PERDIDO STREET STATION (BY) CHINA MIEVILLE

Published 2001, 710 pages
Characters: B
Writing: A
Plot: A
Pacing: A
Poignancy: A

Perdido Street Station is the most impressive book I've read in a long time.  One of the best, too.  It's not a perfect book, but goddam does it feel good to be blown away by an author's sheer imagination sometimes.  It's why I got into this whole 'reading' nonsense, isn't it?

Last fall, I read China Mieville's The City and the City. It wasn't a perfect book, and the end lacked a certain punch that might have made it truly profound, but it was nonetheless a vividly atmospheric read, dripping with creativity and literary ingenuity.  Perdido is another love letter to Mieville's baroque, labyrinthine cities, somehow both gritty, convincing and surreal at the same time. The two books of his that I've read share a similar impact, but Perdido is bigger, more ambitious, and simply better.

Unfortunately, it's not even fair to give a basic plot summary of Perdido Street Station, as the twists and turns the story takes before settling into its main trajectory are a big part of the fun.  The back cover blurb is wonderfully misleading, but for good reason, so I'll try to mimic it. Perdido Street Station is sort-of about an unorthodox scientist named Isaac, who finds himself forced into new avenues of research when he's hired by a mysterious foreign visitor to research the mechanisms of flight.  Of course, that doesn't begin to explain anything.  In the first hundred pages or so of the book, the story seems poised to go in any number of directions, before finally committing to an eerie, thriller-esque plot. And that plot is fine, but it's not actually what makes Perdido Street Station shine. It's the messiness of the whole thing, the many imaginative tangents Mieville is willing to take for the sake of atmosphere and immersion, and the hundreds of seemingly unimportant details he tosses out along the way.  The man is apparently a fountain of knockout ideas.  Any given ten pages of Perdido Street Station could have formed the whole concept behind another novel, but Mieville somehow finds room for them all here. I cannot stress enough how vividly imagined this book is; it's what I really loved about it.  The Weaver, the ribs, the Construct Council, the moths, the Ambassador, Torque and all the rich history that's dished out just for passing conversation — Mieville doesn't seem to mind whether his creations affect the plot for five pages or 500, they're all inventive and interesting and actually suck you into this impossible city.

Because really, this novel is about the city where it takes place more than any one component of its plot.  All those details and tangents that seem irrelevant, or tangential, are not.  By the end, the city of New Crobuzon seemed more likely and believable a place to me than, say, Detroit.  In another, broader sense — embracing the themes rather than specifics of the story — Perdido is about the state of crisis.  Multiple disparate events, each as unlikely as the one preceding it, all joining impossibly to propel things forward.  Perdido Street Station could have had a very simple plot.  If it was made as a movie, it would seem like a standard genre thriller that just happens to have an interesting gothic backdrop.  Only a book this long and rambling could capture that theme, the sense that chaos often coagulates in unlikely ways, driven by its very unexpectedness.

Of course, as a messy book, Perdido can't be perfect — just really impressive.  I thought some of the plot threads resolved in unsatisfactory ways, and the book is definitely at its best when it's introducing all its inventive ideas, rather than shutting them down toward the end. Still, for a book this dense, it sticks the landing far better than most. The characters are interesting, if not particularly memorable, and Mieville's writing is consistently excellent, matching the tone of this dark-fantasy steampunk sci-fi horror hodgepodge. (A sidenote that I'd like to address, even though it's not directly relevant to the review of the book:  Fantasy novels always seem to take place in some technologically frozen world, where society has remained static for hundreds or thousands of years, never advancing beyond Medieval sciences.  This is rarely explored or mentioned outright, and I'd love to see some more deconstruction of the reasons for this, other than plot-necessity.  It almost makes sense, really: the introduction of 'magic' to a world would confound science, or even replace it. I loved that Perdido Street Station addressed this indirectly, once more tossing off a brilliant idea as if it were nothing. The novel features a society that seems to have integrated what we'd call 'magic' as simply another branch of science, creating an industrial age society that's in many ways as advanced as our own, its wildly multi-cultural society progressing and developing while still laboring under an oppressive authoritarian government.  Once again, it's a subtle, creative blend of ideas, where steampunk technology and old-world ideals lead to slightly-weird union labor strikes as often than surreal adventures.)

I rate Perdido Street Station five out of five Orson-Welles-slow-clap.gifs.

THE RUNNING MAN (BY) STEPHEN KING

Published 1982, 336 pages
Characters: B
Writing: B-
Plot: B+
Pacing: B+
Poignancy: B

It's not terribly important that I decided to pick up the Running Man because I read countless discussions online pointing out its similarity to the currently-popular Hunger Games trilogy, which I read in March. But out of the dozens of novels Stephen King has written — which I will probably never entirely catch up on — that's why I decided to pick up this one just now.

Though nearly three decades separate the publication of the novels, the similarities are pretty glaring. The Hunger Games is an almost perfect synthesis of The Running Man and Battle Royale. Stephen King's 1982 novel is only set in 2025, and as with the best, most convincing near-future sci-fi, not much is all the different — everything is just a bit shittier. The people tune in to a series of increasingly dangerous reality-TV show contests for amusement, run by a sinister government entertainment Network. A man named Richards, desperate for money to save his diseased young daughter, enters into the most dangerous and popular reality program in the country: The Running Man. It's pretty much what it sounds like, a nationwide manhunt which nearly everyone watches, and in which anyone can participate. If Richards manages to survive for 30 days, he's set for life, rich beyond meaning. In the history of the game, no one has ever survived more than 8 days.

So you have the evil corrupt government, the death-game, the reality-TV angle being used to control and manipulate the masses. The main reason I bring up these comparisons is because The Hunger Games utilized that reality-TV angle so poorly, when it was clearly a goldmine idea with a lot of potential. It was never clear who watched or who cared or what significance any of it might have in the world at large. King clears that problem here, making it all feel tangible and believable, with plenty of first-hand demonstration on what effect this reality-TV population control has, and why people in a society like ours might even buy into it. He does this while breezing through the action of the novel, too, integrating exposition with pacing and plot development. It's impressive, and only the beginning of the novel suffers for it, with the first few beats of the story seeming a little rushed and jarring.

The world is convincing, and the story is tight. There's really not much beyond that — like The Hunger Games, this is a lean book and a fast read. (I read nearly the entire thing on a four hour bus ride back to Lebanon.) It's appropriately gritty and uncompromising, and Richards makes for a sympathetic, jaded, smug, noir-ish narrator. I should note that The Running Man was written under King's long-defunct Richard Bachman pen-name, and thus there are some interesting and fitting stylistic differences from King's usual stuff. The prose is much leaner and harder, less folksy and rambling than typical. Richard the character fits Richard the pen-name, and everything fits this grim but sardonic world.

One last thing: that Arnold Schwarzenegger film of the same name is, in fact, based off of this book. I have never seen it. I doubt it's very similar but I'm curious to check it out. King doesn't pull any punches with the ending, and without changing that part around significantly, this is one story I can guarantee that Hollywood will never be tempted to remake.

IN THE DOLL HOUSE (BY) DANDY LIONS

Indie / Pop / Gypsy Folk
2011, Self Released
Free Download: Bandcamp, last.fm

I'm always a sucker for male/female vocals, so I wasn't terribly surprised to find the Dandy Lion's songs frequently getting stuck in my head.  It's not particularly rare to find indie bands with dual male/female vocals these days, but few bands have such an instinctive knack for shaping songs around the strengths of those vocalists.  The brother/sister songwriters behind Dandy Lions — Dante and Lena DeLeo, joined by drummer Ben Goldstein and bassist John Feliciano — don't have the typical voices you'd expect from such a duo, either.  Their deep, forceful vocals and stretchy tricks of enunciation add to the unique vibe of this ethereal baroque pop, music that isn't afraid to wear its oddness on its sleeve even as it pushes an unashamed, unpretentious reliance on melody.

At first, I just accepted that the Dandy Lions were going to be much poppier than the dreary stuff I normally listen to.  While never depressing, the music is a bit moody — not melodramatic, and less stiff and awkward than other baroque sounding stuff, but there's a bit of a haunted edge creeping in.  Songs often come unhinged without warning, devolving into a chorus of shouts and frantic instrumentation, adding an off-kilter sense of unpredictability to what starts out as bouncy upbeat indie-folk. It's frenetic pop music with a surreal edge. Some bands successfully pull off quirk, and plenty of bands succeed with catchy accessibility, but both at once is a much rarer feat. The duality that forms the basis for the Dandy Lion's music somehow allows them to be both — accessible, and yet weird enough that you can't quite pin down whether you've heard anything like it before.

The vocals of the singers – which are themselves just a bit different, and yet entirely natural when balancing each other — provide the backbone. Dandy Lions take excellent advantage of the back-and-forth, male-and-female style, writing songs that compliment both voices, rather than just using one as seasoning for the other.  It's fine that most bands with male/female singers write like that: one vocalist dominant, the other joining here and there as a sort of lyrical accent. But these siblings' voices are a perfect fit, and their dependence on this good fortune shapes the album, giving it a sense of confidence and sincerity, a refreshing lack of cynicism and calculated aloofness.  Many recent indie bands passive-aggressively embrace their pop aspects, combining semi-catchy melodies with a stuffy twee sensibility that runs the risk of making the music feel stilted, and distant.  With the Dandy Lions, there's no awkward over-instrumentation or insecure dancing around the band's poppy nature. Everything contributes: those complimentary dual vocals, the forceful rhythm section, the rarely-dominant but never-superfluous accordion, which compliments the guitar with a similar playful back-and-forth as the musician's vocals, neither one truly leading the other. Goldstein and Feliciano provide genuine, pounding energy to match, pushing the music along at a speed that prevents any chance of it all seeming too-cute.

Bands that focus on melody often focus only on melody, which usually leads to me quickly losing interest.  Melody creates catchyness, but melody itself generally doesn't contribute to texture or depth. If the Dandy Lions didn't have a distinct personality — a moody duality and an off-center sense of unpredictability — they would be just another redundancy in the recent surge of quirky indie-pop bands, bands that make up for a lack of interesting songwriting by copping interesting musical trends. But nothing here is trying to be trendy, cute, or desperately different. Dandy Lions let their music carry itself with the confidence that their songwriting is interesting — and it is — rather than propping it up with splatters of semi-interesting flair to support a limp essence. Quirky charm like this works as well as it does because the band — for all their skill — gracefully lacks pretension.

UNIBROUE SIX/MIX PACK

La Fin Du Monde
With a name like La Fin Du Monde (so badass), I'd almost expect something more aggressive, or darker.  Yet Monde is a fairly light example of the style — almost light and citrusy enough to seem like a very yeasty white beer.  The smell is a bit strange here, almost too floral for its own good, but the floral fruity yeast taste is pretty standard.  Again, there's an almost orange-like flavor at the back-end, but it adds a bit to the smoothness of the mouthfeel.  Perhaps the most surprising thing about this triple is how creamy it is — it's really, really drinkable, even at 9%.  You definitely run the risk of drinking this one too fast.  I don't drink Belgian triples too often, so I feel I'm always a bit off when trying to describe them.  The more of this one I drink, the more I'd like to claim it's one of the best triples I've had, but that may just be the ABV talking.

Maudite
Maudite is listed on BA as a Belgian Strong Dark Ale — a strong "amber-red" according to the box — but it'd be awfully easy to mistake this for a double. There's that creamy, bread-like feel to it, and a caramel brown-sugar taste with hints of fruit.  The hints of fruit add a sweetness, but muted — everything here is tightly controlled.  Perfected, I'm tempted to say.  Even the high alcohol adds a hit of warmth, rather than bite.  The carbonation compliments the sweetness, and makes this extremely drinkable but not too light.  If you like this kind of beer, you'll like this beer.

Trois Pistoles
Halfway through the sixpack now, I'm noticing some trends.  Unibroue beers have something characteristic about them, something in the mouthfeel or the yeast.  They're all solid — not crazy, or particularly complex, but still tasty and on the drinkable side of the spectrum for such Belgian styles.  The lighter, weaker presence of the beer makes them go down easier, even if it sacrifices a bit of complexity.  Trois Pistoles is another Belgian Strong Dark Ale, so it's obviously a bit similar to Maudite, and maybe even a little thinner.  Thin and light doesn't have to mean it lacks taste, fortunately.  This one is sweet, with a sharp burst of that sweetness hitting right away, alongside the malts.  It lingers pleasantly and doesn't stick or leave any unpleasant tastes behind.  The high alcohol content is extremely well hidden, and there's a nice warmth that hits well with the plum/raisin fruitiness.  Unibroue knows what they're doing with these.

Ephemere
I'm glad this one isn't sweet. I expected it to be — I think I may have had all of one apple beer before, and it was as cidery as you'd expect.  Not here.  Ephemere is almost sour, with a sugary apple taste that's almost like candied fruit, something savory and tart but not obnoxious.  It doesn't taste fully natural, and I'm sure there's no way they got this result just by tossing a few apples into the brewpot.  Still, even if it doesn't taste natural, it tastes good.  There seems to be some kind of wheat-beer base, something light but substantial enough to actually provide backbone.  Fruit beers need that, they need to have the taste and mouthfeel of beer, otherwise they just taste like syrup.  Ephemere manages a strong but balanced blend of taste and consistency, which can't be easy to do.