Klosterman declares early on that he wants to confront two of the most egregious accusations hurled at heavy metal: that 1) it is frivolous and disposable (therefore “not art”), and 2) it is offensive and dangerous. He argues that these two sentiments can’t both be true at the same time. Becoming a danger presupposes a potency that contradicts frivolity. It may not be elevating art but heavy metal mattered, particularly to the crop of hormonal teenagers of post-Reagan Middle America.

Every chapter starts out with a “milestone” date, which makes probably people assume that the book is going to be a linear narrative. Instead they end up with what The New York Times called a “part memoir, part barstool rant.” The dates are merely touchstones from which Klosterman can riff, using everything from garish album covers to committing ATM fraud in trying to explain why a musical genre that many people would rather consider an aberration meant so much to him.

And then we came to the part about the feminists. In the couple of months that yawned between finishing Fargo Rock City and writing this review, I’ve constantly thought about how I’m supposed to feel about Klosterman’s overwrought attempt at explaining away heavy metal’s tendency towards sexism and objectification. His defense is basically that that because hair bands were so baldfaced about their sexism, they somehow transcended their own objectifying tendencies and became commentaries on sexism. I mean, what? You can’t suddenly transcend sexism by becoming too good at it.

Read more of my review here.

I blazed through this book in a day and a half, and for the most part enjoyed it. Ollie is ditzy yet headstrong in the way cozy mystery heroines typically are, but her role as a White House chef adds some interest in her characterization. None of the other characters are particularly fleshed out but they serve their purpose just fine and I get the feeling their personalities will be given more depth throughout the series. Plus one for the hilariously entertaining “villains” that put Ollie’s career in jeopardy, minus one for the tiresome and weirdly sanctimonious Secret Service boyfriend.

I don’t want to be the person who gripes about the nuances of cultural sensitivity in a cozy with recipes at the back, but I feel that there’s some regrettable depiction of admittedly fictional Middle Eastern countries here. Most glaring of which is a banquet scene where Ollie sees the wife of a king covered from head to toe and attended by several women. She asks who the other women are and is informed that they are the queen’s handmaidens. At this Ollie reacts with, “Handmaiden? What is this, the Middle Ages?” I know why it was done–the observation pointed to an important clue–but still. Reading that passage literally made me cringe.

Read more of this review.

(Originally posted on my blog)

Among the major literary genres, the Western probably makes me the most wary. Not only have I read precious few books within it, but I am also unfamiliar with other iterations, whether on TV or in the movies. (Except for Justified. Is that a Western?) John Wayne for me is nothing but a name that personifies the cookie-cutter Hollywood Hero. My only way in is country music and... that's about it.

It's also a genre that seems so heavily nostalgic for the geographical and historical specifics of the United States to the point that it lionizes episodes of systematic institutional violence such as Manifest Destiny, the uprooting and genocide of Native Americans, and so on. So I guess it's appropriately ironic that my first foray into the Western is a novel written by a Canadian writer. (Though to be fair, he is a current resident of Oregon according to Wikipedia.)

The premise of Patrick deWitt's Booker-nominated novel The Sisters Brothers is as simple as it is thrilling: notorious siblings Eli and Charlie Sisters are hired by an Oregon bigwig called the Commodore to travel to California and kill a man. What transpires is an archetypal roadtrip story, except the protagonists are on horseback

Violence and deceit amidst the California Gold Rush of the 1800s is its backbone, but this novel has a distinct comic melancholy to it. Crucial for this thematic high-wire act is the first person narration of Eli Sisters, the half of the team that outsiders consider as the lesser. The odd poetic turns of phrase here and there stand out sharply from Eli's mostly plain narration of their tasks. Eli is also prone to some philosophical brooding as he questions the ethics of their job and how they can get out of it entirely. Is cruelty an inherent trait for an assassin? Or can a man who kills people for money still live with some sort of moral code?

Eli's thoughts also turn to his relationship with his brother. There's a sort of pragmatic ruthlessness in Charlie that makes him seem opaque--he seems to only allow humans to live as long as they are useful to him or not in his way. He also dismisses Eli's questions about their profession as stemming from squeamishness. But events within the novel clearly show that Eli can wield violence just as deftly.

I remember giving this novel four stars on GoodReads immediately after finishing it, thinking the plot mundane and not at all remarkable. But The Sisters Brothers managed to do something bizarre--it stayed with me for so long that several songs I have listened to over the past couple of years have become stained with its color. Take, for example, this song called "Right in the Head" by M. Ward.

Another song that has become part of my internal mixtape for The Sisters Brothers is "Blood of Angels" by Brown Bird.

I also find myself thinking about certain scenes at random moments. The plot of The Sisters Brothers is quite simple, but the starkness of these characters' lives stays regardless. I guess I am not immune to the romance of the genre after all.

The Millions also has a great writeup about it.

The tone of the writing is a bit simplistic for me personally (and I have a wariness when it comes to autobiographies bent towards legend-creation), but I think this is a very good book for people who are younger and want to discover the history of the US Civil Rights struggle. The art style is arresting and stark. And despite having been created in for the young adult/middle grade audience, the story doesn't shy away from the ugliness and violence inherent in anti-blackness.

This was some great biography-doing. Ugh, amazing.

I want to claw my face off. I am not worthy.