Twilight and Marketing: A Match Made in Heaven

Aside from the obvious (i.e. thousands of teenage girls whose poor boyfriends will have to live up to some ri-DIC-ulously high expectations) Twilight has been wreaking havoc all over various areas of the world of books, including flooding the YA shelves of any good bookshop with vampire/faerie-tinged romances. Let us mourn the latest victim: marketing. I'm putting it out there: marketing for girls YA titles has gotten L-A-Z-Y. Nowadays, a book comes out and they don't bother promoting the book/author itself, instead they resort to one of two strategies:

1) The Meyer Endorsement
This strategy only works if Stephenie Meyer has in fact read the book in question. It worked for The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins - the promotional bookmarks for which featured a quote (in the 'Twilight font') from Stephenie Meyer saying how much she loved it. (The actual author's name was only present in teeny writing on the thumbnail of the book jacket). INSTANT BESTSELLER. It looks like the same thing is going to work for Wings by Aprilynne Pike. This book hasn't been released yet, but we were inundated with reading copies (normally you have to bug the reps for proofs) each containing a letter detailing the praise which Stephenie heaped upon the manuscript.

2) The Stylistic Endorsement
This is used for those books which Stephenie hasn't read herself and which often have no connection at all to the Twilight series. The most obvious I've seen is an upcoming series called Poison Study. The promotional material features a glossy black cover with an apple core on it, and the slogan 'After such a feast, what will they devour next?' The books all feature that same 'Twilight font' on a black cover with one central image (normally red). Sound familiar? Probably because it is EVERYWHERE. The Forest of Hands and Teeth, which freaked me out so much last month, is another culprit - red flower leaf thing on a black cover.

People: is it so much to ask for a little originality? 

Cocaine Nights (JG Ballard)

I find it excitingly creepy that neither Earhart nor I normally read crime, yet in the last few days we have both picked up crime novels... and both of them are about cocaine!! Unfortunately, my pick didn't feature a diamante garter... probably because most of the female characters appear to be without clothes for a large portion of the novel (Europeans... tsk). 

I was a bit disappointed with this read. Partly because everyone was calling it 'dazzlingly original' and I didn't think it was. The plot was incredibly crafted and the characters were well-constructed in terms of realism and depth... but the actual writing style didn't resonate I'm afraid. It was Greene with a shot of Hemingway (so... definitely GOOD, I'll give it that). Dazzlingly original is DBC Pierre. Show me that level of originality and I'll be impressed. 

Cocaine Nights is about a journalist (Charles Prentice) who flies to a wealthy Spanish resort town when his brother is convicted of the murder of five people. Frank Prentice runs a local club and is well-known throughout the town... so well-known that absolutely nobody believes he committed the murders- the police included. However, a guilty plea is pretty hard to ignore, so everyone seems pretty set on just letting Frank take the rap. Charles, firmly believing in his brother's innocence, sets about uncovering the many secrets of the resort.

In all honesty, this had a gripping plot line and a classy, elegant feel to it (ummm.. despite the gratuitous sex, drug use and violence) for crime. Ballard is obviously gifted and I applaud the fact he got me to finish a novel in this genre. But I had high expectations for a mind-blowing read and these didn't eventuate.

Perhaps it is because I was prejudiced against the book from one of the earliest chapters... when one of the characters chucks his remaining tapas at a bunch of homeless cats for them to eat. I cannot explain the outrage I felt when I read that alley cats were eating (fictional) tapas and I was not. (I may have been hungry at the time of reading that part). 

Rating: 8/10. 

33 1/3: The Who Sell Out

33 1/3 is a series of books that feature one influential album per book, written by a different author each time. This series has been kicking around for awhile, but I've only recently come across it because I'm a bit slow off the bat that way.

There are 33 1/3 rpm in an LP, for those wondering where the series title comes from. I did not happen to know this piece of information and so, wandering into Foyles on Charing Cross the other day I had another insufferable conversation with the staff, where we started off with a misunderstanding and ended with sarcastic, Harry Potter-themed mockery.

Alcott: It's a series of books, with a number in the title. I know there's one on Radiohead.

Staff Member: A biography of Radiohead?

Alcott: Not a biography. It's just on OK Computer.

Staff Member: What's OK Computer?

Alcott: You DON'T KNOW what OK Computer is?

Staff Member: I can look it up.

Alcott: No, no, it's an album, not a book.

Staff Member: Ok... but this is a bookstore.

Alcott: Ok, well ANYWAY, it's called like 32 or 39 3/4 or something.

Staff Member: PLATFORM 9 3/4?

Alcott: Can I speak to someone else?

I was finally directed to the music section where a gorgeous man knew exactly what I was talking about immediately. After all the rubbish with the moron at the front desk I didn't even purchase the Radiohead title. Instead, I went for The Who Sell Out, written by John Dougan.

If you're a fan of the band I fully recommend this little gem of a book. Dougan gives a great history of not only The Who as a band but also the pop and emerging rock culture in London during the 1950's onwards. The growing popularity of pop art was an obvious influence in The Who Sell Out but I had never really known the full context behind what drove the band to create the album.

Dougan also talks about the pirate radio stations offshore that were eventually outlawed by the English government in 1967 and the effect that such hard line tactics to ensure the BBC remained on top had on the band and their contemporaries. It was interesting to read something about The Who that doesn't place Tommy as the focus of the discussion. I've never really sat down and properly digested The Who Sell Out, but after reading this I listened to the album straight through, no distractions, for a whole afternoon.

Meh.

It's not cool when the BOOK about the album resonates more with you than the album itself, but there you go. Tommy is just such an epic album (as is A Quick One) and I don't feel the same excited connection with Sell Out. If you're not familiar with The Who, I wouldn't start with this album, let's put it like that. But I might recommend the book! If you have no interest in ever listening to or reading about The Who remember, this is the band who originated the smashing of instruments on stage! Seriously... what's wrong with you?

I will not be rating this series because I think it's a moot point.

If you go to Charing Cross to buy the series, skip asking at the front desk and head to the third floor music section.

Cocaine Blues (Kerry Greenwood)

Well..this was just one big bowl of meh. Despite being perfect on paper (1920s... sassy detective with a gun in her diamante garter) - it didn't come through. Which is a bit sad since this is the first in a series of a million titles which have been coming out since the 80s, and I was thinking it was maybe a new series I could occasionally dip into when feeling like a bit of intrigue.

Phryne Fisher is an English socialite who moves to Melbourne to try her hand at being an amateur detective. She has barely stepped off the boat when she gets caught up in a cocaine smuggling ring, a back street abortion clinic...and the arms of a Russian dancer called Sacha. We get intrigue, scandal, witty banter...but not much of a story.

I think Kerry Greenwood needs to be told that having a witty detective does not a mystery plot make. If a little more effort was put into making the plot slightly interesting, and a little less in thinking up snappy one liners which Phryne can dole out at will, I think I would have enjoyed this book more. It is never a good sign for a mystery if halfway through an attempt on Phryne's life I picked up a reading copy of some crappy teen fiction and was instantly more interested in that. Maybe it was the weird brainless mood I was in, but when you're being beaten by the latest in a long line of faerie/vampire/general supernatural romances aimed at preteens, you know something ain't right.

6/10 (Five of those points are for Phryne's cool wardrobe. Only one for the mediocre plot).

American Pastoral (Philip Roth)

The long-awaited review! Huzzah huzzah it has arrived! 

Somewhere Philip Roth's eyes are glued to the computer screen, eagerly scanning through my excessive opening prose, yearning to reach the accolades I promised him days, nay WEEKS ago and never delivered. Never fear Philip, you will always be loved here!

American Pastoral is the tale of Seymour "Swede" Levov, a sports star at his local high school in Newark, NY who goes on to marry a former Miss New Jersey and take over his father's glove factory. An idyllic existence is ripped to shreds when his daughter Merry becomes a little too excited about protesting the Vietnam War and blows up the local store and post office. What follows is the Swede's desperate attempt to keep his family together in the wake of his daughter's disappearance.

The first part of American Pastoral is narrated by Nathan Zuckerman, who, five years younger than his hero, has idolised the Swede since he first met him at school. This is a nifty bit of penning on Roth's part: he is able to set up the Swede as this mythic, strong, AMAZING sportsman who was also a great guy going after the American dream. If the whole story had been told by the Swede it would have sounded more than a little naff if the opening chapters had been all "I was so wonderful, I was revered as a Greek GOD, to have met me was to have walked in the shadow of greatness for the briefest of moments..." Yes, I am glad I didn't have to go through that, because it would have made me dislike the Swede and that is something I am NOT PREPARED TO DO.

The Swede is one of the most magnificent characters of modern literature. He is the ultimate martyr yet never insufferably so, he is tall and handsome (Roth SAYS SO, I'm not just imagining this), good at every sport, gentle and thoughtful. Loyal, kind, in control, traditional with a modern twist...*SWOON*. I could go on but will spare you.

Watching the Swede's heart get ripped out as he witnesses his daughter's growing radicalism and subsequent bomb-making expertise that results in four deaths was quite unbearable. I felt tremendously sorry for him, supporting his hysterical wife, consoling the widow of the man his daughter murdered... and all I'm thinking is "Swede! Who is looking after you???" The thought actually crossed my mind, if I was living in Newark, I would have taken him cookies. 

Roth doesn't exactly have an economy of words, like Marquez the anecdotes are packed in until the covers of the book are groaning, but it's all part of the richly textured story and, unlike Marquez, I lapped it all up. I think it's because of the faith I have in Roth. If he wants me to know that much about how to make a leather glove there's gotta be a good reason!

It was also satisfying to read a book about American culture and have it not be a parody or a vitriolic tirade of hatred written by a belligerent youngster. Instead, Roth has created an intelligent comment on America that ultimately, is no comment at all, but rather an offering of characters and events that play themselves out with little obvious manipulation from the author. 

Exceptional, glorious and, above all ELEGANT, Philip Roth I salute you. 

Rating: 9/10. 

Hashish, Wine, Opium (Charles Baudelaire and Theophile Gautier)

Do we not all think that Theophile is quite an amusing name? And what a difference the end of a name does make:

Theodore: cute, teddy-bear like person, could be English, definitely wears a waistcoat.

Theophile: drives a white van, drinks vodka from a syringe, sweats a lot.

HIGHLY intellectual musings aside, I quite enjoyed this little homage to narcotics and alcohol written in the early 19th century. Baudelaire and Gautier both wrote extensively on their experiences with hash and opium in particular and both were members of the Club of Assassins. Detailed sketchily in the book (everything is a bit sketchy, most of it was written while they were stoned or drunk), the Club of Assassins was a little group of men who used to meet on Ile St Louis in Paris and get stoned together. They then used to go home and write or paint about the effects they had experienced.

I picked this up for the title and who wouldn't? I am well-versed in the effects of wine, but opium has never been offered up at any of the parties I've gone to (actually most of the time the most potent thing offered up is a vodka watermelon, and that's on a REALLY wild night) and I giggled to think of 19th century philosophers in knickerbockers smoking joints, thus I felt this was a necessary purchase.

The book was informative as well as amusing... I learnt that these dudes used to cook the hash with butter, pistachio nuts, almonds and honey to form a kind of jam "similar to apricot conserve". YUM. Sounds delish, I could even do without the hallucinogen to be honest. It's like... baklava jam! GENIUS.

I also learnt that the word 'assassin' is actually derived from the Arabic 'hasishin', which means to be under the influence of drugs. Assassins in Persia were fed drugs before they killed. Interesting non?

Last lesson I learnt from this book- If you work with children (sigh, as I do), do not leave this lying around your place of work. The only thing worse to leave around is Dead Babies.

Rating: 7/10.

And The Hippos Were Boiled In Their Tanks (William S. Burroughs & Jack Kerouac)

To the Kerouac/Burroughs/Beat fans out there - you have got to read this book. And The Hippos Were Boiled In Their Tanks, written in 1945, is Kerouac before On The Road, Burroughs before Naked Lunch. It is so cool.

Burroughs and Kerouac write as 'Will Dennison' and 'Mike Ryko' respectively, telling the story of the Kammerer/Carr murder. (David Kammerer - obsessed with Lucien Carr, Lucien Carr - kills David Kammerer. Kerouac and Burroughs know about it and don't tell police). This murder has been described as 'the murder which gave birth to the Beats', and in Hippos you get to read about it (in a fictionalised-ish form) from Burroughs and Kerouac themselves. You can't tell me you're not excited by that prospect.

This is another one of those read-for-atmosphere-rather-than-plot books, specifically a constantly drunk, 1940s New York atmosphere. You don't read this book as the mystery it is sold as... in fact if you picked it up expecting a mystery you would be seriously disappointed - the killing of Ramsay Allen (Kammerer) happens in one of the last chapters, followed not by any kind of sleuthing, but a confession from Phillip Tourain (Carr) and a couple of dark dark chapters of aimless drinking.

The book remained unpublished until November last year, as Lucien Carr requested it not be released until after he died. Because of this you experience Kerouac/Burroughs' writing in reverse, you get tantalizing glimpses of the writers which they became.

Added tidbit - the book was supposedly named after a line heard in a radio broadcast about a fire in a zoo (although some say circus) and sparked a lively conversation between my housemates and I about Worse Ways To Die Than By Boiling (for example being eaten alive by ants).

8/10