Mariner Books

“Through its peculiar blend of horror, sci-fi and satire, Friday Black presents America as caught in a funhouse mirror—fear and fury and fully-righteous greed brought into relief and magnified into hideous detail. Still, no matter how exaggerated and distorted the reflection, its eyes are always staring back, as cold and star-spangled as ever. Adjei-Brenyah is undeterred, staring right back with an unflinching gaze, all the while grasping for anything that might represent a human heart that still exists within the monster ahead of him” [Read full review].

Jen Beagin – Pretend I’m Dead

OneWorld (UK) / Simon & Schuster (US)

“A fuller version of Mona soon emerges, one apathetic and emotionally-distant not through some hip disaffection but rather the chaos and distrust of her past. The metaphor of cleaning takes on a whole new slant, a constant movement toward purity that is doomed to perpetual action, just as Mona’s attempts to reconnect with herself and others allows long swept memories to surface.

Unlike [A.M.] Homes’s Novak [from This Book Will Save Your Life], Jen Beagin’s Mona cannot free herself from cynicism long enough to embrace any potential cure, though there is a similarity in how proximity to bizarre beliefs and lifestyles encourage the development of one’s own. Maybe a full embrace of one’s position and life, contrary to any outside expectation or criticism, is a noble and valuable pursuit. Which is to say, for Mona, perhaps cleaning could have a spiritual function? No book, no psychic seeing, no pyjama-clad, lotus-positioned observance of the setting sun can be sure of saving one’s life. But perhaps the idea can trigger something more practical. Something better than pretending to be dead” [Read full review].

Sam Byers – Perfidious Albion

Faber & Faber (UK)

“Far from nebulous abstractions, for Byers, ideas and opinions have effects and consequences. Thoughts, spread widely enough, can change the world. And now, thanks to the internet, they are spread with greater reach and immediacy than ever before. Context is stripped, as is intonation and intention. Irony is mistaken for sincerity and vice versa. The reader decides how to take any given information, and their interpretation can never be incorrect. Their interpretation is the information. Additionally, as communication is gamified into a competition of numbers, the feedback loop is closed. You simply give the readers what they want.

[…]

Byers suggests that if the dualism between on and offline has collapsed, so too has the dualism between true and false. Fake News and Alternative Facts may be presented as an invention of the Trump administration, but mass media is the true pioneer. And, in the same way, the solution is far deeper and more knotty than merely ignoring misinformation from nefarious governments in favour of the truth. Rather, fact and fiction blur, our world now a hyperreality where such distinctions have lost their meaning. In the closing scene, Jess and Deepa listen to an ASMR recording of rainfall, and the soundtrack merges with the sound of actual rain hitting the roof outside. The digital and physical have merged, the fictional and ‘real’ enmeshed as one. But then, such is life in the hysterical present” [Read full review (for 3AM Magazine)].

Elaine Castillo – America is Not the Heart

Atlantic Books (UK) / Viking (US)

“Elaine Castillo’s true triumph is that America Is Not the Heart cannot be faithfully categorized purely as an immigrant saga or LGBT romance. This, aside from being a testament to her writing, serves as a scathing critique of just what those labels entail, and what it says about the white gatekeepers who control them. Hero’s story does not conform to the ideal Western immigrant story of foreigner done well. She is not a plucky underdog making a home against homesickness and long odds, her history not present only to be beaten smooth of its sharp edges. Ultimately, she does not exist to follow the fanciful arc us straight white people like to imagine an immigrant or queer person traversing—the palatable, enriching passage from alienation to total acceptance, and thus, of course, a more realised state of being.

Because America Is Not the Heart is a novel about human experience, about loving and being loved, where every detail—the Filipinx-American setting, historical context, bisexual relationships, class hierarchies, family dramas—is used not to build the characters but the world around them, Great American conditions that must be navigated in order to live” [Read full review].

Evan Dara – Provisional Biography of Mose Eakins

Aurora

One of our favourite novelists returns with what he describes as “a play in progress,” which isn’t that great a leap seeing as Evan Dara’s work has always been entirely dialogue. Available only in electronic formats, Provisional Biography of Mose Eakins tells the story of the titular character’s struggle with a novel medical condition which renders every word that leaves his mouth meaningless. That is, unless he asks to buy something. Dara takes aim at Late capitalism, capturing the crushing confusion and alienation of existence in a world in which even human connection has been commodified.

Sergio De La Pava – Lost Empress

MacLehose Press (UK) / Pantheon Books (US)

Detailing indoor football teams, expert EMTs and Dali paintings on Rikers island, while the tone veers between Pynchonian slapstick and philosophical musings, Lost Empress has an almost improvisational quality that refuses to slow or settle into any one groove. In what is becoming the author’s signature, the book rebels against concision and efficiency in favour of proliferation, the interconnectedness never reaching a neat conclusion but feeling all the more salient as a result. Like A Naked Singluarity before it, the novel situates Sergio De La Pava as a lead figure in the contemporary fight for challenging, ambitious fiction—and proves that the battle is not as hopeless as many would have you believe.

Nick Drnaso – Sabrina

Granta (UK) / Drawn & Quarterly (USA)

Ignore the people that said Sabrina was overhyped, a token placement on prize lists. Nick Drnaso’s graphic novel is a wonderful piece of literature, and one of 2018’s best attempts to get at the fear, paranoia and pervading sadness of the contemporary western world. Although the narrative centres on unspeakable tragedy, the real triumph is how Drnaso’s simple muted illustrations capture quiet loneliness and isolation. Yes, there’s desperation and grief, but equally powerful is the sorrow ingrained in clipped conversations and the walls of empty rooms.

William Gay – The Lost Country

Faber & Faber (UK) / Dzanc Books (US)

A lost William Gay novel, what more do we have to say? One of the masters of Southern Gothic delivers another story full of colourfully downtrodden characters, McCarthy-esque prose and whip-poor-wills. Billy Edgewater hitchhikes home after being discharged from the Navy, and navigates a whole shapeless community of the damned and depraved, drunks, swindlers and evil killers gathering in a tragicomic hellscape of decay and destitution.

Lauren Groff – Florida

William Heinemann (UK) / Riverhead (US)

“The Florida of [Groff]’s world is a canary in the coal mine, a ground zero for the approaching catastrophe. Her anxiety is not concerned with the likelihood of disaster, but rather the scale. Degrees of ruin sorted into a hierarchy—individual, familial, local, regional, national, global—and the question becomes whether a personal calamity will get to the characters before the climate slides into a planetary one. Will they get picked off one by one by a monstrous feline before the sea engulfs the peninsula? Will their house collapse into a sinkhole, killing them before the real trouble begins? Because, while the titular state might be uniquely dangerous, with its cottonheads and gators and mythic black panthers, the real looming threat is more ubiquitous and inescapable. “She had always thought this would be the place to be during the climate wars that she sees looming in the future,” Groff writes, her protagonist finding Paris hotter than she had imagined. “But maybe there is no place to be; maybe all places on a hotter planet will be equally bad, desert and hunger everywhere.”

In the opening story ‘Ghosts and Empties’ we find her wandering the streets after dark, afraid to be in the house because of a propensity to yell, leaving the parenting duties to her husband, who does not yell. However, far from appearing unhinged, the narrator comes across the sane one […] Who wouldn’t yell, knowing what we know, living how we do?” [Read full review].

Denis Johnson – The Largesse of the Sea Maiden

Jonathan Cape (UK) / Random House (US)

To view The Largesse of the Sea Maiden as the parting words of a genius is a fair perspective, though to assume the collection’s primary interest exists in Johnson’s death is to disrespect the stories as valuable additions to his oeuvre. With an epistolary story where the protagonist writes to people as part of his AA program (“Dear Old Dad and Dear Grandma…,” “Dear Pope John Paul…,” “Dear Satan…,” “Dear Rolling Stone and TV Guide…,”), the return of some old faces (or, more accurately, old Heads) and devastating, semi-autobiographical tales of subtle grief, the work might be the last from a master, but it is by no means an end.

Rachel Kushner – The Mars Room

Jonathan Cape (UK) / Scribner (US)

“In The Mars Room, characters are not separated into ‘good’ and ‘bad’ prisoners. Stoicism and sacrifice mean nothing not because a yawning nihilistic meaninglessness consumes all within the cell walls, but rather because meaning persists in all. Even the disobedient have significance, the most troubled and violent. Which goes some way in explaining the cast of characters within Stanville. Spouse killers, baby killers, killers of any witnesses. White supremacists and death row fantasists and women now specialists in playing lonely men over the phone. All are treated with an even gaze, with no hierarchy of morality or self-worth.

In this way, Kushner is following something of a Dostoyevskian theme, her characters capable of committing terrible violence and maintaining some semblance of innocence too. As Jennifer Wilson wrote in a recent article for The New York Times, “Dostoyevsky implored [that] it is not only our task to support the innocent or wrongly convicted but also to recognize the humanity of the guilty and the shared sense of responsibility that we have for one another.” As Romy insists at the end of the novel, “the opposite of nothing is not something. It is everything.” For Rachel Kushner, being human no matter what means just that. No matter what” [Read full review].

Ottessa Moshfegh – My Year of Rest and Relaxation

Jonathan Cape (UK) / Penguin (US)

“In his 2013 book 24/7: Late Capitalism and the Ends of Sleep, Jonathan Crary argues that, from the perspective of twenty-first century capitalism, sleep is a useless, even deleterious phenomena. After all, we cannot buy anything while unconscious, nor can we work. Our productivity is nil. ‘The stunning, inconceivable reality [of sleep],’ Crary writes, ‘is that nothing of value can be extracted from it.’

[…]

If capitalism denatures our existence into an unbearable state, then the obvious reaction is to rebel against capitalism. Only, Moshfegh’s narrator finds a dead end down that path, with art, protest and even complete withdrawal already co-opted and commodified to become just another version of neoliberal life. The second option, then, is to abstain from life altogether. If the parasite can’t be killed, then what about killing the host? Which means locking your doors, abandoning your friends, doing everything you can to minimise your existence. In this way, Moshfegh offers her own counter-intuitive cure—narcissistic solipsism as the antidote to a culture of narcissistic solipsism. Capitalism will still try to draw from you in this state, yes, but does it matter if one has no memory of its fangs? Perhaps the stunning, inconceivable reality of sleep is not that nothing can be extracted from it, but rather that nothing can get inside” [Read full review (for the Cardiff Review)].

 Sayaka Murata – Convenience Store Woman

Translated by Ginny Tapley Takemori

Portobello Books

“[Keiko’s sister is] far happier thinking [Keiko] is normal, even if she has a lot of problems, than she is having an abnormal sister for whom everything is fine. For her, normality—however messy—is far more comprehensible.” So sums up the position of Sayaka Murata’s Keiko, a woman who finds solace and purpose working in a convenience store, though faces unceasing criticism for her disinterest in ‘proper’ jobs or marriage. Her family and friends, projecting loneliness and depression onto her situation, want her to be ‘cured’, to be normal. But for Keiko, the only source of loneliness and depression is this concern from others. The result is cutting, fearless exploration of what it means to be different in a society that, for all of its talk of diversity, seems hellbent on the total homogenisation of what it means to be human.

Tommy Orange – There There

Harvill Secker (UK) / Knopf (US)

“Orange complicates things by delving into the idea of performance and invented identity. Yes, Orvil finds healing magic within powwow music, but then his brother finds the same within Chance the Rapper and Earl Sweatshirt, and the other in the arrangements of Beethoven. And, when Orvil films himself dancing in traditional clothing, the act is a half-satisfying tug-of-war between holy and phony, an attempt at realisation rather than realisation itself. Still, Orvil perseveres, determined to dance at the upcoming Powwow where the novel’s characters converge, and finds value within his quest. Because a Native search for meaning is much like any other, a process of belief and faith that depends not on some sacred arrangement of sounds and rituals but rather the commitment to the cause. Identity need not be a binary presence or absence, but something to be discovered, nurtured, or dropped.

Gertrude Stein’s passage containing the “there there” quote continues along such lines. “It is a funny thing about addresses where you live.” she writes. “When you live there you know it so well that it is like an identity […] then years after you do not know what the address was and when you say it is not a name anymore but something you cannot remember. That is what makes your identity not a thing that exists but something you do or do not remember.” Which is to say, Indianness is not something inherent and inviolable at the core of all things, nor is it something that can be eradicated forever. Rather, it is the product of what is remembered, and what is not. There can be a there there, Tommy Orange seems to say, and one defined not by white fantasy, but the Natives themselves. It is just a case of remembering” [Read full review].

Chris Power – Mothers

Faber & Faber (UK) / Farrar, Straus and Giroux (US)

“Strong stories will always instigate some sort of reaction or change, but to assume that this alteration will always be good, or to map them on any kind of good-bad binary at all, is to underestimate the power of fiction. Yes, the characters of Chris Power attempt to use stories as an antidote to loneliness, but that’s not to say every effort is redemptive or magically healing. Indeed, sometimes it is actively counterproductive, the stories growing into new, deeper sources of loneliness that grip a soul and refuse to let go. Fiction, it turns out, is not some therapeutic balm. Rather, it is something that can help and hinder, soothe and scorch, and in doing so, be as nuanced and complicated as life itself” [Read full review].

Richard Powers – Overstory

William Heinemann (UK) / W.W. Norton & Company (US)

“Speaking about the environment makes you either a naive idealist or unhinged polemic, and neither belong in the circles of the truly ‘intelligent’ […] Thus, to speak about the environment is to silence yourself.

But Powers refuses to be silenced, which translates to a lot of (intentionally) heavy-handed dendrological metaphors, a lot of (non-ironic) talk of rediscovering the beauty of nature and much (sincere) discussion of how humans are terrible and short-sighted and doomed in the way of a Greek tragedy. Essentially, a lot of trees. However, the fact that such a premise feels tiring, and the metaphors ham-fisted, and the views unsophisticated only confirms Powers’ point. There’s nothing hip or trendy about this message. There is no cultural capital to be earned, no badges of honour to wear, no quick redemption to cash in at the next available opportunity. There’s a slow, grinding process of unpicking ourselves from the prevailing attitudes and expectations, a version of life less comfortable and entertaining and cool. A willingness to appear naive in the short term in the hope of defeating the wider foolishness, a committed attempt to confront what surely lies before us. The Overstory represents a bravery test not only for Richard Powers, but for us all” [Read full review].

Nico Walker – Cherry

Jonathan Cape (UK, forthcoming 2019) / Knopf (US)

Cherry a blistering and breathless novel that confronts post 9/11 America through the lens of just one young man. It’s raw and brutal and hilarious, sad and terrifying and oftentimes intensely uncomfortable. Nico Walker has written a contender for the best Iraq novel and the best opioid epidemic novel in one.

The post Favourite Books of 2018 appeared first on Various Small Flames.

Stretching over 600 pages, the novel includes a semi-mythic colonel, his psy-op serving nephew, Vietnamese double agents, humanitarian nurses, too-young-soliders-turned-crazed-lurps and disgraced navy sailors struggling to readjust to life back in Arizona (the latter being Bill Houston, who will eventually grow/descend into the antihero of Johnson’s debut novel, Angels). By the closing stages, the various narrative strands have twisted and tangled to the degree that confusion arises, the reader in effect joining the characters in the bush and hacking through a literary jungle of their own. How do we piece together these small scraps of experience into something coherent and important? And is it enough to explain and justify the war, or human nature itself?

“It’s got to be about something bigger than dying, or we’d all turn deserter. I think we need to be much more conscious of that.”

Johnson passed away in May, though not before being made aware that he was to receive the Library of Congress’ Prize for American Fiction. Tree of Smoke is out now on Picador and Farrar, Straus and Giroux and is available at all good book shops. Those unfamiliar with his work would be well advised to check out his novels (Angels), novellas (Train Dreams) and short story collections (Jesus’ Son), as well as his essay collection, Seek: Reports from the Edges of America & Beyond.

P.S. If you like strange, sprawling books about Vietnam and conspiracies, then you’ll be into David Means’ Hystopia.

The post Reading Notes: Denis Johnson – Tree of Smoke appeared first on Various Small Flames.

Despite the changes in personnel, it seems my original praise applies more than ever. Each track provides an interesting, nuanced narrative of American life. When a band is described as ‘literary’ the first thought is some group of lit students who quote Camus or Kafka or Kerouac, but Field Report aren’t that. They are literary in the sense that their music and writing seems to be on a par with books and poems, their work possessing the relevant weight to become important and meaningful beyond the noisy escapism that typifies much music. Written down this sounds pretentious or grand but the reality is just the opposite. Like the most successful fiction, Porterfield’s writing is humble, real, able to be all shades of sad and beautiful. He leaves it to the listener to decide what they take from it, be it comfort or disturbance.

The album opens with ‘Decision Day’, a song which first appeared on Conrad Plymouth’s great record Comrade Plymouth. The fact that I have heard this song before plays as an advantage. The opening line, “Now the morning was gilded around the edges…” feels like an old friend, a cosy, familiar introduction to the album, a new dawn full of promise, and a portent of good things to come. Next is ‘Home (Leave the Lights On)’, a tale of homesickness, of being in a band and on the road and spending your time pretty much anywhere other than home (note the artwork features two tiny figures separated by a chasm). Porterfield describes the oncoming winter and the woes of a lonely Christmastime with typical eloquence:

“Cold snapped like a coiled spring
you can feel the frost is coming on
we are marigolden – dropping orange and umber,
just barely holding on
and now downtown’s dolled up with tinsel and angels
seasons sneaking up like haircuts, teased apart and tangled”

But there is hope in this song. The chorus of “but leave the lights on cause it might be nighttime when I get there, but I’m on my way home” offers relief from all that longing, or rather transforms it into something precious. Here it becomes clear that Porterfield is talking about a capital-H Home, something more than four walls and a roof, an answer, a solution, a promise that the troubles of the present can and will be solved.

The third song ‘Pale Rider,’ not-so-coincidentally one of the saddest on the record and goes some way to illuminate the other side of this coin. The chorus of “I don’t know that I can be your place to go, or what you need” could be read as either a blow off or a plea for reassurance, and speaks of the pressure of meaning so much to another person, the burden of being this mystical Home in which someone has put so much faith. But even here there is a sincerity that offers a shred of hope, a sense that we are all alone together rather than altogether alone:

“Now the next thing I know, I’m on your back
with a suitcase full of the wrong things packed
we’re out looking for your family but doubling back
to every bar we chose to pass on
now you’re cantering crooked and screaming at the wind
and shooting off flare guns in memory of the kid
his birthday was yesterday; he would have been six
oh my god, I am so sorry.”

One of the main themes of the album is Porterfield’s struggles with alcohol and his newfound sobriety. ‘Cups and Cups,’ ‘Ambrosia’ and ‘Wings’ delve into this idea, pitching alcoholism as the bad present vs. the happy future (Home), with no guarantee of a happy ending for all the struggling. “I keep spinning my wheels,” he sings on ‘Ambrosia,’ “maybe nothing’s gonna change.” Here he comes off like a character from a Denis Johnson story, lost and sad and drunk or wishing to be, crawling from bar to bar knowing that it’s probably killing him or would if given half a chance.

‘Marigolden’ sees a change in tone, a small narrative concerning a fleeing woman and a plane crash. At first this seems out of place amongst the personal nature of the rest of the album, although Porterfield (or whoever the lead male character is throughout) could easily be the “him” in the opening lines (or it could be that she is the Michelle of the next track?). Regardless, the lyrics are wonderful:

“I left Nebraska in my summer dress;
left him behind there to straighten out his head
Jane was working for the airline and she bumped me up to business
she feels the thrill of every liftoff in her heart and chest
She smelled like saffron and glowed gold and rust
years ago, I loved Jane Harmony once
but the fall fell from August and the petals all dropped off
we’re always finding old lives to run away from”

Next up is Michelle, which is a tale of an ill-informed love affair. “Uncle Sam can meet me by the treeline,” he sings. “He and I and your husband we can work it out like men but we won’t end up eye to eye.” You get the sense here that the narrator can sense Home is close or at least halfway possible and it builds up to a frenzy where every idea is a good one, where plans are desperate and exhilarating and of the essence:

“I got five thousand bucks, a full tank of gas,
and a stars and stripes beach towel with a cigarette burn
If we leave right now we’ll be there by morning
there being anywhere but here
we can make a new start; we can make up new names
I’ve already picked yours, Michelle.”

The new start is reflected in ‘Summons,’ where sobriety is a reality, albeit the shaky, edge-of-a-cliff sort of sobriety where it seems the smallest breeze would send him over the precipice and into the drink (quite literally):

“I’ve been two weeks dry, in a bar every night
I’ve been pissing coffee, quinine and lime
and the fog’s been lifting; I’m doing alright
I still can’t look nobody in the eye.”

Closing track ‘Enchantment’ takes the long journey and joins the ends, completing the circle, and making a long journey an endless one. Again opening with images of morning and life (“Easter morning in New Mexico: the Son/sun is risen on another day”), the narrator never actually reaches the Home he had been longing for. Instead the album closes on a curious balance of hope and grief. He’s been sober for a month yet still pining for Home, still on the journey and filling it with loud noises and violent actions in an attempt to make sense of it or at least feel better for a while:

“Now it’s growing wide around us, this feeling in these bones
as we shoot the wind with rifles and then bludgeon it with stones”

I find myself returning to the Denis Johnson comparison. Angels and Jesus’ Son are populated with sad men trying to find something like this Home, then refusing to believe it or else not liking what they see when they get there. Instead they return to the old bars and the new women and the extraordinary promise of an endless search. Whether Porterfield’s character is doomed on these lines is not clear, but if he is then he hasn’t yet grown cynical with it. The closing lines are infused with belief, the marigolden hope that is woven through album.

“The Lord came in the wind and the dirt–
where he sometimes can be found if you
squint; soften it to silhouettes–
His tessellated love is all around”

You can buy Marigolden now via Partisan Records. It is my favourite album of the year.

The post Field Report – Marigolden appeared first on Various Small Flames.

In fact, it was Statz who alerted us to Nelson’s new release, describing it as an EP he feels strongly about. Trusting his word, and feeling an obligation to finally cover Nelson in a proper post, we dove into Whittier.

On first impression, the EP seems a tad gentler than previous release Drugs to Make You Sober. The tempo is undoubtedly slower; the guitars played down a little, the drums are more relaxed and the swinging harmonica set to the side, leading to a sound that is more reflective and mournful, having a tangible end-of-the-night feel. Opener ‘Heart & Soul,’ is a good example, with neat guitar work accompanying Nelson’s crooning vocals. ’Isolation has taken its toll on me’ he sings amongst other lyrics of regret and remorse. ‘Truckers in Drag’ is a slight change of tack – the song is imbued with the weird dream-like feel of a Father John Misty song, as the narrator waits for a storm to pass in Missoula while truckers in drag try to get him drunk. ‘Dog’ has a similarly strange atomsphere, with the intensely satisfying build up from near-slow motion drums to clattering crescendo reminscent of Chad VanGaalen.

Nelson’s lyrical capabilities have always stood out, and Whittier is no different. The temptation with folk music, especially jangly good-time folk music, is to allow the energy be the focus and, as a result, lose something from the lyrics. Nelson has a talent for both poetic and narrative-driven songs that seem to owe as much to the written word and they do folk songs. Indeed, ‘Truckers in Drag’ works like short story, something Denis Johnson might write, with enough images and clues to set a scene and context.

Even the instrumentals, such as ‘Interludes’ (which by definition should be merely filler between the ‘proper’ songs) are intricate and delicate and carefully crafted, proving their worth is far beyond beefing up the release.

You can buy Whittier on a pay-what-you-can basis via Bandcamp.

The post Jeremiah Nelson – Whittier appeared first on Various Small Flames.

Hi Brian, how is life on Long Island? How does it feel to finally release the new album after the long hard process of getting it into existence?

Long Island is excellent.  It’s a pretty small town I live in.  I commute via the railroad to Manhattan for work.  It’s nice to feel the energy of Brooklyn and NYC, but also have a break from it every night, and a bit of room to stretch out.  Releasing this new album is quite an amazing feeling.  As a musician, I think every time you can finish something it feels like a triumph on one level or another.  This is the first time we’ve ever worked with a PR company, so the process of waiting and not just releasing everything immediately via Bandcamp was challenging for me.  I think my impulse is just to share stuff and see what people think, but not that we’re finally here I’m super excited.  Brian V. and I are really proud of the album.  The songs come from a really honest place, and even though some of the songs are melancholy, there was a lot of joy that went into making it.

Your explanation of the new album on the Bandcamp page gives an honest picture of your life at the time of writing – the band’s situation, your family life with a wife and kids, the economic struggle and so on – and you say this heavily influences what you write. Do you find it difficult letting the people close to you see/hear the new songs?

There are a few songs – “Stars Collided in Our Hearts” in particular, that do feel really vulnerable and emotional to perform.  “Head Underwater” is another.  I think in the past I’ve written a lot of songs that portray more of a romanticized view of love and other things. I was always trying to create a dream world that was somewhat removed from my reality – an escape.  This time I was determined to let go of that a bit, and speak more directly from the heart.  I think one of the things I’ve learned as more of a general life-lesson is that it helps to be open about things.  I think a lot of people are really secretive about their problems, especially when it comes to money.  It’s fine to be private, but handling things that way can also create this weird cycle of shame and depression.  I found myself saying things in these songs that I wouldn’t say to friends and family.  It’s funny – a lot of those people will hear the record and probably won’t listen closely enough to the lyrics to really catch what I’m talking about.  It’s bizarre and ironic that I get to speak more intimately with strangers around the world through music than I do with family, but I guess it’s also pretty wonderful and amazing that I get the chance to do that.

As a follow-on from the previous question, do you see your music as a way of speaking to your loved ones? For example in ‘Hard Times, Go!’ you sing‘I haven’t been as brave in how I’ve loved you // as I know I should have been // I thought if I kept quiet // you might think I was strong’. Do you want your wife to listen to your music and treat it personally? Or do you use your situation and emotions to mould songs that are about (and for) other people? In other words, are you writing songs concerning your life and self? Or are you writing fiction from experience?

Ha – I’ve definitely learned that speaking through lyrics is not the most effective way to communicate with my wife!  That being said, this is definitely the most autobiographical set of songs that I’ve written.  I think I resisted writing that way for a long time, and maybe I was finally just at the point where I had nothing to lose.  When I was younger I started out playing more folky, singer-songwriter type music.  I played around a lot of coffee houses where the thing is to do a more straightforward, confessional style of songwriting.  I always resented the limitation and the implication that things should only be perceived that way.  It seemed like an oversimplification.  Of course, fiction comes from some sort of emotional reality, and there’s always a connection –   but if everything is confessional than you’re eliminating the entire scope of the writer’s imagination.  I always wanted my songs to be more than stream of conscious journal entries.  I took pride in the craft of transcending that.

What are the main influences on your music and writing outside of personal experience? In the aforementioned description you say that Robyn’s Body Talk had a large effect on Hard Times, Go! But are there any others? Do books and literature play a role in song writing for you?

I take from lots of different places I guess.  I think as a writer, my work was fundamentally shaped by Bob Dylan, Van Morrison, and Jack Kerouac more than anyone else.  I still think about Bob Dylan all the time – and just the sheer power of him as an artist.  Of course there are lots of others – Tom Waits is big.  I draw on literature a bunch too – I love the Beat Generation writers, and Bukowski and Henry Miller, but also more contemporary folks like Junot Diaz, Lorrie Moore, Denis Johnson.  I feel like film is pretty closely connected to music also, and even television.  The song “Chasing a Phantom” is a direct reference to one of the episodes from the last season of Mad Men.

The album was funded via Kickstarter, and through one of the updates on there you said that you felt it allows artists to receive funding for the work they want to produce, rather than the old model of producing what others want to hear in order to receive funding. Do you think this freedom could allow bands to thrive in areas where that were previously impossible? Does the amount raised significantly influence an artist’s ability to produce their work?

I think it’s part of a larger conversation, about the whole digital revolution, but Kickstarter has absolutely been an amazing tool for us, and bands are absolutely thriving in areas that were previously impossible.  I was always an indie rock kid at heart – I grew up idolizing people like Ian Mackaye from Fugazi, so for me that fact that’s it’s become so much easier to make records than it was back then is a really incredible thing that I’ll never take for granted.  You can make a record for almost nothing.  I don’t think the amount of money raised from Kickstarter relates directly to an artist’s ability to produce work – unless their work relies on more expensive tools than ours does – higher fidelity, mastering, etc.  It does take a bit of creativity and stubbornness to be self sufficient, but it always has.   We treat Kickstarter more like an extended pre-order for the record, with merch and stuff.  Our goal was set to make the process of making the Vinyl and the T Shirts and stuff something we knew we could break even at – instead of the old DIY way of basically funding things on a credit card and hoping you did well enough to recoup your expenses.  We aren’t able to do that.  On a larger scale – signing to a label was sort of the same thing.  Most bands never recouped expenses and got dropped.  My favorite thing about Kickstarter is that if you don’t meet your goal, no one gets charged and you aren’t required to complete or fulfill the project.  It seems responsible.  If there is not an audience demand to support a product, that product doesn’t come into existence.  You make music to connect with people.  You make records if people want them – not just because it seems like a cool thing to do. 

With all the said – with music and with our culture in general there is also a relationship between money and access.  There’s the challenge of reaching people through all the noise.  I try not to worry about that much.  I just try to do good work and share it, making use of the tools I have.  If there a content war going on with our culture – it’s probably a war that no one is going to win.

You wrote an essay on the evolution of the music industry and our relationship with the music we listen to, and conclude that the increased availability of music (and for free) has lessened our willingness to engage with each single album, as if in the gluttony of filesharing we no longer savour each bite and instead gulp down whatever we can (as highlighted by my first post on Beat Radio). Compare this to the positive effect of the internet where unknown bands can reach wide audiences through social media (and the aforementioned effect of Kickstarter allowing artists to create whatever they envision) and there is an interesting standoff between the good and evil of the information age. In your own experience (admittedly without the pleasure of a crystal ball to view alternate realities), has the internet been beneficial or detrimental to your musical career?

I used to get hung up on the question but I came to realize that there wasn’t really any point to look back.  Beat Radio came of age creatively at a strange time where people were still operating with the expectations of the old music industry, but the bottom had dropped out.  We were able to get the attention of lots of people – labels and stuff, but nothing ever really came of it, for lots of reasons.  Without the internet and the support of mp3 blogs and stuff, we never would have found an audience at all.  Without access to inexpensive gear where I could make records in my basement, we never would have gotten past the first album. So mostly I’m grateful that I’m able to make art and connect with an audience.  I feel really lucky to have been able to continue to develop as an artist. We’ve been fortunate to finally start bringing in revenue over the last couple years through licensing and download sales and stuff – but whenever I put pressure on music to have it be something that could take the place of my day job, it always seems to take the joy out of it.

Finally, what music are you enjoying at the moment? Could you list four or five artists that you are currently listening to? Any genre or vintage welcome.

Yeah, of course! I wrote a post about my favorite songs of 2012 here – I really loved the records last year from Will Stratton, Damian Jurado, and Father John Misty.  I also listen to a ton of Pavement over the last few years, and Neutral Milk Hotel.  I heard the new Yo La Tengo today also and that is really great.  I co-wrote a song recently with Drew Danburry and have been listening to a ton of his stuff.  The demos for the new album he’s working on are incredible.  There’s so much. It never ends.

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