repeated listens: “Nit not nit, nit no not / Nit nit folly bololey / Alifi my larder / Alifi my larder / I can't forsake you / or forsqueak you / Alifi my larder / Alifi my larder.” It transitions smoothly to “Alife,” which has the same lyrics, only spoken in fitful starts over some sort of brittle keyboard setting. The sequence ends in Alfreda's spoken word response, which is a delightful combination of reproof and coddling: “I'm not your larder / jammy jars and mustard / I'm not your dinner / you soppy old custard. / And what's a bololey / when it's a folly? / I'm not your larder / you dear little dolly.”

The final track starts as a fairly traditional rock song, with some searing lead guitar and harmony vocals. The focus of the lyrics finally turns outward to the “garden of England,” and there is a hint that the tattered mind is collecting itself and looking around again. It's just for the first half, though, as Ivor Cutler reprises his earlier role and expands the monologue to the heights of a Brit's quiet desperation, rolling his r's and over-pronouncing like a true Shakespearean:

I fight with the handle of my little brown broom
I pull out the wires of the telephone
I hurt in the head and I hurt in the acting bone
Now I smash up the telly with remains of the broken phone
I fighting for the crust of the little brown loaf
I want it I want it I want it give it to me
I give it you back when I finish the lunchtea.

For me, the lyrics make this album. The music is pleasant enough, but it's true purpose is to provide a framework for the lyrical play. Admittedly, the lyrics are bizarre, disjointed, and rambling, but they provide a moving portrait of a man trying to hold on to humor and melody after literally hitting rock bottom.

Arbitrary rating: 5 out of 5 crusts of the little brown loaf

The Sparrow - Mary Doria Russell

The Sparrow (Mary Doria Russell, 1997)

Extra-terrestrial radio messages have been received on Earth, and the technology to travel to the source exists. Whom do we send? While the governments of the world debate, the Jesuits assemble a team of four priests and four laypeople, sending them into the unknown to know God's other children.

Thirty years later, Emilio Sandoz, the lone survivor, arrives back at Earth in disgrace, accused of murder, prostitution, and disrupting the fabric of the alien civilization on the planet Rakhat.

The Sparrow, the first novel by Mary Doria Russell, is a barn burner of a book. After you're hooked, it's hard to put down. Told in a back-and-forth style, it traces the history of the ill-fated mission, the lives of the people involved, and the attempted rehabilitation and debriefing of Sandoz by the Society of Jesus, who want to know the facts behind the accusations. As pure science fiction, it succeeds wildly, and the characters are distinct, complex, and living. But the book doesn't just tell a good story. It presents a new view of an old problem: if God is real, why does he allow unspeakable evil?

Russell grew up Catholic and converted to Judaism, so she brings a very interesting perspective to the question. As with many powerful works of literature, she doesn't answer the question outright, she just lets it play out in the lives of her characters. It unfolds with the urgency of a thriller and the inevitability of the best tragic plays. Yet it isn't a sad book; rather, it is full of the vibrancy of adventure and life lived to the fullest. The characters are so real that their experience becomes our own, which makes the moral issue all the more immediate.

Tied to the question of evil is a powerful study of good intentions. The team does everything right when it comes into contact with the natives of Rakhat, and for a long time they enjoy a mutually instructive harmony. Yet a fundamental difference in cultures allows innocent actions to trigger catastrophic results. As Emilio and his therapists/interrogators wrestle with the questions and the consequences, we are carried along with them into the darker regions of human experience before emerging on the other side.

Arbitrary rating: 5 out of 5 double-irised eyes

The Rotters' Club - Hatfield and the North

The Rotters' Club (Hatfield and the North, 1974)

1. Share It - 3:03
2. Lounging There Trying - 3:16
3. (Big) John Wayne Socks Psychology on the Jaw - 0:43
4. Chaos at the Greasy Spoon - 0:31
5. The Yes/No Interlude - 7:01
6. Fitter Stoke Has a Bath - 7:33
7. Didn't Matter Anyway - 3:31
8. Underdub - 3:55
9. Mumps (20:22 total)
____a. Your Majesty is Like a Cream Donut (Quiet) - 1:59
____b. Lumps - 12:51
____c. Prenut - 3:55
____d. Your Majesty is Like a Cream Donut (Loud) - 1:37
-------------
10. Halfway Between Heaven and Earth - 6:20
11. Oh, Len's Nature! - 2:00
12. Lything and Gracing - 3:58

Question: what happens when a record company pats you on the back, tells you you're big stuff, then leaves you in the cold, over £30,000 in debt? Answer: you squeeze out one amazing album on a shoestring budget and then implode. This is the background behind The Rotters' Club, the second and final album by Hatfield and the North. While the album is quite good in its own right, I can't help helplessly wanting more, even though I know it will never be.

Melancholy aside, let's dive in. The first side of the album (tracks 1-7) is actually more song-oriented than their previous self-titled album. Even though there are still no audible breaks, there are easier boundaries to draw. It all opens with “Share It,” an amusing (and apparently successful) attempt by the Hatfields to register on the Bristish censors' radar with a paean to communistic free love. It's a rather upbeat tune with a sunny keyboard solo that transitions into the jazz workout “Lounging There Trying,” one of two complex instrumentals provided by guitarist Phil Miller, the other being “Underdub,” which is equally tasty.

After that preamble, the band tighten their knickers and dive right in. “(Big) John Wayne” and “Chaos At the Greasy Spoon” are short little instrumental fanfares leading up to the jagged 13/8 jam “The Yes/No Interlude,” which features sax, angular lead guitar, and one of the happiest organ riffs around (covered by The Tangent in the “Canterbury Sequence” suite). The instrumental hijinks take a left turn into the tightly constructed “Fitter Stoke Has a Bath,” featuring thoughtful lyrics on the “glamour” of being in a rock band. The lyrics even take a turn toward quiet desperation: “Still, I'm happy just to sit around at home / With Pamela looking elegant and writing prose / If anyone's in need of me / I'm drowning in the bathtub.” Musically, the song mirrors Pamela's elegance (whomever she may be), with clean electric guitar, warm Fender Rhodes piano, and the Northettes providing understated “ooh”s and “aah”s. After the lyrics are done, a flute solo drives the song into an alternating 15/8 and 4/4 pattern with more creative soloing and lots of shape. Unfortunately, the instrumental adventures end in a minute and a half of weird, spooky sounds with anything but shape.

The first half wraps up with “Didn't Matter Anyway,” probably the most poignant of the songs. It might be about the end of the band, it might be about a lost love; the lyrics are open-ended and resigned. Jimmy Hastings guests on this track, and his flute playing shines as always.

Side two consists of the aforementioned complex jazz instrumental “Underdub” and the even more complex work “Mumps.” The Northettes have been mostly silent up until now, but they finally get their say all throughout the musical intensity of keyboardist Dave Stewart's magnum opus. The song starts lighter than a balloon, with soft textures backing the Northettes as they skillfully navigate the chord changes. Then drums kick in and the whole band takes off, but the gals still give them a run for their money, with abstract yet aggressive wordless singing throughout. The song has many different moods and even takes three minutes in the middle for a Richard Sinclair vocal about his affection for the alphabet (“I have minded my p's and q's / Tried not to damage any w's”). As a whole, it dances dizzyingly back and forth on the fine line between whimsy and technically accomplished musicianship. My only beef: there's a fadeout at the end of “Lumps.” For a band that excels at musical segue, this is a bizarre thing to find, especially in mid-track.

The bonus tracks are excellent and give a taste of what might have been, had the Hatfields been able to survive for another album. Thankfully, most of these guys got back together in a band called National Health, and someday I will find those albums...

Arbitrary rating: 4.5 out of 5 Pamelas looking elegant and writing prose

() - Sigur Rós

() (Sigur Rós, 2002)

1. (Vaka) - 6:36
2. (Fyrsta) - 7:31
3. (Samskeyti) - 6:31
4. (Njósnavélin) - 7:30
5. (Álafoss) - 9:54
6. (E-Bow) - 8:46
7. (Dauõalagiõ) - 12:56
8. (Popplagiõ) - 11:41

Iceland's contribution to modern rock, Sigur Rós specialize in alternatingly somnolent and cacophonic rock experimentation. This album took a long time to grow on me, especially since all the songs are officially untitled (though the unofficial names are presented here for your viewing pleasure), and all the lyrics are in a made up phonetic language bearing a passing resemenblance to Icelandic. The album really is an outstanding opus, though, once you get to know it. This is music that can break your heart and make you catch your breath, provided you have enough time to let it work.

The first four songs are more in the "heartbreaking beauty" vein. Named (unofficially, of course) after the drummer's daugher, "Vaka" unfolds slowly to a cathartic bloom, featuring spare, melancholy piano and organ that anchor the cooing tenor vocals. "Samskeyti" (Attachment) is built on an arpeggiated piano riff that gently climbs and descends over swelling drones of violin and clean guitar. "Njósnavélin" (The Spy Machine) is the most successful of the softer songs: warm organ, icy guitar, relaxed drums and bass gently nudge the subtle harmony vocals through a fairly catchy (if slowed down) tune. The melody in the bridge, first stated by organ, then piano, then incorporating the whole band, is startlingly poignant.

The second four songs lead that beauty and melancholy into more turbulent terrain. "Álafoss," named unofficially after the band's studio, starts as a funeral procession. Musically, the chords and melody are a repeated descending figure over spare, brushed drums. The song has a classical elegance and soulfulness. At the end, it builds to a magnificent volume, with forceful drums and distorted, growling bass underneath a triumphant Hammond B-3 organ, which always stirs my heart to noble deeds.

The highest heights come in the last two songs. "Dauõalagiõ" (The Death Song) creeps up slowly from nothing, then folds in on itself several times, swelling and pulsing with melody and noise, cresting in two desperate explosions around the 4 and 7 minute marks. Lead singer Jonsi's mournful croon stands sharp and isolated above the dying drones, and you think it's all over. Then the drums come back in, insistent and crashing, the drones swell back to full force, and the vocals swirl in a vortex of howling lament. When the echos die, all that's left is a single, frail voice, breaking.

Despite its friendly appearance, "Popplagiõ" (The Pop Song) doesn't coddle the listener that just survived the dying star of " Dauõalagiõ." The first five minutes do start out as a fairly positive, relaxed tune. A simple yet emotive picking pattern on clean electric guitar supports understated harmonies and a big, even sunny, chorus. At the 6 minute mark, though, a doomsday distorted bass note hits, the drums start building, and Jonsi begins a plaintive, stark wail over the apocalyptic music. The drums are positively furious at the end, their unrelenting industrial assault like fireworks blazing above the mountain of sound.

The only thing holding back the album are the two songs I haven't mentioned: "Fyrsta" (The First Song) and "E-Bow." And even these aren't that bad, it's just that "Fyrsta" sounds like a lesser cousin to "Vaka," and "E-Bow" is way too close to "Álafoss" to justify a separate song, even though I do want to support any bass player who uses an E-Bow and gets his band to (unofficially) name the song after it.

Arbitrary rating: 4.5 out of 5 epic drones

The Decameron - Giovanni Boccaccio

The Decameron (Boccaccio, 1350-1352; trans. Mark Musa, Peter Bondanella)

When the Black Death descends on Florence, seven young ladies and three young men leave the city for a couple weeks of idyllic escape. Against this backdrop, Boccaccio presents a compendium of fables, practical jokes, urban legends, tragedies, fantasies, and adventures of the Middle Ages. More striking than the stories themselves is the picture they present of a society very different than ours, yet just as fallibly human.

Boccaccio's stated purpose for writing is to amuse and distract ladies languishing in love, though with the constant praises of love found within the pages, he might be trying to kindle love in hearts where it doesn't exist. Romantic love is definitely the theme of the collection. All the Hollywood cliches are born out: characters fall in love and can't help it; usually, the high precepts of love are used to justify sex; the person loved is attractive, rich (or secretly of noble birth), and practically perfect; and any other earthly consideration should be ignored or cast aside in order to pursue love/sex, no matter how unwise. Love is held up as a separate deity, equal with God in pre-Reformation Europe.

The deification and reappropriation of Love is very seductive and contemporary, but the stories run the gamut and perhaps undercut the idealization. Affirming stories of love and devotion between husband and wife can be found alongside stories of unhappy marriages and faithful loves tragically divided. Many adulterers end their stories happily (and discretely) in each others arms, but many more are caught, shamed, punished, or worse. Young lovers overcome odds, enemies, and fate to end up together, while others lose all in the name of their love. And then there are the people who do all they can, through wit, deception, flattery, or outright manipulation to use each other, usually with hilarious results. In this respect, The Decameron might be the prototype for the sitcom.

Not all the stories are great, but there are more gems than junk. To summarize a few:

* A young man goes to the big city and survives a series of misadventures involving a thieving temptress, a latrine, a well, and an open grave.

* A lascivious friar tells a vain woman he is the Angel Gabriel to convince her to sleep with him; when she starts telling people who her lover is, the whole town determines to get a glimpse of the angel.

* A young woman can't stand the sight of annoying people, and her loud complaining prompts her uncle to suggest she get rid of all her mirrors.

* Growing tired of the constant advances of two men she doesn't love, a woman asks them to prove their love with tasks designed to keep them out of her hair for good.

There are a series of stories involving the buffoon Calandrino and his friends Bruno and Buffalmaco that are particularly amusing. I would guess these stories are the redneck jokes of Boccaccio's day. In one, Calandrino thinks he has found a stone that makes him invisible, and his friends play along. In another, Bruno and Buffalmaco steal one of Calandrino's pigs and then prove Calandrino stole it himself. They also enlist a doctor and convince Calandrino he is pregnant in order to sell him some medicine. In distress, Calandrino berates his wife, "You're the one who always wanted to be on top; I told you this would happen!"

On the whole, I would definitely recommend this classic of world literature. The foibles and philosophies of a different age illuminate those of our own. The characters, plots, and sentiments present a wide range of human experience, and they're a lot of fun to read, too. The best moments come when, more often than not, a very recognizable humanity stares across the years, with a laughing countenance despite unthinkable tragedy.

Arbitrary rating: 4 out of 5 pregnant buffoons

Caravan

Caravan (1968)

1. Place of My Own - 4:01
2. Ride - 3:42
3. Policeman - 2:44
4. Love Song with Flute - 4:10
5. Cecil Rons - 4:07
6. Magic Man - 4:03
7. Grandma's Lawn - 3:25
8. Where but for Caravan would I? - 9:01

Caravan is a band that wanted desperately to be cutting edge, far out, countercultural, and generally mind-blowing, and that intention is trumpeted in the vapid liner notes (granted, penned by someone not in the band): “Who knows what you will find, this is a journey at the end of the 20th century, lift the yashmaks & see: Loplop, the Superior of the Birds, little bubbles of sound breaking through dry sound. CARAVAN making huge music constructions right out there in the open where everyone can see.” Gag.

The truth of the matter is, Caravan was a rock band with above average instrumental talent and average songwriting abilities. In some cases, the playing rescues the tune; in others, a certain warmth lifts the song out of the crowded pool of British psychedia. This being the first album, they did have a few stumbles.

First, the highlights: bandleader Pye Hastings' brother Jimmy drops by for an improvised flute solo on the aptly titled “Love Song with Flute.” Supposedly captured in a single take, it's a soaring, fluid solo over a full verse and chorus. The rest of the band provides enthusiastic backing, and the song itself is a simple, pretty tune. Bass player Richard Sinclair provides some lighter, humorous diversions with “Policeman” and “Grandma's Lawn.” However, the true hit is the closing epic “Where but for Caravan would I?”. It starts as a lilting breeze in 11/8, floating on lightly strummed guitar and mellow organ as Pye sings a groovy philosophical rumination:

Don't try to find stars in my eyes
We've been there before - and seen...
Just take what you need to find the sun
For you and I, we have the dream to come

Okay, so it's kind of cheesy lyrically. But a few minutes in, this hippy anthem morphs through a dramatic series of chord changes into an aggressive jam, still in 11/8. Dave Sinclair's organ leads the way, with cousin Richard's bass growling away underneath. After some excellent soloing, the jam restates the verse/chorus that preceded it and transitions into the second part of the song, a more up-tempo celebration in a more friendly time signature. Caravan's epics would achieve greater heights, but this first fruit is tasty in its own right.

Now for the bad news: all the other songs are kind of mediocre and forgettable. While pleasant enough as vintage late 60s rock music, they are in no way distinguishable, except for “Cecil Rons,” which gets negative points for ruining a promising baroque organ theme with cacophonic yelling and screaming. The sound of a band trying too hard...

Arbitrary rating: 3.5 out of 5 groovy philosophical ruminations