The Kings of the Wyld

Nicholas Eames

Twenty years ago, Saga, the greatest of all the "bands" (groups of mercenary adventurers in the Dungeons and Dragons style) fought and rose to great heights, then faded away. Now, twenty years later, they are just five aging, past-their-prime men scattered over the land, having lost touch. Clay "Slowhand" Cooper, who uses a formidable mystical shield, is retired with a family in Coverdale. Their frontman, Gabriel, a.k.a. "Golden Gabe," arrives unexpectedly to beg Clay for help: his daughter, Rose, who is trapped in a distant city besieged by an innumerable army of various monsters. Reluctantly, Clay joins him and they gather the others: Moog, a klutzy wizard; the dagger-wielding, drunk, overweight, henpecked Matrick, who has become a cuckolded king; and Ganelon, the deadly swordsman whom they all left behind, to their shame. They embark on a quest across a monster-filled forest known as the Heartwyld. If the army of monsters wasn't enough to fear, they also encounter an old enemy, Lastleaf, an immortal Druin (think: Dark Elf) who bears quite a grudge against them.

As is obvious from the nicknames, the story treats mercenary groups like rock stars who draw massive crowds and inspire epic ballads. It's an amusing premise, and the book has flashes of genuine humor and excitement. Unfortunately, it didn't click for me. The "rock star" metaphor is tired and never really quite fits in a fantasy setting, but that's a minor quibble. The real problem is the laziness of the world-building. Time and again, the novel resolves obstacles through convenient contrivances rather than believable storytelling. The band has supposedly been out of contact for decades, yet Moog suddenly remembers a magical portal directly to Matrick's castle, a portal that also deposits them at precisely the moment an assassin strikes. Other ideas are introduced only to fizzle out. The entire country is plagued by a deadly and incurable disease called "rot" that is meant to be an emotionally-resonant plot arc, but it proves to be of no consequence. Matrick is depicted as terribly out of shape, but when the fighting starts, he is a veritable superhuman, as are they all; their age and rustiness, though often referred to, barely affect them. None of the wounds or sacrifices the band makes ever stick; there are therefore no stakes, and no suspense. Even the comedy often misses its mark. Moog's insistence that owlbears are real is treated with derision, as if he's insane, but they live in a world populated by literally any kind or combination of monster imaginable; the joke just has no place to land. Or the conceit that Saga's bards always die on quests, so they've had dozens over the years!  Spinal Tap got there first. Eames is trying to have it both ways here, a fantasy-setting Hitchhiker's Guide and the high fantasy of a Joe Abercrombie. The result is certainly entertaining in places, but I found its clever premise resting on a foundation too flimsy to support the adventure it wanted to tell. 

two stars 

The Extinction Of Irena Rey

by Jennifer Croft

A beloved and bestselling author, the titular Irena Rey, has the habit of gathering and sequestering all her translators at her house in Poland, where they all work on the translations of her current works together. This time, they gather to translate the work Grey Eminence, a novel warning about the dangers of human intelligence putting the world on the road to extinction. Specifically, Rey is known for fighting against the culling of her beloved Bialowieza, a primeval forest that has been the site of logging by the government. However, something is awry — Our Author (as the besotted narrator of the book styles her, in deistic caps) is missing, and the translators, who initially only know each other by their target languages rather than names, are left to their own devices. Should they go ahead with their work without her? Rifle through her belongings for a clue to her whereabouts and identity? Go get a drink at the local bar? Hunt down her family? As her absence continues, things get stranger with each new development, and the various translators form alliances and enmities, until the atmosphere is something along the lines of a surreal bacchanal.

Croft is herself a Booker Prize-winning translator of the Polish Nobel laureate Olga Tokarczuk, as well as of Argentinian authors, so her reflections on, and parodies of, the art of translation are incisive and shrewd. One of the conceits of the book is that is is written by Rey's Spanish translator Emi, but what we are reading is the English translation of that book by Alexis, who was also there, and gives a few insights or corrections of her own in footnotes. (I wonder what they do in the Spanish translation of this novel?) Emi speaks for all the translators as a collective, but at some point it seems clear that Emi's slavish adoration is not the norm among her peers. The novel has several motifs and recurring themes. It touches on stewardship, veneration, fungi, parasites, love, amadou, and more. It's not a novel for everyone, having more in common with the French absurdists, and Tokarczuk's flights of mixed-genre imagination, than any straightforward narrative. It plays with language, throwing out ideas and innuendo and genuine anxieties about political concerns with abandon. Some stick, and some don't. Some scenes lag or fall flat. But this is such a vivacious and original novel that I generally forgive its misfires. If it's taken as an absurdist play, full of inane, bumbling characters caught in a situation they don't understand, rather than some sort of real-world mystery, it works. 

three stars 

The Racketeer

by John Grisham

2012 

Malcolm Bannister was a small-town lawyer until a bad real estate deal connected him to a criminal conspiracy and landed him in federal prison for a crime he didn't (knowingly) commit. When a federal judge is murdered and the FBI has no leads, Malcolm reveals that he knows who killed him, but only if the government agrees to release him and give him full immunity and a new identity. What follows is an intricate game of leverage, deception, and revenge as Malcolm manipulates the FBI, federal prosecutors, and the real killers, all while concealing an even larger scheme of his own. Each revelation upends what seemed certain, and Malcolm proves himself several steps ahead of everyone trying to use him.

Grisham here moves from his typical milieu, the courtroom, to try his hand at the caper and confidence game, with mixed results. The novel is less concerned with legal arguments than with strategy, hidden motives, and carefully timed revelations. Malcolm is an intriguing narrator: intelligent, patient, and morally flexible. However, Grisham also occasionally switches to a third-person omniscient narrator, so he can keep various revelations hidden until it suits him, repeatedly forcing the reader to reassess what they thought they understood. The excitement in the novel comes from watching Malcolm outmaneuver institutions that believe they hold all the power. I wasn't overmuch impressed with this book, however. The secondary characters beyond Malcolm are more functional than memorable. Most FBI agents, prosecutors, and secondary figures exist primarily to move the machinery of the plot, and the emotional stakes never run especially deep. But the main reason for my lukewarm reception is that narly everything in the book strains credulity. The plot relies heavily on coincidence, unlikely events, and highly questionable reactions on the part of law enforcement. As Grisham writes in his author's note, "almost nothing in the previous 340 odd pages is based on reality." This is an understatement. It's a two-star plot, bumped to three stars due to Grisham's easy, readable style that keeps the pages turning.  

three stars 

IQ

by Joe Ide

In South Central Los Angeles lives Isaiah Quintabe, a 26-year-old African American man, whose brilliant mind justifies his initial-nickname of IQ. After his beloved older brother was killed in a hit and run, the young IQ drifted into illegal activities until he realized he could use his computer-like mind to solve the problems of people in his neighborhood, taking on cases the police won't or can't. IQ has known, as his spiritual godfather Sherlock did, the temptation of recreational drugs, and his understanding of the criminal mentality is based on experience. (His involvement in crime was typically idiosyncratic, stealing items like feline epilepsy strips with low security but high resale value.) But all this comes in flashbacks. Satisfyingly to us Sherlockians, the main plot line of this novel adapts some elements of The Hound of the Baskervilles: a superstar rapper, Calvin Wright, faces an attempted assassination by a 130-pound monster of a pit bull, who seems to have been bred by an enemy for murderous purpose. IQ uses street-smarts, near-perfect recall, and inductive reasoning to find answers to who is behind the threat. IQ's sidekick Dodson fills a Watson-like role, in that he does his part and is capable of providing backup in the form of a gun.

The setting, the voice, and the characters are all high points of the novel. Ide has a gift for sharp observations and memorable details (the rapper's belongings include "a bundle of rolled-up antique Persian prayer rugs from his two weeks as a practicing Muslim"), and the novel is packed with lines that are funny without feeling as though they are trying too hard to be funny. IQ feels grounded as a character, fleshed-out with his own foibles and weak spots. The flashbacks showing how he became who he is are often more compelling than the central mystery. The mystery itself is solid. Ide lays out the clues fairly, and the solution emerges logically rather than through arbitrary twists. Watching IQ think is consistently entertaining. At times, however, the novel stretches credibility. Some of Isaiah's movements through particularly hostile environments feel easier and safer than they ought to. As a non-black author, Joe Ide seems fairly oblivious to how carefully a young black man must perforce maneuver through certain white-dominated situations. I don't mean that IQ shouldn't be confident, but these scenes in particular don't ring true. I also thought that a few of the character interactions seem shaped more by the needs of the plot, or even slapstick, than by reality. I enjoyed the novel's portrait of a community, its exploration of grief and responsibility, and the chemistry between IQ and the exasperating, scheming Dodson. This isn't a brilliant book, but it's a novel take on an old trope, with an engaging protagonist and an ending that promises more.  

three stars 

Pledging My Time: Conversations With Bob Dylan Band Members

by Ray Padgett

Rather than focusing on Dylan himself, Ray Padgett interviews forty musicians, collaborators, and fellow travelers who spent time onstage, in the studio, or on the road with him. The result is not a standard profile of the man; it's a portrait assembled from the edges inward. The book spans virtually Dylan's entire career, from the folk scene of the early 1960s through Rough and Rowdy Ways and the Never Ending Tour. Padgett's interview subjects range from major figures such as Ramblin' Jack Elliott, Richard Thompson, Larry Campbell, and Benmont Tench to one-off collaborators who found themselves unexpectedly swept into Dylan's orbit.

There are a lot of terrific anecdotes, from gushing, grateful unknown musicians given a chance to play on stage by Dylan himself, to baffled sidemen wondering why they got hired (or let go). There are terrific asides from talented musicians about how great a guitar player or piano player Dylan is. Others marvel at his breadth of musical knowledge (one guitarist recalls having to ask various friends about all the obscure folk and blues artists Bob talks about are in order to keep up: "if I knew half of what he's forgotten, I would be one of the most well-educated musicians on the planet"). There is very little communication from the man himself. Players are called up unexpectedly to jam, go home, and then find the jam session was an audition, and they're going on the road, or a late-night talk show, tomorrow. If there's a central idea to the book, it's to serve as an answer to this question: Why do so many accomplished musicians speak of playing with him as a career highlight? Dylan's reputation among casual listeners is built on his songwriting and distinctive voice, not on instrumental virtuosity. Yet interview after interview describes the experience as exhilarating. Musicians recount being thrown onstage with little preparation, confronted with shifting arrangements, unexpected keys, and performances that seem perpetually on the verge of collapse. Yet the disorder is rarely random. As you read the various experiences, it becomes clear that Dylan creates conditions that force musicians to listen, react, and create in the moment, producing performances that feel spontaneous yet require the most intense focus. The interviews also reveal Dylan as a director-like figure, choosing musicians not simply for technical ability but for the musical worlds they carry inside them. Dylan's encyclopedic knowledge of blues, country, folk and more becomes both a shared language and an audition process. As an interviewer and editor, Padgett is exceptionally well prepared, asks the right questions, and keeps the focus on music rather than gossip. As a result, the book sheds light not just on Dylan's career but on his creative process, which is fascinating to the Dylan devotee.  

five stars 

One Fat Englishman

by Kingsley Amis

Roger Micheldene, the titular fat Englishman, is a publisher visiting a fictional prestigious college with the oddly-chosen name of "Budweiser" (a stand-in for Princeton). Ostensibly he's there on a business trip to acquire the rights to a novel or two, but his real aim is to eat and drink far too much, bed as many women as possible, and belittle Americans with displays of British erudition and contempt. He spends most of the novel shuttling between New York and Budweiser, leaving unsatisfied women and unimpressed undergraduates in his wake.

This is the kind of novel that isn't written much any more, a character study and satire of manners. Unlike the tremendous Lucky Jim, this novel's main character isn't the least bit sympathetic and holds no youthful idealism. He's a creep, a seducer, a drunkard who leads women on and insults them for being needy, holds grudges against small children, and so on. There's no plot, except in the sense that Roger goes through a wringer and leaves America only slightly more humble and resentful. Roger may be an exaggerated portrait of Amis himself, but knowing that doesn't change my impression of the book; watching this boorish ass weave in and out of cocktail parties putting down others, only to end up looking ridiculous, isn't as interesting as Amis seems to think it is. Yes, it's a satire of both America and Britain; what Roger never sees is that he embodies all the bad qualities he adumbrates in defining Americans; he's childish, illogical, and emotional. A game of Scrabble against a young boy exemplifies this, as he upturns the board in a fit of pique when his British spellings aren't accepted. The consequences of Roger's actions annoy him, but they never instruct him. This is meant to make him funny, but I mostly found him tedious. It was also difficult for me to sympathize with any of the other characters. Take Helene Bang, the object of his most desperate amorous attentions; since he treats her with utter contempt, why does she allow him within ten feet of her? The American college students who puncture Roger's inflated ego with silly pranks are similarly smirking and supercilious. I enjoyed the witty writing, as far as it went, but I didn't find it particularly funny, nor did I think it has anything original to say about academia or the Anglo-American chasm. In the end, this is less a satire than a character study of a man trapped by his own habits and resentments. It's clever, but unappealing, much like Roger himself. 

three stars 

Holding the Note: Profiles in Popular Music

by David Remnick

A florilegium of eleven profiles and essays, mostly from The New Yorker, on legendary musicians centered around the uncomfortable question: what keeps an artist going after the peak years are behind them? The subjects are largely figures from the deep canon with decades-long careers, who in and of themselves represent an era or musical genre: Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Leonard Cohen, Patti Smith, Aretha Franklin, Mavis Staples, Buddy Guy, Paul McCartney, Keith Richards (this one is largely a panning of Richard’s self-serving memoir), and Luciano Pavarotti. This is not traditional musical criticism, but examinations of impact and character. What drives Springsteen to keep playing marathon concerts in his sixties? Why did Cohen continue writing and touring into old age? How does Buddy Guy shoulder the burden of preserving an entire musical tradition? In addition to delving into the history of gospel, blues, and rock, Remnick investigates, the stubborn need to keep creating, to keep "holding the note." Memorably, he also presents a "Unified Theory of Bob Dylan," positing that Dylan's entire raison d'etre is to absorb, keep alive, and rework the American musical tradition.

Throughout, Remnick combines deep knowledge with elegant prose, curiosity, and humane humor. It's readable, fascinating, extremely thorough, and holds surprises even for those who, like me, have read about some of these icons extensively. My favorite piece is one devoted not to a superstar but to jazz scholar and radio host Phil Schaap. A brilliant obsessive who devoted his life to preserving the legacy of Charlie Parker, Schaap embodies another kind of artist: the guardian of memory. Through him, Remnick explores not only the beauty of total devotion but also the melancholy reality of jazz's decline as a mass cultural force. 

four stars