Led Zeppelin: When Giants Walked the Earth by Mick Wall (2008. St. Martin’s. ISBN 978-0-312-59039-0)

I know. The lyric is from the Grateful Dead, not Zep’. But after reading Mick Wall’s comprehensive biography of the quartet, it just seemed to fit. The author (who didn’t come onto the music scene soon enough to personally chronicle the first real power quartet to meld classical, rock, soul, and blues into music that grabbed hold of popular culture; taking work done by other bands like Cream and the Stones and the Beatles to a new and unexpected plain) uses personal interviews, archived materials, news reports, and the like to pull together a very comprehensive and thoroughly enjoyable peek into the lives, demons, and thoughts of the four founding Zeppelin members. It’s, in the end, a well-written book that makes you want to listen to lesser known Zep tracks and simply chill while Jimmy Page’s genius as a guitarist and producer washes over you like the wall of sound that crashed over millions of fans during the band’s zenith.

There is no question after reading Walls’ chronicle of the parade of booze, drugs, groupies, sessions, antics, and concerts that made up the lives of Jimmy Page, John Paul Jones, Robert Plant, and John “Bonzo” Bonham for the better part of a decade, that the lads were lucky that only Bonzo died of an alcohol and drug induced stupor (choking on his own vomit in 1980). Bonzo’s demise spelled the end for Zep, though, as Walls sketches the story, the band had already passed its creative prime and was headed towards a collective crash landing at the time of the drummer’s death. Bonzo’s death (a man revered by many as the greatest rock drummer of all time) simply solidified what was already in process: the end of Zeppelin. The odd three man reunions that took place thereafter (with Bonzo’s son Jason filling in on drums) never rekindled the magic of the band’s six studio albums or the live performances of the mid-1970s and, in many ways, were like the return of an aging athlete to his beloved sport when he’s past his prime. Walls does a very fine job of following the careers (or, in the case of Jimmy Page, non-career) of the surviving band members, making it very clear that Robert Plant, the voice of Zep, was already on the way out when Bonzo died and, with his solo career well launched (including a fist full of Grammys for his work with roots star, Alison Krauss), has never had regrets that Led Zeppelin finally, like the famed Hindenburg, crashed and burned. John Paul Jones, the most inventive and adept musician of the bunch, has found satisfaction in producing the work of others and appearing as a session player on many, many albums since the demise of the band. It is only the sad lament of lead guitarist and band leader, Jimmy Page, who has, since Bonham’s passing, floundered. Walls paints the picture of Page as an old man desperate to recreate what he once had and lost, pleading, begging, for Plant to come back to the fold to recreate the impossible.

Taken by promoter Tats Nagashima to what he boasted was “the most elegant restaurant in Tokyo”, Bonzo grew fed-up with being served sake’ in tiny cups and demanded “a beer mug or some buckets”. Later that night, they paid a visit to Tokyo’s famous Byblos disco where Bonzo showed his disapproval of the music by urinating from a balcony on the DJ. Bundling the drunken drummer into a cab, Cole finally gave up and left him to collapse on the street just feet from the entrance to the Tokyo Hilton where they were staying. The next day, Bonzo and Cole bought Samurai swords, and drunk again that night, began enacting a sword fight at the hotel, slashing and cutting at anything they could: chairs, curtain, mirrors, paintings. For an encore, they snuck into John Paul Jones’ room and carried his still sleeping body out into the hall where he spent the rest of the night…At the end of the night, the Hilton banned Led Zeppelin for life…

This passage reflects the sort of “all hands on deck” writing style Walls employs (to much success) through most of the book. The only criticism I have of the biography is Walls’ use of fictionalized “first person” vignettes interspersed throughout the book: These passages detract from the thorough journalism Walls employs and, are in a word, quite silly. But for this ill-advised device being employed, the book would be a five star read.

In the end, if you want to understand where all that fantastic music came from, this book is a good place to start. Fifty pages into the story, you’ll want to buy the six Zep albums and surround yourself with their collective genius.

4 and 1/2 stars out of 5.

To Siberia by Per Petterson (1996. 1998 Translation. Picador. ISBN 978-0-312-42899-0)

On the way home from school I walk right behind Lone and mimic the way she moves. She minces along. I go on doing that as long as it is fun, and Lone never once looks back. She lives in a big house…almost at Frydenstrand. I don’t go as far as that, but in the same direction. We never walk together. Lone is upper class and must not be seen in my company. The feeling is mutual. But as I am about to turn up Asylgate, she does turn around. She stares at me with eyes full of hate, takes hold of her scarf and wrenches it around so the knot is at her nape and hitches it up until it’s really tight, sticks out her tongue, and squints at me. At once I start to run, hit her with my shoulder, and knock her backward into a snow drift. I give her a thorough ducking. She may be the headmaster’s daughter, but no one makes game of me. No one.

In this brief, almost novella-sized poetic novel, Petterson, whose  Out Stealing Horses (see my review in the Review Archives) became an international best seller, paints a picture of pre and post WWII Denmark and Norway that is the literary equivalent to an Edvard Munch painting: Sparse, dark, bitter, yet compelling. To Siberia is really a collection of interlocked vignettes rather than a fully realized novel: The storyline skips and meanders and moseys around, following the young female protagonist and her brother through a series of scenes and encounters. But this lack of continuity and structure is not a deficit. Indeed, the wayward path of story in this book is one of its distinct charms. The Scandinavian lilt and lyric of the author’s prose reminds one of an old Norse saga or of some long forgotten folk song. Sea spray and snow and gray skies and bone chilling cold are omnipresent throughout this story of  two siblings growing up in chaotic times. There are hints of holocaust, war, death, sabotage, sex, forbidden love, and incest sewn within the fabric of Petterson’s poetry, all of which enable the fully realized characters of the tale to grapple with the emotional upheaval of small countries dragged into a world wide conflagration. A simple yet powerful piece of writing.

4 and 1/2 stars out of 5.

Steve Jobs by Walter Isaacson (2011. Simon and Schuster, ISBN 978-1-4516-4853-9)

I want to live alone in the desert
I want to be like Georgia O’Keefe
I want to live on the Upper East Side
And never go down in the street
Splendid Isolation
I don’t need no one
Splendid Isolation
Michael Jackson in Disneyland
Don’t have to share it with nobody else
Lock the gates, Goofy, take my hand
And lead me through the World of Self
Splendid Isolation
I don’t need no one
Splendid Isolation

((C) 1998 Warren Zevon)

I’m listening to Warren’s song from his live album, Learning to Flinch as I type this review on my iMac wireless keyboard in my writing studio overlooking a river that, though he wasn’t an outdoorsman, Steve Jobs would appreciate. There’s a high gray and aqua sky above the stark, empty early winter landscape. The sun is hidden somewhere between twelve o’clock and nine: it’s completely concealed by clouds. Somehow, the austerity of the day, the melancholy of the “in betweeness” of this time of year is a suitable, nay perfect, backdrop to talk about the life and legend that was Steve Jobs.

Enigmatic. Irritable. Demanding. Narcissistic. Habitually deficient in honesty if deception served a “greater” purpose. Emotionally absent as a father and partner.

These are a few of the negative character traits that ring true from Isaacson’s multiple interviews with Jobs (over 100) and the men and women who knew him as boss, father, husband, lover, friend, and business competitor.

But, as with every great man (and make no mistake about it, in terms of late 20th century and early 21st century product design and intellectual capacity, Steve Jobs possessed the greatness of a Henry Ford or a Thomas Edison), there is also the positive. For if a man like Jobs did not have his positive side, well then, what the world would be left with is another sociopathic tyrant, another Hitler, another Stalin.

Loyal. Honest in most things (perhaps too brutally so). Generous. Self-reflective. As demanding of himself as he was of others. Spiritual. Artistic. Gifted. Genius. A leader.

Those are the positive aspects of Jobs’s complex personality that shine through in this impressive book.

I am new to the Apple fold. Since 1984, when Rene’ and I bought our first Tandy 8088 machine from a Radio Shack store in the Burnsville Mall, through a series of other DOS or Microsoft based machines ( a Sony, an HP, a Micron, a TI, a Gateway, and several others), I had adhered to the notion that Apples were for graphic designers, architects, and no one else. There was, as I considered each new computer purchase along the way (necessitated by the built-in obsolescence of the DOS-Windows machines or by their inability to last for more than a year or two without a major melt down) always the sense that those folks who owned a Mac were snooty: That because they bought an Apple they were condescending and chauvinistic about their choice in technology. But when my eldest son (and webmaster) Matt finally had enough of my phone calls, enough of my emails asking “How do you add this widget to Windows again?” and pushed hard last year for me to make the switch, I went with him to Best Buy to pick out a new iMac. Now I know what I’ve been missing for  27 years. Finally, as Steve Jobs intended, I have a machine that is built for humans to interact with and understand: I am no longer the pawn of a series of programmers and engineers. I am no longer the mere operator of a machine: I am its master.

The biography is, for someone like me (who didn’t really appreciate the Steve Jobs story as it was being played out in Silicon Valley) an eye opener. Walter Isaacson was tabbed personally by Jobs to write this book and, given that the story’s subject matter selected the author, this biography could have been a whitewash, a fluff piece extolling Jobs’s brilliance as an engineer. But Jobs wasn’t a genius in the sense of Bill Gates or Jobs’s own original partner, Steve Wozniak. Steve Jobs’s genius is best described (according to Isaacson) as an affinity for standing at a particular intersection to direct traffic:

“I always thought of myself as a humanities person as a kid, but I liked electronics…Then I read something that one of my heroes, Edwin Land of Polaroid, said about the importance of people who could stand at the intersection of humanities and science, and I decided that’s what I wanted to do.” It was if he was suggesting themes for his biography…The creativity that can occur in one strong personality was the topic that interested me in my biographies of Franklin and Einstein, and I believe that it will be key to creating innovative economies in the twenty-first century.

There is no clearer example of Jobs standing at the above-stated intersection than his involvement with the iPod and his ability to convince recording studios and musical artists (including U2, Bob Dylan, and the Beatles) of the need to make their music available to the common man and woman through Apple’s iTunes Store at a time when Napster and other on-line sites were decimating the bottom line for artists and studios.

After a lot of negotiating with the record companies, he said, “they were willing to do something with us to change the world.” The iTunes Store would start with 200,000 tracks and would grow each day. By using the store, he said, you can own your own songs, burn them on CDs, be assured of the download quality, get a preview of a song before you download it, and use it with your iMovies and iDVD to “make the soundtrack of your life.” The price? Just 99 cents, he said, less than a third of what a Starbucks latte cost. Why was it worth it? Because to get the right song from Kazaa (an on-line service) took about fifteen minutes rather than a minute. By spending an hour of your time to save about four dollars, he calculated, “you’re working for under the minimum wage!” And one more thing: “With iTunes, it’s not stealing anymore. It’s good karma…” Eddy Cue, who was in charge of the store, predicted that Apple would sell six million songs in six months. Instead, the iTunes Store sold a million songs in six days…

Jobs’s insistence on the vertical integration of Apple products, from iMac, to iPod, to iPhone, to iPad has been challenged by tech savvy geeks as being overly paternalistic and limiting. But for the vast majority of computer and device users who have no interest in hacking or innovation on a household level, Jobs clearly got it right: Build beautiful, easy-to-use, durable machines that don’t witness their usefulness expire once they’re pulled from the box. Isaacson explains this philosophy, the history behind it and the man who preached it to his disciples in a concise and compelling fashion that anyone interested in computers, business organization, or creative genius will gobble up like free space on a hard drive.

5 stars out of 5. Highly recommended as a holiday gift!

Moll Flanders by Daniel Defoe (2005. Barnes and Noble Classics. ISBN 978-1-59308-216-1)

One of the classics or it wouldn’t be included in B&N’s trade paperback library, right? Well, Moll Flanders appears to have been included in the bookstore giant’s series of “great” novels because, as the editor of the B&N edition of the novel writes:

If we define the novel in the way we are used to thinking about fiction-as a prose narrative of substantial length that makes a pretense of reporting life in a form human beings might well have imagined to have lived it-Defoe surely stakes a claim as the first English novelist…

(p.xiii, ibid, Michael Seidel)

Purported to be, as the subtitle states, The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders (a fictional biography of a woman born to poverty in Newgate Prison, whose only chance, as a child, of a safe and honorable upbringing disappears like morning vapor on a Welsh moor) this book attempts (to recreate in fiction) depictions of English poverty and class disadvantage painted far more honestly and credibly by Charles Dickens in Oliver Twist and Bleak House. Now, some might argue the book’s failings arise from the language Defoe wrote in: late 17th and early 18th century English, a form of English that is so archaic, so outmoded that four hundred years later  the language itself is the main issue with the novel. I would disagree. Think of more recent works of fiction, such as Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Hurston. That novel is embedded with a twisted distortion of English derived from the Deep South that many might find difficult, if not impossible, to negotiate. And yet, to this day, Their Eyes retains its vigor and its passion as a great read. Certainly, the distance of time makes works of fiction less relevant. And certainly, in comparison to Moll Flanders, Their Eyes is a relative newborn. But in the end, I have to disagree that it is the language of Defoe’s novel that makes the book less than satisfactory.

A great novel, whether contemporary, literary, science fiction, or romance lives or dies upon the shoulders, broad or narrow, of its plot and characters. And that’s just it: In my view, the shoulders that this story rests upon are too narrow to carry the weight of the book’s narrative. There are far too many coincidences, too many pat plot devices, too many escapes from the noose experienced by Moll Flanders along the way to make the story ring true. Would, at a time when children were executed for stealing, a matronly thief (with a long history of deception, prostitution, lies, thievery, and other law-breaking) really escape the noose as Moll does towards the end of story? (This isn’t a spoiler alert: Since the book is written in first person, we know from page 1 that Moll will survive her travails.) Doubtful. This is but one of many, many purported “ah ah” moments in the plot that seem contrived. Then there is the character of Moll herself: One moment seemingly honest and hard-working and ready to redeem herself, and the next, ready to steal from the house down the street. Complex characters are great: No villain is totally evil and no hero is totally good. But if a character is to possess such multiple layers, these nuances need to be explained in context and revealed in depth. Such revelations do not occur (with respect to Moll’s character) in the book.

Overall, this novel amounts to a chronicle of an incident-driven fictional life with little, if any, genuine exposition of character.

3 stars out of 5.

Blue Guitar Highway by Paul Metsa (2011. University of Minnesota Press. ISBN 978-0-8166-7642-2)

Bob Dylan. Mark Knopfler. Nils Logfren. Bruce Springsteen. Tom Waits.

You’re asking: “Munger, what the hell do those guys have to do with you writing a review about Minnesota’s hardest working, less-than-a-household-name, guitar slinging Iron Range boy, Paul Metsa?” Fair question, dear reader. Fair question. Well, immediately after finishing Metsa’s memoir of the road, Blue Guitar Highway, having read numerous passages depicting Metsa’s home in North Minneapolis as a virtual library of pressed vinyl, I was so moved by the book, I began pulling out my old LPs: records I haven’t played in at least a decade and started listening to music the way it should be listened to: Pillow under my head, flat on my back, a nice Merlot in hand, the volume way up, and no one else home. Oh, the journey Metsa paints with words isn’t always as pretty or succinct (a couple of scenes were repeated, leaving me with the sense that a bit more editing would have made the book even better), and, as someone else has written, Paul tends to be a name dropper (by repeatedly telling us whom, amongst the gods of rock, folk, blues, and jazz he’s shared a stage with). But in the end, for a first time author of a piece of substantial length, Metsa mostly hits the right notes. In fact, there are portions of the prose that fairly sing, that are as good as it gets in rendering a contemporary life on the page. Consider this passage, towards the end of the book:

Backstage were the musicians-the performers and listeners-who were there to enjoy the evening along with the crowd that was now arriving from all directions. Wherever lifer musicians gather the bonds are felt-those who know the decades of blasts of glory, music itself a life-lasting love. Followed by rejection, broken-down cars, the times in sickness and in health, other band members, friends at first, only in it for the money (like there ever was any) who will jump ship for a few dollars more. The slow suicide of drugs and booze that lurks in the guise of midnight angels and  whiskey queens, sirens who call from corners with the dove-like eyes of your first true love, but the intent of prostitutes who follow the feet of their victims in the quicksand of slow and meaningless death. Bar owners, booking agents, and record labels that could give a good goddamn. Audiences more interested in pinball or pool tables or television screens, the band on the stage nothing but a bother. Death and destruction, love many times lost, and the occasional one-night stand hotter than the skillet of a New Orleans short-order cook…Or real love with a human touch made to last with lovers sometimes drawn from opposite magnetic poles that proved marriage was possible and strong like David’s slingshot against the Goliath that was the music business, sweeter than honey…Building families that stand the test of time and kids that are now musicians themselves. Or the kids who never knew Daddy’s name, and some only remembering it as long as child support was paid on time, the waiting for that to come around, as music is nothing if not the discipline of hope. And all the rest-the poison gigs and the majestic ones that vanish as quickly as they came, all the things you could only wish would happen but would never bet on-that reminded us why were here in the first place, like black-robed priests who take an oath of poverty…whose faces we never saw but whose presence we always felt…

(p. 251, Blue Guitar Highway)

See what I mean? Metsa uses his talents as a songwriter and lyricist to full advantage. His prose sets us to laughing, crying, and remembering often within the same sentence. Honesty (regarding Metsa’s success as a musician and in his personal life) drips onto the pages of this hard-wrought memorial like sweat from The Boss on a great night on the stage. Sure, as some critics have complained, there’s some gratuitous name dropping here and there in the story. Teaching Bruce Springsteen the three chords of a Woody Guthrie song before playing en masse in a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame tribute to Woody. Is that incident significant enough to record for posterity? Sure it is if, as is likely, this is your one opportunity to tell your story. The fact that Springsteen asked and Metsa answered, yeah, I’d say that’s worthy of reportage, in an honest, off-hand sort of way. Which is exactly the way it comes off in the passage. Those who have criticized the occasional name dropping (or, in the case of one insensitive jerk ( Michael Adams) in his Amazon.com “review”, Metsa’s creds as a musician) are missing the point of this journey: Paul Metsa is not Bob Dylan. Hate to confuse you folks, but Metsa doesn’t claim he wrote anything as world changing as “Blowing in the Wind” or altered the face of music by his work on the stage. What he’s chronicling (to steal the title to Dylan’s own memoir) is something that this writer is very familiar with: The day to day grind of trying to make a name for yourself in the ever-confusing, cut-throat world of popular culture and art. Just like Metsa, I’ve logged tens of thousands, nay, likely hundreds of thousands of miles, hawking my books in the U.S., Canada, and Finland. And I’ve only been at it ten years. Metsa has been walking the Blue Guitar Highway for over forty years. And he’s done it despite rejection, personal loss, money woes, dependency demons, and all the other gremlins that leap up to smack an artist down. There is tremendous value in this story of sweat and blood and tears: It lets the rest of the world know, those folks that think you simply pen a song or a novel and toss it towards an agent and become instantly famous and wealthy, that such stories are fantasy and don’t bear any resemblance to the grit and toil of the real world of a musician, artist, or writer.

In a nutshell: This memoir belongs on any music fan’s bookshelf. It’s sitting on mine, as I finish this review, next to Dylan’s Chronicles, David Crosby’s Long Time Gone, Neil Young’s Shakey, and Guthrie’s Bound for Glory. Metsa has captured a life not yet completed: Let’s hope he tells us more.

4 and 1/2 stars out of 5.

(Note: Buy this book and, if you like what you read, log on to: http://www.amazon.com/Blue-Guitar-Highway-Paul-Metsa/dp/0816676429/ref=sr_1_fkmr0_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1321106475&sr=8-1-fkmr0 and add your review. I’m serious: Michael Adams, whoever the hell he is, trashed Metsa for no apparent reason. There’s no substance, no actual critique of the book contained in Adams’s review, and yet, Adams felt sufficiently mean-spirited to give the book one star. Peruse my book reviews on this site: The only book I’ve ever given one star was The Book of Mormon! Not for its content but for its readability. Give an honest assessment of Blue Guitar Highway on Amazon because, in my view,  a one star rating wrongfully diminishes the beauty and value of the book.)

Nothing but the Truth by Jarkko Sipila (2006. Ice Cold Crime. ISBN 978-0982444931)

A low-level drug dealer is shot, execution style at the threshold of his seedy Helsinki dive. A neighbor, a single mother with a pre-teen daughter and an abusive ex-husband, sees the getaway car and driver. She hesitates to call the Helsinki police. “Why get involved?” her boss says, urging her to remain silent. In the end, Mari Lehtonen does the right thing: She steps forward and becomes the State’s key witness in a murder investigation. But can the police protect Mari from retaliation? This is the story behind Nothing but the Truth, the latest in the “Helsinki Homicide” series from Ice Cold Crime of Independence, Minnesota.

It’s interesting reviewing an author’s work in reverse chronological order. Previously, I read and reviewed Jarkko Sipila’s more recent titles, Against the Wall (2009) and Vengeance (2010). So here I am, reviewing an earlier novel by Mr. Sipila, Nothing but the Truth (2006. Gummerus (in Finnish). 2011. Ice Cold Crime (in English). ISBN 978-0-9824449-3-1). And while Sipila’s later works have been well written and concise, the sort of tight writing one wants in a beach read (which most crime novels tend to be), they lacked the revelation of character that, for me, sets a good book apart from its competition. After reading Nothing but the Truth this past weekend, I now know that Jarkko Sipila cares about the people who populate the Helsinki of his imagination. And in this reviewer’s humble opinion, that’s a huge plus.

The cast of characters in this earlier installment of the “Helsinki Homicide” series includes some of the same folks found in Sipila’s later work, including Kari Takamäki, (a Detective Lieutenant in the Helsinki Violent Crimes Unit) and Suhonen (an aging, hockey playing undercover detective in the same unit). Sipila clearly has a fondness for Suhonen’s lone-wolf personality: The author gives the shadowy detective center stage. But the writing (unlike the two other Sipila books I’ve read) doesn’t suffer from too much action and not enough humanity: Here, Jarkko Sipila gives us a full-blooded Suhonen, a character with a complete history and personality. Consider this fine bit of writing:

Salmela took the first rod and dropped the lure into the water. It fluttered along easily next to the boat. He let out the line about fifty feet, made a small loop, and clamped it with a spring-loaded clip that had a ring for the planer leader. Salmela let out the line till the ring reached almost to the planer, then he propped the rod up in the holder.

 Within five minutes, all four lines were in the water. “Once you get a hit, the fish will jerk the clip off the line and you just reel him in. That’s it. You take the first hit. I’ll take the next. Just remember to brace yourself when you take the rod out of the holder.”

 Suhonen began to suspect that this wasn’t a friend’s boat after all. Salmela seemed to know his way around it well enough. Or maybe he had more than borrowed it…

 So the burly undercover detective enjoys an occasional day off and, though not an avid salmon fisherman, will take up a rod and reel when invited? The cited passage humanizes Suhonen, puts flesh on the bones of his character, making us care about what it is he does for a living and how he does it. This is the sort of development of a protagonist that seemed to be lacking in the Jaarko Sipila books I read and reviewed earlier. The author clearly knows how to write: It’s simply a matter of applying his skills.

Similar nuance and care is shown in how Sipila reveals Mari Lehtanen’s past, her fears, her personality. It would an easy thing to portray her ex-husband, who clearly abused Mari during their marriage, as a stereotypical, beer-swilling bastard. But Sipila takes the time to show us more, to weave the complexities of humanity into these two characters making them believable and authentic.

Another nice touch (for this American lawyer-turned-judge) was the use of the Finnish court system as a setting for a portion of the narrative. Sipila (a crime reporter in Finland) had me scrambling to verify that Finland does indeed have: a jury system (generally one law judge and three lay judges (also called jurors) for most serious criminal cases); life sentences for murder convictions; and the same burden of proof as the U.S. criminal justice system. (Sipila got that last one wrong. On p. 94 of the book, the burden of proof for conviction in Finland is depicted as “clear and convincing evidence”, a lesser standard than “beyond a reasonable doubt”, the burden applicable in Finnish criminal courts. See Heuni: The European Institute for Crime Prevention and Control in Finland (2001) @ http://www.heuni.fi/uploads/mwlahyuvuylrx.pdf, and “A Comparison of Criminal Jury Decision Rules in Democratic Countries” by Ethan Lieb (Ohio State Journal of Criminal Law, Vol. 5:629, 2008)).

Despite this minor inaccuracy, the court scenes added much to the overall complexity and interest of the story: I’d love to see more from Jaarko Sipila in this vein. Learning something new, even from a “beach read” is never a bad thing!

For those readers who like full-throated, pedal-to-the-metal crime novels, Nothing but the Truth is a fast and furious read filled with memorable characters and plenty of action. Highly recommended.

4 and ½ stars out of 5.

(This review first appeared in the most recent edition of New World Finn. If you’re a drop of Finnish blood, or simply interested in Finnish art and culture, buy the newspaper. You can find it at: http://newworldfinn.com/.)

Imperfect Birds by Anne Lamott (2009. Riverhead. ISBN 978-1-59448-751-4)

Anyone who is a fiction writer has read (or should read) Ms. Lamott’s classic instructional memoir about creative writing, Bird by Bird. In 237 pages, Ms. Lamott captures the heart, soul, craft, and angst of creative writing and the writing life. I love the book and have used excerpts from it in many, many workshop and lecture settings during my modest career as a semi-famous regional novelist. The examples given, the writing style, the self-depreciating tone of the book are what make Bird by Bird such an exemplary resource.

So, never having read any of the author’s fiction, when I was looking for a “stocking stuffer” for my wife last Christmas (on Christmas Eve like all marginally diligent husbands) and I saw Imperfect Birds in hardcover, I snapped it up for Rene’. I was certain that, given Ms. Lamott’s credentials as a gifted writer (fully displayed in Bird by Bird), Rene’ would love the read. Recently, when I found myself  bookless, headed towards a hot bath, and  I spied the unread copy of Lamott’s novel on my wife’s nightstand, I picked up Imperfect Birds and brought it into the steam of the master bath. In the solitude that only a hot bath can provide, I began reading the story of Elizabeth, her daughter Rosie, and James, Elizabeth’s second husband and Rosie’s stepfather. As I settled into near scalding water, I was ready to be transported; physically, emotionally, and transcendentally by Ms. Lamott’s work.

It didn’t happen.

Why? I think the reason the book fell so flat for me, in terms of character, dialogue, and setting is that the novel’s 278 pages are nearly devoid of any sort of conflict: emotional or physical. Ostensibly the story of Rosie’s senior year in high school in Marin County, CA and her descent into drug use and casual sex, the writing seems to try a bit too hard to be “hip” and relevant. (As an example: Depictions of oral sex performed by teenagers (as rewards for friendship) don’t really add much to plot unless the author is willing to connect those soulless, desperate acts with something more meaningful. In the end, casual sex is, well, simply casual and not all that interesting.) Yes, there are snippets of conflict and anger and upset between Rosie and her parents throughout the book. But none of these scenes propel the plot or the characters to a place that challenges the reader. I won’t spoil the ending but, suffice it to say, after cruising along on idle for the entirety of the story, the engine of this novel’s plot never moves towards the red line.

Bottom line: Skip this novel and, if you are aspiring author (or just someone who loves to understand what makes writers tick) buy Bird by Bird instead. It’s shorter, cheaper, and a hell of a lot more compelling.

3 stars out of five.

I Hate Brett Farve/I Love Brett Farve by Ross Bernstein (2009. Triumph Books. ISBN 978-1-60078-376-0)

Every once in a while there’s a neat concept or idea, the sort of gem of a thought that makes for a dandy short story, essay, or editorial, that someone tries to inflate into a  book. That’s how I see this latest effort from Minnesota’s best known sports author, Ross Bernstein. I’ve met Ross.He’s a pleasant guy and a good writer. I even have some of his other work, like Frozen Memories, a coffee table book chronicling a century of Minnesota ice hockey. His work on his encyclopedic books is flawless. The detail is great. His research is superb. His writing is crisp. I can’t say that about this latest project from Bernstein’s fingertips: It’s, in my view, simply a cute idea that’s been expanded beyond my interest in the subject matter.

Had this book attempted to be a biography, a chronicle of the Falcon/Packer/Jet/Viking quarterback Brett Favre’s hall of fame career, painting for the reader a clear picture of what makes Farve one of the most interesting sports figures of the later 20th and early 21st centuries, well, I know Bernstein would have done the story justice. But this book, simply a compendium of comments from sportswriters, fans, and players who “hate” Farve (generally the Packer side of the ledger) and similar material from the “love” side of things (representing naive Vikings supporters) is, as I’ve said, an unwarranted expansion of an inside joke into a blotted, repetitive series of quips from folks who really have better things to do than worry about Farve’s legacy.

I guess my real issue with this effort from a writer I respect is this: In a nation and world filled with so many real conflicts, many of which are tragic and have serious consequences, using the words “love” and “hate” when dealing with a professional sports figure is, in a word, silly. Grown men and women certainly have the right to enjoy watching a good game of football or whatever during their leisure time. But to get so wrapped up in a spectator sport (as many of the folks interviewed for this volume appear to be) that you actually burn a guy’s jersey in effigy? Well (and this comes from a life-long follower of most major sports in America), that’s simply nuts. To compile a book about it that simply repeats the insanity, provides little insight into Brett Farve the man, and really doesn’t add much to popular culture.

My son Jack bought me this book, personally signed, for Christmas two years ago. It took me that long to get up the gumption to get past the subject matter and dive in. I won’t say I lament reading the book: I will say Mr. Bernstein could have said what he needed to say in about 500 words: the length of this review.

2 and 1/2 stars out of 5.

Two hours passed. The fog closed back in again making it safe to walk or sit aboveground. Kids talked, whittled, and dug elaborate shelves and steps in their holes. Several went down and helped Gambaccini and Jacobs dig graves for the dead NVA, simply for something to do. Many dozed, thankful to have nothing to do but wait in their holes. All of them looked at the sky every few minutes, like cultists waiting for deliverance. Two and a half more hours passed. Mellas crawled down to check on Goodwin. Goodwin was still waiting over his rifle. Mellas lay down beside him. Goodwin talked without taking his eye from the rear sight. “That little bastard’s just about to poke his head out that hole. I can feel it.”

(c) 2010, Karl Marlantes.

Matterhorn; A Novel of the Viet Nam War by Karl Marlantes (2010. Grove Press. ISBN 978-0-8021-4531-4)

The novel as therapy to heal. Once you have finished this mammoth work of fiction, which, in many ways, is the quintessential novel of the Marine experience in the Vietnam War, you realize that’s exactly what this book is: Therapy. We sent hundreds of thousands of our boys (and a few thousand girls in supporting roles) to fight in a war that made, in the end, absolutely no political, military, or strategic sense. Marlantes captures the larger frustrations about the Vietnam conflict after Nixon’s election in 1968 in the minutia: The day to day experience of Lieutenant Second Class Mellas, an Ivy League educated Marine Reserve Officer who has, unlike so many of the men drafted to fight and suffer, volunteered for his role. This is likely the grittiest, most realistic war novel ever written. One jacket blurb compares Matterhorn to All Quiet on the Western Front. That’s a comparison that hits the mark: Both the so-called Great War (WWI) and Vietnam share a certain political insanity, a sense of helplessness in the face of governmental decision-making, that is best depicted in the day-to-day terror confronting the line soldiers in the two stories.

The writing is crisp, raw, and real: Like finding a bevy of leeches sucking blood from your leg under your utility trousers in a shallow trench while you try to sleep; or shitting blood and water as you shiver in the cold mountain air of what is supposed to be a semi-tropical country waiting for a medal-crazed colonel to order you to re-take a hill that, a week earlier, that same colonel abandoned as having no strategic importance. There are a few scenes that drag (generally those away from combat, where the interactions between members of Bravo Company become more personal, more detailed). Some of this less harried dialogue is necessary to form character: some of it is simply extraneous. But the overall quality of the book is superb and, once you grasp Marlantes’s brilliance as a chronicler of war, you will forgive these minor lapses. Not since Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried took the reading nation by storm has a novel of Vietnam hit such a high and consistent note. On film, though I’m a fan of Platoon and The Deer Hunter, about the only movie that approaches the emotional content and the combat realism of Matterhorn is Mel Gibson’s terrifically underrated When We were Soldiers. Read this novel and then watch the movie and you’ll understand what I mean.

There are no straw men, no men of pure evil or pure virtue in this book. Marlantes has captured the nuances involved in depicting humanity at war with boldness. He also does not shy away from the complex politics or issues of race and economic status that, to this day, remain as questions regarding who goes to war for America and why they are sent. The racially charged scenes, the tension, and the results of the exchanges between Marines of black and white skin, are honestly and thoroughly examined. I remember being told in Platoon Leadership Class (PLC) at the Marine base in Quantico, Virginia, that “there is no color in the Marines but green”. Marlantes unveils the truth behind that myth by his depiction of the tensions percolating beneath the surface in the American military during the heady days of the Civil Rights Movement where men of disparate skin color eyed each other warily over the sights of their M-16s. Again, it is an open, honest, and, hopefully for Marlantes and other veterans of that godforsaken war, cathartic telling of the truth.

A big book which, at its core, is a simple story of one man, one platoon, one company, and one battalion of the United States Marine Corps during the Vietnam War. Outstanding.

5 stars out of 5.

The Judge Who Stole Christmas by Randy Singer (2005. Tyndale. ISBN 978-1-4143-3566-7)

I’m not much for Nicholas Sparks inspired sentimentality. So when someone (can’t remember who but, likely my wife) gave me a copy of Singer’s slender tome about an African American law student named Jasmine who fights for the town of Possum’s right to display the creche at Christmas in the town square, I was apprehensive. In fact, the book languished on my stack of “to reads” for a few years until, bored out of mine and with no other unread fiction to tackle, I picked it up.

Singer is a lawyer and at times, his lawyerlyness creeps into his prose. Crisp, genre diction gets bogged down by legalese and courtroom scenes that are, well, a tad predictable. Still, the story has its moments and a few of the characters, including Jasmine, struck a chord with me. Unfortunately, the male protagonist, Thomas Hammond (who plays Joseph in the creche) and his wife Theresa (who plays Mary) seem to be cut out of rather stiff cardboard: Not at all real, to quote the Velveteen Rabbit.

This is not to say that this “quick read” isn’t worth spending some time with. There are enough positives to be found in the plot and characters to make spending a weekend in Possum worth the effort.

3 and 1/2 stars out of 5.