Ever had the feeling that the characters were too big for the story?
I haven’t read much of Gaiman’s work, and my sentiments after reading this book is...moreEver had the feeling that the characters were too big for the story?
I haven’t read much of Gaiman’s work, and my sentiments after reading this book is probably something familiar among his fans, but in reading The Graveyard Book, I could not help but have this niggling feeling that we were only being shown teasing glimpses of the promise behind each character.
Naturally, I think a lot of people will agree that the story will be far less interesting were it not for the mystery that is Silas.
Actually, all I really want to talk about is Silas.
And how badly I wish there’s a separate story about him. And the Honour Guard. And how he lived before being part of the Honour Guard. And how he and Miss Lupescu and Kandar and Haroun slew evil as the Honour Guard.
But if I were to solely focus on this book, then I suppose I can say that Gaiman was successful if his goal was to instill restlessness among his readers long after they have turned the last page. Because I definitely wanted more out of his characters. The Sleer? Definitely more. The ghouls? For certain. Even the Jacks.
Added to that is the conflict I felt towards Bod and his own conflict over his home and his wanderlust. The moments when he felt more comfortable being ignored while attending school were the times I liked him best. While him wanting more interaction with live humans made me side-eye him a bit. And yet I envy him having the hutzpah to go after his desire to travel the world. See? I’m confused.
I ramble on.
This has been an engrossing read. I should have said that from the first. But yes, I enjoyed this story.
Hellboy gone deliciously jaw-dropping (with a friggin’ medical degree, to boot) and a bad-ass slayer with hang-ups she doesn’t even know would require...moreHellboy gone deliciously jaw-dropping (with a friggin’ medical degree, to boot) and a bad-ass slayer with hang-ups she doesn’t even know would require a shrink (and no, it’s not the I-can’t-have-orgasm-oh-kill-me-now thingie)…
[FYI, Dr. Dreamy has brothers, too. No guesses needed on how they look. Dayum!]
Okay, so perhaps the only beef I have with this first installment is his name. Resorting to calling him “E” felt too much like BDB to me (and I kinda wanted those guys to remain just the tiniest bit untouchable, so…).
No wonder even Hellboy began to sound endearing. Not that terribly original, true, but it definitely beats having to say (or, as it applies during mind-numbing sex, hoarsely shout) the slightly tongue-twisting-inducing “Eidolon”.
I appreciate ms Ione for bringing in a new paranormal romance series that is not reliant on fangs jutting out at the slightest whiff of blood, gorgeous hunk of men that unfortunately cannot show off their fabulousity out in broad daylight (no sparklies, ¡por favor!), or those same men having to make regular body checks with either werewolves or their own breed who have gone rogue.
Sure, the whole premise of “Demons” actually being just as sane, dysfunctional, and, for some of them, possibly having a garish affinity for all things perky and pink (a crazier version of Acheron’s Simi?) as humans is perhaps TMI at first take. Having to be acquainted with their staggeringly complex demon classifications might just also take some getting used to. (As I type this, a pulsing, writhing mound of big, fat maggots just popped in mind.
Please… uhm… a moment…)
Okay. Sod it. I’m just damned glad that it’s not a rehashed plot.
So, yeah, I’m gonna put up with the concept of S’genesis, the intricacies of breeding between different kinds of demons and between demons and humans, the apparently blatant exhibitionist and philandering behavior of demonkind, and the vague dynamics of ‘bonding’.
The Aegis slayer Tayla’s slow incorporation into the world of demons and the soul-searching she is forced to go through in trying to ‘see’ these ‘monstrous’ foes in a new light were sketchy at times. Rightfully, she should have been expeditiously dispatched once she has accidentally infiltrated the not-at-all-awkwardly-named UGH premises. Her job as a demon-slayer should have been enough impetus for Hellboy and Co. to make sure she doesn’t live to tattle. I mean, c’mon, just this one time, shouldn’t the safety and secrets of their own brethren weigh more than whatever good Tayla’s existence might indirectly provide?
But heck, that’s just it. Hellboy and Co. are a different breed of demons. They have principles. And… and… honor. Even a dash of mercy. And, god help me, humor.
They may get cranky, they may all be ingrained with the fine art of slicing and dicing, they may have a fine thirst for revenge and gore, but it turns out that they have no hankering for any megalomaniac soul-sucking world domination, and that, indeed, just like humans, they feel that life is shitty enough as it is and that Beelzebub himself is more of a bogeyman than anything else.
Personally, this first installment is probably best enjoyed for its novelty in the overall idea, but not necessarily in the particular goings-on between Eido—pardon, Hellboy and Tayla. Sure, the sex is nice (that first mindless sexual foray inside the hospital pretty much outshone the rest, no?), but more often than not, it was the escalating tension (unfounded or no) between the Demons and The Aegis that made centerstage.
Am not exactly sure if that is a good thing or not. No, I’m really undecided about it. I mean it’s good that it’s not a sexcapade every 10 pages or so – even though that looked to be the likely possibility given the off-the-charts chemistry between Hellboy and Tayla – but neither did I relish having their relationship gain momentum only in the last quarter or so of the novel.
Or maybe it’s just me.
Seriously, though, for the lulz of it all, I would recommend this start to this new series. I’ll just have to see with the next book if this new line of paranormal romance is worth cozying up to ‘til the end. (less)
Funny, indeed. Just not that terribly hilarious...
Me Talk Pretty... is yet another reason why it's a really bad idea to have inflated expectations abo...moreFunny, indeed. Just not that terribly hilarious...
Me Talk Pretty... is yet another reason why it's a really bad idea to have inflated expectations about a work of fiction.
Well, bad idea for me, anyway.
I picked Sedaris shortly after having read an Augusten Burroughs. That was 4 years ago (I think). Back then, I was optimistic in the hopes of finding another author with that knack for self-mockery coupled with acerbic wit and a distinct lack of care about giving a fig on what others thought. Plus...not coming on as someone who tries to be funny, but...is...just...is.
Indeed, he doesn't even have to be gay. (I didn't want to think that only gay men can have the monopoly on dysfunctional prose – where would that leave the rest of us poor sods?)
Seriously – I thought those expectations of mine were pretty shallow. Bordering on predictable if not totally taken for granted.
And so, 4 years (or so) ago, I opened Me Talk Pretty... and braced myself to be swept away by the comic stylings of yet another funny author.
Two chapters later and I slammed the book shut. I can't believe it. I was bored.
A few years on and it remained shut. And I began to feel miffed with the idea that I may be cheating myself. Who knows? Sedaris' sensibilities may be different from Burroughs'. But that doesn't automatically mean it's bad.
So I reread those first 2 chapters, armed with an admittedly sketchy vow to soldier on. No matter what happens. My criteria were still the same. But I held onto them with a markedly less white-gripped tenacity.
Sure enough, there were funny moments in this book. Jesus Shaves and Picka Pocketoni I liked. Really liked. There are a few things I love more than indulging in a fantasy wherein other people are as discomfited, neurotic, and hassled as I've been when I was among people who spoke a different tongue.
Otherwise, Sedaris' chronicles of his crystal meth days, his stint as a glorified furniture mover and assistant to a volatile South American, and forays into being an inglorious college professor were somewhat negligible. Oftentimes, it felt as if the humor was being forced.
There's a sense of affectation particularly when he was in his 'artist' phase – and no amount of excuse as being a drug addict back then may be enough to compensate for the odd behavior expected of someone under the influence. Because, yes, he was odd during his days as a user, but the accompanying exploits were hardly...uhmm...funny.
Hence, the 3 stars. Good thing this was bought from a secondhand bookshop. Else I'd be really really depressed. Maybe I'd need another 4 years (or so) before I could give another Sedaris book a try... (less)
I didn’t understand half of it! Haha! But that brief experience was still enjoyable :)
I know I’m commenting on this piece of work from a biased perspe...moreI didn’t understand half of it! Haha! But that brief experience was still enjoyable :)
I know I’m commenting on this piece of work from a biased perspective (am a Fab Four fan…and proud of it, babe ;-) ), so if that’s not gonna help…don’t bother reading on…
Am always have been in awe of Lennon – with and post-McCartney, his musical intellect is undeniable. Added to that awe is a smidgen of a feeling of intimidation. Video footage of live interviews as well as chronicles of people who were, in some way, part of the Beatles entourage back then rarely fail to give proof of his acerbic and sarcastic sensibilities.
And then there are his bouts of spastic facial and bodily movements in front of the camera, deliberately garbled half-mutterings, and forays into puns (i.e. “Hi, I’m John, and I, too, play the guitar; sometimes I play the fool…”).
In His Own Write is yet another proof of his unique sense of humor – a blending of bits of satire, the macabre, and the eminently whimsical.
But what really makes this little book stand out (besides the iconic drawings), is his twists of phrases and words (and letters within words) which allude to some quite-mad ramblings, but actually make sense… In a way, this could be a sort of evidence on how differently “wired” he may have been compared to most people.
Examples (btw, emphases mine):
(from At the Denis)
“Sir: Sly down in that legchair Madam and open your gorble wide – your mouse is all but toothless […:] Everydobby knows there are foor decisives two canyons and ten grundies, which make thirsty two in all.”
(from Nicely Nicely Clive)
“To have and to harm…till death duty part…he knew it all by hertz. Clive Barrow seemed oblivious. Roger could visualize Anne in her flowing weddy drag, being wheeled up the aisle, smiling a blessing. He had butterfield in his stomarce as he fastened his bough tie and brushed his hairs…”
(from Unhappy Frank)
“ ‘Don’t like that chair one bit,’ he showbedy. ‘Just look at that garbet all filby and durby. How am I supposed to look affaffter all this garby ruddish. Wart am I but a slave tow look upon with deesekfrebit all the peegle larfing and buzing me in front of all the worled. How can I but garry on?’…”
My favorite bits are I Sat Belonely, Sad Michael, and The Fat Growth on Eric Hearble.
Half of the time, of course (as I’ve said), I don’t have a clue as to what he’s saying. His Liverpudlian sense of humor and slang is often lost on me. Which, of course, shouldn’t be a problem to those who are familiar with it. In my case, I guess that was just the only thing hampering me from totally enjoying it. Otherwise, it’s a nice way to pass the time – you ponder first the words, and then what the hell he’s saying…
All I can say (belatedly) is that part of the humor here is going to be an acquired taste. And if that means having to read In His Own Write again and again, well, then, is that so bad?
My reaction to this novel is skewed, I admit. I was not able to give it due attention befitting of any work...more If he’s a wallflower, then I’m a dust mote.
My reaction to this novel is skewed, I admit. I was not able to give it due attention befitting of any work of literature: after reaching the halfway point, I just stashed it back onto the shelf and decided to finish it for some other time.
And, of course, when I did deign to pick up where I left off, I knew I already lost the momentum of what Chbosky was trying to convey.
And that’s the crux of the matter: the fact that I was only able to bring myself to finish this after a…sabbatical, so to speak, speaks loudly of what I really felt about this story.
The young ‘Charlie’’s forays into the painful, sublime, befuddling, and intense world of adolescence is a bit of a stereotype—in the sense that the imageries evoked by the author are not that radically different from those that I have seen in Hollywood high-school movies (whether it’s authentic or not need not be duly problematized): there is always the jock, the artsy, bohemian clique, the mousy spectacled-girl, the pretentious do-gooder, the depressed misanthrope, and other personas making up that stage of the teenage ‘drama’.
I agree with some of the reviews stating that the lead character is not really a wallflower. In my opinion, ‘Charlie’ is just exceptionally observant, with a healthy level of genuine curiosity and introspection I barely find in people nowadays (whatever ‘introspection’ people churn out are really more often for the sake of having something to ‘blog’ about in order to reaffirm a sense of individuality. Nothing wrong with that…but some ‘online thoughts’ do seem pretentious in others).
Anyway, I did feel a little cheated by the novel. I consider myself a wallflower (and perhaps one could understand if I’d rather not go into the embarrassing details) that’s why I was excited about reading this book—I thought I would be able to form a sense of affinity with ‘Charlie’, to discover the ‘’perks’’ touted by the title, if any.
But then, of course, he’s not really ‘outside’ of what is deemed the active ‘experiencing’ of life. He is actually brought into the fold of the ‘infinite’—with ‘Patrick’ and ‘Sam’ he is able to experience a plethora of emotions—without having to take a step back into the shadows in order to blend with the woodwork.
He became at times drunk with heady giddiness, or morose with excruciating guilt, and sometimes simply patently confused with the boy-girl shenanigans that preoccupy the average teen’s waking hours. Certainly, of course, the bit of popularity he earned well into the story, as well as the dramas that unfolded with him at the epicenter, are not symptomatic of someone who lived his life with his back stuck perpetually to the wall, watching everybody else cut a rug out in the middle of the floor.
And so, to (belatedly) make a story short, I was not that engaged with the story. There really was nothing striking or new about it—teenage dystopia is practically a transient rite of passage, whether experienced in seclusion or with a group. The homosexuality and sexual practices of ‘Patrick’, the drinking bouts and drug-laced sessions of the ‘infinite’ trio, and whatever other highs or lows explored in this novel that are so controversial to so many readers…should really not be all that surprising. However, I am not saying that this is the norm, or something that should just be tolerated. But it is the unflinching reality in many places in modern societies.
I really did not feel uplifted in any significant way after turning the last page. Hence, I found difficulty in what the author was trying to convey to me. If his overall message was profound or infinitely inspirational to you, then all well and good.
In my case, I was unsure if Chbosky was simply getting in line with the countless other writers or artists who tried to give concrete form (read here as a piece of writing) to societal reality. Or was he simply depicting (again, like so many others) nothing more than another instance of teenage life seen through the eyes of someone purported to be an introvert? Or was the message really only at the end: that despite the shitty things in life, sometimes the only thing that one needs is to ride the back of a speeding pickup truck and feel the rush of wind on one’s face.
And that whatever tears are shed while speeding down that road are simply the same ones that have cleansed one’s soul.
What I did enjoy in the novel are the bits of practical curiosities ‘Charlie’ asked himself (and told the unnamed recipient of his letters) as he observed his family and friends. These observations were so simple and familiar that I did ask myself at times, "why indeed?"
And, of course, there were the Beatles tunes the author was kind enough to pay homage to.
Pretty funny at some points. Outrageous at most (that I really hesitated tagging it as a 'nonfiction'.)
Yes, sure, this whole "I'm the man" chronicles...morePretty funny at some points. Outrageous at most (that I really hesitated tagging it as a 'nonfiction'.)
Yes, sure, this whole "I'm the man" chronicles is a somewhat juvenile stab at the stupidity that some women display over relationships and the apparently more-than-occasional sex with strangers, not to mention the ridiculous delusions that some guys have about sex; but the charm (and I do use the word sparingly) that I Hope They Serve Beer has is its blatant self-mockery, as well.
Some people just need to lighten up.
It's not as if the author has claimed that this book is 'high' literature.
If this book offends some justified sensibility, then it has accomplished its goal. That's what every author wants: to provoke and incite reaction.
That being said, I'm hardly a fan of this Tucker Max. Deep down I know that I'd still cut a wide berth between myself and this guy. Especially if I see him with a beer can in his hand.
As well, there are loads of segments in this book that were repetitive--boisterous behavior during excessive drinking and vomiting bouts after, yes, excessive drinking. It does get old after some time, that one can skip those and hardly miss anything.
And the tendency of the author to narrate some of his sex/escapades thru minute-by-minute logs is too unrealistic to be taken at face value. One can hardly believe that in the midst of his "Tucker Max Drunk" stage he still had the capacity to note the second hand of the clock in order to recount it in a book. So...his claims of near-mindless inebriation are either a lot of hoo-ha or he was apparently not that drunk in the first place.
A story is a story is a story. It's his prerogative if he wants to embellish his 'memoirs.'
For me personally, this book provided a bit of easy reading when I've got nothing to do for a time. I don't feel cheated by spending reading hours on it. It's simple, shallow entertainment. And if it did make me laugh at some parts, then I'd take it as a perk.(less)
…By highlighting the contradictions in the notions of citizenship, ‘locality,’ marginality, and self-representation, Tsing challenges the wider concep...more…By highlighting the contradictions in the notions of citizenship, ‘locality,’ marginality, and self-representation, Tsing challenges the wider conceptions of the ‘Other.’…
(excerpt from a paper critique:)
In the Realm of the Diamond Queen is a difficult one for me to get through. To the extent that a re-reading is an absolute requirement.
In doing so, I was again struck by the elegant complexity and depth of exposition Tsing has laid out in her study of ‘marginalization.’ So much so, in fact, that I had difficulty anchoring on one topic which I could just about attempt to expound on. To understate it, I felt quite…piddling…even from the first few pages of this book. And that did not improve much 100 pages later. I have to confess that I have had to go over a number of segments repeatedly in the hopes of making her argument sink in. In a sense, Diamond Queen is something I feel I could only be relatively equipped to handle after I have had at least 2 years’ worth of being entrenched in ethnographic literature.
…The degree of impression Diamond Queen left on me is particularly suggestive: ‘marginality,’ at first glance, is a ‘feature’ I have taken to be simply straightforward. I considered it as a well-demarcated and -defined product of the intersection of history and the ecology, with the subsequent emergence of a ‘core’ ideology later impacting more distinctively on the existence of this ‘space at the margins.’ In addition, I have understood those at the margins to be in a perpetual conflict or resistance with the center; at most, with a prevailing active animosity over the status quo.
Tsing unflinchingly disabused me of that notion.
As she has shown in the study of the Meratus, marginality is more than an awareness of a territory (with or without physical boundaries) characterized as ‘removed from’ the political, cultural, and economic core. What I used to apprehend as a dialectical relationship actually finds complexity among the Meratus and their association with the state.
By showing how certain Meratus place themselves within and beyond the state’s peripheral and dismissive gaze, Tsing reveals the nuances that underlie Meratus personhood.
Among others is an ostensibly circuitous provenance that bring to mind a sort of Catch-22: the Meratus leaders are clamoring for state recognition and citizenship. The state then informs them to advocate certain ‘civilized’ comportment (like literacy), while retaining formulations of ethnic identity (249) under the auspices of ‘ethnic pluralism.’ But since national ideology compartmentalizes the Meratus as an ‘out-of-the-way’ people, whose (inaccurately) ‘nomadic’ nature (to name a few) suspend them in the static hold of pre-history, they are, as a result, consigned to their current circumstance. They are physically ‘out-of-the-way’ (and figuratively stay that way) because their settlement areas are so far removed from the tolerable reaches of state intervention that hardly any official bothers to look their way long enough to understand their culture or way of thinking. Hence, Meratus claims for consideration of acknowledged citizenship remain overlooked.
Tsing goes on to provide tangible evidence of this ambivalence. And this is where, in my opinion, Diamond Queen subtly but strongly latches onto my rather mystified engagement. Despite the pitiful frequency with which I become entangled in the author’s juxtaposition of Meratus ethnicity and state ideology, I cannot help but appreciate Tsing’s interpretation of Meratus social and political actions as negotiated maneuvers that are invoked to appease national policies of assimilation while simultaneously embedded in traditional or localized ideals of Meratus personhood.
Such performative actions, then, reflect contingent, contradictory, and shifting self-identities which are still strangely effective in maintaining, if not in justifying, ethnic beliefs and traditions. It is in these practices that the Meratus obviates stereotypes of a passive, impotent minority.
...For what it is worth, I have a high regard for the Diamond Queen; but there have also been segments in her narrative that come across as incongruous (like the bulk of her discussion on ‘Conditions of Living’), if not quite superfluous. The interesting thing is that she shows the marginality of the Meratus through largely episodic snapshots experienced by only a handful of people, most of which ‘stand out’ (even if Tsing assiduously claims otherwise) from the ‘average’ Meratus. If this is just another way for her to underscore the highly polemical and irresolute nature of marginality and Meratus identity, then she has succeeded in this regard...(less)
…In recalling my reading of the author’s vignettes, it appears that he has dearth of representative informants—the bul...more(excerpt from a paper critique:)
…In recalling my reading of the author’s vignettes, it appears that he has dearth of representative informants—the bulk of his life histories were culled from bakla who have come from urbanized centers of the Philippines, living relatively well-to-do lives. As such, motivations among them for going abroad may be attributed to a longing for a change in lifestyle or social scene, or to assuage an emotional/romantic void. I suppose what I am trying to put across is not hard to guess—is the primary motivation of wanting to a earn higher salary for one’s self and one’s family, which is the driving force among other diasporic Filipinos, not a priority for some of the Filipino bakla? I am aware that my query is very leading, but it is difficult for me not to think about that, since more and more Filipinos nowadays do indeed prefer to go abroad in order to find better jobs (read as higher paying jobs). The possibility of living a chic lifestyle seems to be a reality attainable only after one has had months of earning that high salary (the primary goal).
But, really, among the Filipino bakla, what are the immediate as well as deep-seated motivations? Is it just to escape the chokehold of family? Is it to forge a blazing path of biyuti abroad? Or is it a growing disillusionment of what their Inang Bayan is turning out to be?
Or perhaps I am simply going too far, and there is really just that one obvious motivation that is universal to all Filipino immigrants: money. If this is so, then there is a marked disjointedness in the author’s narrative; his Global Divas came to New York and, except for a chosen few singled out as the breadwinners of the family back home, these Filipino bakla were portrayed as sometimes single-minded in the pursuit of that white, masculine male lover in the midst of contesting identities with other foreign gays.
Furthermore, the heavy focus on the middle-class bakla, signifying a neglect of the ‘inner screaming queens’ from other sectors of Philippine society, makes for a narrative with a somewhat hollow ring to it, as if a vital part has gone missing from deep within the recesses. Understandable, of course, as ethnographies are always value-laden and biased for a certain ‘gaze,’ no matter what the well-meaning agenda might be. But an explicit statement beforehand concerning the demography of one’s unit of analysis could certainly help matters.
Just as interesting of note is how Manalansan somehow depreciates notions of race as an issue in the Philippines (56). Though not as prevalent nowadays, other nationalities (and even other ‘native’ ethnolinguistic groups) in the country used to be sources of amusement, if not outright ridicule, among Filipinos: from Indians, Chinese, to Koreans.
My point is that racism is not a discourse benignly brushed aside in the Philippines, and saying otherwise precludes providing an adequate explanation for the predilection of Filipino bakla in NY to cater to only certain foreign ‘masculine males.’ Manalansan’s book is rich in giving snippets of racism not just from the white gays but also from among the Filipino bakla. However, the reason for this behavior takes on an ‘out-of-thin-air’ aspect coming from the author’s threadbare mention of any sort of racism rising from the homeland.(less)
I’m sure other readers would have more flattering things to say about this new paranormal series (well, new for me...morePassably good, fairly entertaining.
I’m sure other readers would have more flattering things to say about this new paranormal series (well, new for me anyway); but coming on the heels of The Black Dagger Brotherhood, The Dark-Hunters, and even the Dark Carpathians series, not to mention a few more other vampire-romance titles dizzyingly vying for space on bookshelves by up-and-coming authors and even from established ones who have succumbed to the popularity of the genre (like Medeiros, Dodd, and Sands), Lara Adrian’s The Midnight Breed, in my opinion (for what it’s worth), faces a veritable burden. And that is of needing to have something spectacularly jolting and provoking for it to steal the attention of an ever-widening audience who may already be over-saturated with this popular culture of vampire-slash-paranormal romance.
Frustratingly enough, even though the last BDB I have read was over a year ago (hence, should have dulled my memories of it), Adrian’s Midnight Breed felt so much like it. And sad to say, not *really* in a good way.
Frankly, it felt a little bit like a pale version of Ward’s.
From the tech-gizmo Gideon (who acts a bit like Vishous), the brooding Tegan (who, surprise-surprise, felt and sounded a bit like Zsadist), to even the warrior-leader Lucan (who felt like…guess-who), the Breed Warriors might as well have been the next-door neighbors of the Black Dagger Brothers, regularly coming over to swap secrets of the trade…except that they (the former) come off less like a close-knit family and more like a small corporation with members just conscripted for the job. At its extreme…they sound a bit…uhm…well…boring. Just a tad, mind.
When I read over what I have been saying so far, it sounds so harsh and wholly unfair, I know. But I think that is precisely the pernicious nature of a reading audience—especially romance readers. We are a sensitive, even fickle, lot. And for authors to earn (and keep) our adulation, they have to continually, aggressively feed our need for fascination and novelty.
Adrian’s series somewhat fails me on that score. The plot of a band of vampires rounding off their kind who have become renegade, as well as humans who have been brain-washed by the latter is not terribly original. Dress it up in as many other nouns as you could—“rogue,” “fallen,” “daimons,” “lessers,” etc.—unless the storyline jumps out at you in a fresh way, these characters would ultimately run the risk of sounding just like any other personas from other books.
Certainly, however, this series does not deserve to be unconditionally written-off. I can personally vouch it to be better than other vampire novels which have lame plotlines and ridiculously over-the-top premises (you can understand if I’d rather not name them—I’m doing enough damage to this one author, I think). In fact, what could be a different ingredient in this series, and may even be lauded by those who wish to have the “formula” twisted, is that the male protagonists are not “heroes” or “protectors” of the human race.
There. Stew on that =)
Anyway, if you are really seeking a large dose of knee-weakening, envy-inducing romantic shenanigans, this book could probably be relegated to the lower rungs of one’s “to-buy/read” books.
Read it for entertainment but not much more. It’s not a regrettable I-wish-to-god-I-never-picked-this-book-up kind of story, but neither does it make you overly drool, pant, hanker, and itch to grab the next installment…which I’ve experienced before.
Oh, shoot. Too much info? *runs off in shame* (less)
How to keep sane? Stop stressing about these titles...
Barrow’s account does not presume to tell the whole story. Implicit from the first page is an un...moreHow to keep sane? Stop stressing about these titles...
Barrow’s account does not presume to tell the whole story. Implicit from the first page is an understanding that the reader has read at least one ‘comprehensive’ biography so that one could keep up with what part of the Beatles’ professional history as a band is being tackled (and yes, Barrow does shift timelines from time to time). Of course, whether or not the events he deigns to talk about are factual is going to be always a matter of debate in these kinds of things.
Still, I did enjoy his story as the PR of the band. It would always be refreshing to have another point of view from someone who dealt differently with the Beatles—even if only for a brief period of time. Without going into too meticulous a detail so as to not reveal the tricks of the trade, Barrow depicts how promoting an act in the 60s was often led by sheer luck, risky yet imaginative efforts, a flair for flamboyance and exaggeration, and a truly intimate rapport with the wider world of the press.
The way Barrow bridged the gap between the Fab Four and the often initially-skeptical (and, in my opinion, seemingly gullible and hugely repetitive, yet still quite honorable) media people of London and of America is a revelation in and of itself. Though may be considered trivial or incredulous as compared to the way PR is being done nowadays, Barrow’s simple but practical ideas of facilitating one-on-one telephone/radio/face-to-face interviews, press conferences, and photo shoots are especially noteworthy, particularly in light of the fact that the Beatles had an unprecedented shot to fame that made the press ravenous and willing to have whatever little piece of each Fab Four they could get (never mind if the ‘boys’ inevitably got disdainful of the shallow and oft-repeated inane questions posed on them).
What is commendable, if his word is to be taken, is that Barrow was careful to respect both sides, knowing how important it was to keep the press (and, of course, the fan base) inundated with little tidbits about the band without compromising the image of the latter.
It was also interesting to finally have someone place names to obscure people who have formed part of the band’s periphery at the height of Beatlemania, like other promoters, press agents, photographers, and magazine editors. It is here, too (at least in my experience), that Barrow lays out what really went on in the tumultuous events of the 1966 world tour. The depth of dangers encountered in both Tokyo and Manila were given more detail than in the past accounts I have read. And, lest I forget, there was also the historic-yet-hazy Elvis-Beatles meet-up. Now that was a mindbender.
For those alone, I really am glad to have found this book.
Don’t be too harsh to disparage this book, just because it may feel (or, in fact is) incomplete. Barrow’s work with the band was not like Neil Aspinall’s in that it was almost literally from beginning to end. Indeed, it is with Barrow’s distinct footing with, and entry to, the Beatles’ entourage that his accounts are a little more straightforward than most, expressing candidness that often pierced thru the ‘public’ persona each Beatle projected to the world. As one of the people that had to work closely with the press, Barrow was afforded a different lens with which to apprehend events, cutting through all the shenanigans of kowtowing, the indulgences and excesses of suddenly-rich pop acts, and the politics that wound from Epstein to the other people at NEMS, among others.
For myself, I consider this account as a supplement, something that gives another dimension to the already-rich (and convoluted) Beatles story.
Basically what I am saying is, yes, this is worth the read. (less)
I’m telling myself, as I pulled Bob Spitz’s The Beatles: The Biography off the bookstore shelf, that reading yet another Beatles book is superfluous....moreI’m telling myself, as I pulled Bob Spitz’s The Beatles: The Biography off the bookstore shelf, that reading yet another Beatles book is superfluous. I mean, what else could possibly be new? And I’m not saying that because I consider myself a Beatles expert.
pfft…hardly.
But there is the cynicism that, unless the author had a place in that coveted inner-sanctum of the FabFour, there really couldn’t be any other tidbit that can be dished out that hasn’t been told in the past 3 or 4 books I’ve read.
And YET, as I turned the first page, the excitement began to mount. And I soon realized that no matter how may people have written about the Beatles, no matter how much and how many times their story has been rehashed and retold, it is, after all, a story of the Beatles. And, for me, their incredible journey never fails to fascinate.
If you think I’m overrating the Beatles, then sod off… *cackling an evil laugh*
Details (and inaccuracies) aside, Bob Spitz’s work is actually quite remarkable. His narrative finds engagement under his lyrical and sometimes dramatic prose. Rather than simply telling the story of how John and Paul met, how the band performed in Hamburg, or how Epstein forged an empire under the shadows of the band’s fame, Spitz ‘situates’ the stories, lending color and even feel to the events (notables are his depiction of pre-Beatles Liverpool, the hotbed that was the Reeperbahn, the ominous Marcos ‘snub,’ the “bigger than Jesus” controversy, and the Paul and Linda meeting).
Certainly, of course, these are already very familiar stories to some people. But under Spitz’s pen, the familiar becomes quite unfamiliar—whereas, in the past books I’ve read, a Beatles anecdote was told in a matter-of-fact way, Spitz creates a new spin on things by making me feel like I’m in the same room, studio, or car where events are unfolding. In ‘setting the stage’ by giving a seemingly palpable atmosphere of texture, sound, and light, he enchants a fan by making a faraway encounter come off as deeply personal.
And surprisingly, there were new things I’ve learned about the band (Beatlemaniacs hold off your snort of disdain): their first recording ‘session’ as the Quarrymen, the many kept-under-wraps Lennon rants and rages; Lennon’s close-door reaction to the ‘bigger than Jesus’ debacle, the darker side of Epstein (and sorry, I have not yet read any Epstein biography, so…), and even how a Beatle felt about the many people who tried to get through the airtight Beatles bubble. Some were shocking, while others still were saddening (particularly when it all came apart).
My verdict (such as it is)? Read it.
Sure, there are LOTS of inaccuracies. Really die-hard fans will surely call out for Spitz’s blood. Credibility probably took a backstage in favor of making *his* FabFour story more thrilling than some. So, an advice would be to just read more Beatles biographies. It’s not a difficult suggestion to follow, surely.
Regardless of how many times something about a public persona has been told (particularly if there were 4 of them), either truthfully or otherwise, it just becomes a matter of comprehending how different people ‘see’ the Beatles and accepting the fact that no one can ever really come close to knowing who these four ‘lads from Liverpool’ really were.
The only comfort is the music they’ve left behind. And you know how that is…
As far as consolations go, that isn’t so bad. (less)
…Ever since I picked up my first Beatles biography-slash-memoir, I always felt that there was a side to their...moreThis is the book that I was waiting for…
…Ever since I picked up my first Beatles biography-slash-memoir, I always felt that there was a side to their story that was missing. And Emerick’s accounts filled that void.
The fact that this book takes the point of view of someone who was with the band at their most essential—their music—is enough to merit this a place on any fan’s shelf.
More important for me, though, was the fact that Emerick provided yet another insight (and often, a totally different and unexpected one, at that) on the 4 guys that were the Beatles. Just when I thought that I might finally have an inkling as to who John, Paul, George, and Ringo really are (or were), Emerick reveals (whether accurately or not, who knows) the ineptitude of Lennon on the basics of sound recording, Harrison’s near-embarrassing incompetence on guitars during the earlier band albums, and Ringo’s apparent mulishness in his more private moments. On McCartney, Emerick is blatantly biased for…he loves the guy.
Of course, I suppose I needn’t be surprised. Different people impact on different Beatles members, and different circumstances (say, touring across the globe vs being ensconced in the EMI Studios) would inevitably impel a different side of a Beatle to show. There’s something to be said for seeing how the band works when it’s time to do their voodoo—and Emerick’s stories of the often zany and challenging, or utterly aggravating and tension-filled (but definitely never boring) Beatles studio sessions are every fan’s wet dream.
The great music that churned out from EMI studios like that of Revolver, Sgt. Pepper, and their swan song Abbey Road, among others, would then be seen as a combination of artistry (both from the side of the band and of the engineer & producer), providence, as well as unmitigated accident…with a smattering of intended flukes that were nothing more than secret jokes played for their listeners.
Whatever may be the case, Emerick’s stories are to be treasured—it tells of how, as a sound engineer, he was pushed to his creative limits as a response to the unceasing fervor of the band to raise the bar for themselves, expecting nothing less from the people who handle their music.
Half the time, of course, I don’t even understand the technicalities that Emerick spouts about…but it doesn’t matter. What really mattered to me is finally having someone show me how the band members forged musical history as they crowded about a mic, or tinkered about in a piano, guitar, or synthesizer, or how they showed their vulnerabilities by eventually inevitably drifting apart from one another, to the point that they literally could not stand each other’s presence for long periods of time.
This insider look at the Beatles recording at the height of their career is a must-read. Certainly, as the the New York Times Book Review states, this book will irresistibly pull readers back to listening to these well-loved songs...straining their ears to hear those tell-tale sounds, clicks, and echoes that told hidden stories and marked a revolution in music.(less)
A bit difficult to continue on reading at some parts. (Somehow, sometimes, the 3 stories of these 3 women acquire the feeling of being saturated that...moreA bit difficult to continue on reading at some parts. (Somehow, sometimes, the 3 stories of these 3 women acquire the feeling of being saturated that one needs to take a break to digest all that was happening.) Was also a bit predictable at some level—while some events (especially in the lives of Gemma and of Lily) felt like they gave way to the burden of instilling some kind of happy-ending-for-all—that some twists in the middle of their lives were put on to scramble things about for the sake of a storyline, but in the end, it seemed that the author just said, “Ahh…blimey…lemme put things back in order.”
Still, there were precious moments of feeling and lightheartedness that made this novel a joy to read. The snappy, comic dialogues and mannerisms of Gemma, Jojo, and even Lily, as well as the other characters (Ema is such a darling), make them feel genuine people—the kind that you’d really want to get to know just a tad bit further. (less)
With Bramwell, psych yourself up for some juicy tidbits…
*bytheway, for fans of Yoko Ono, it’d probably be advisable to overlook this book. Or maybe no...moreWith Bramwell, psych yourself up for some juicy tidbits…
*bytheway, for fans of Yoko Ono, it’d probably be advisable to overlook this book. Or maybe not…your call =) *
*also, one may opt to read other Beatles chronicles first…just to be a little bit more familiar.*
A lot of people who have written memoirs about their experience with the Beatles are almost always touted to be the “ones who were there”; the people “who knew what really happened behind the scenes.” Since I’ve barely read more than a couple of books written by those supposedly belonging to the Beatles sphere, I find myself not quite ready to trust what I read—were they really “there” when a momentous Beatles event occurred—whether personal or public? Are their accounts the genuine article (read as “firsthand”) that they can really be trusted? Sometimes it seems all too easy to believe that these “memoirs” are just another hodge-podge of widely-researched-and-collected gossips and tabloid articles, as well as a rehashing of secondhand accounts. Who knows…
So, in coming across Tony Bramwell’s account, I really was not that expecting much in the way of stumbling across new info about the band. (I admit, I cannot remember Bramwell’s [or "Tone’s":] name being mentioned much in those books that I have read, and I’m much too lazy to go through those pages again. No offense to Tony’s admirers.) Even so, the front cover splashing McCartney’s vouchsafing for Bramwell’s memory of the band was enough to make me go, “hmmm….let’s see…”
Even from just the first chapter, Bramwell impresses on the reader that his account is definitely different. He exhibits no reluctance in saying, “look, what you have been reading about the Beatles with regards to what happened in this or that is a load of hogwash…’cos THIS is what really happened…” It’s a bit “in-your-face” for me that I was taken aback.
Or maybe I really am green behind the ears regarding this band that what seemed to me as unheard-of accounts by Bramwell are actually old news to die-hard zealots, despite popular belief.
In any case, it didn’t stop me from being titillated.
From setting to rights the real story behind John and Paul’s first “meeting” on that auspicious day, the “fiasco” that was the Decca Auditions, the mystery that was Brian Epstein, the slew of girls that came and went in the Beatles' life, to the "Paul is Dead" rumors, Bramwell lays it all out.
Of course, the reader still gets the feeling that Bramwell is a little bit more prudent regarding some other topics. Either these subjects are really touchy or long-held secrets that he is bound to keep quiet despite wanting to thrill the reader, or his memories are scanty that he makes only a passing remark. In fact, he rarely expounds on the momentous events surrounding Beatlemania…and this is one of the things I was dissatisfied with, including not having written more about the John-Paul-George-Ringo dynamics (hence the 4 stars)—there really were very very few narrations on the more personal relations among the members (the times he has mentioned poor Ringo can even be counted).
But, boy, on those topics that he’s probably waiting to spill the beans on…he definitely makes no bones in keeping back.
And one of those is Yoko Ono.
In fact, his biting tongue (which is actually funny most of the times) comes to the fore whenever Yoko is mentioned. The reader is left with no doubt regarding his feelings for her. Which really surprised me, since this is the first written work I’ve come across that does not hesitate to be acerbic on the Ono-Beatles phenomenon, and with him being close friends with the band and all.
This is one of his first references to her (and arguably the most polite, at that): “We weren’t aware of it at the time—no one was—but she should have come with a warning stuck to her, like a cigarette packet, because gradually, inch by inch, she intruded into our lives.”
Granted, he came out with these writings more than a decade after John died…so I am a bit on the fence…is Bramwell a guy who’s got balls…or not? But then again, Yoko is still around…
On the whole, Bramwell’s accounts on his life around the Beatles were extremely fascinating to read. Although, I would advise others to read the more comprehensive accounts and trivia on the band before this. Bramwell’s stories take for granted that the reader has already a passing familiarity with at least the more popular 411 regarding the FabFour. His stories about meeting the other heavyweights in RockNRoll, Pop, and Hard Rock are added perks. (But really, I *was* salivating still for more insider info on the Beatles [Bramwell, ironically, can still be such a stint regarding them:].)
Still…definitely worth the read! I enjoyed soaking up another person’s insights on the wonder that was the FabFour…(less)
So, I admit to having a smidgen of skepticism when I see a romance story claiming to be paranormal with words like "The Nightw...moreSensational new series!!
So, I admit to having a smidgen of skepticism when I see a romance story claiming to be paranormal with words like "The Nightwalkers,"--I mean, what the heck is new with vampires or even werewolves consorting with hapless humans?? None. They're almost as old as...well...as these supernatural creatures themselves. Er...you get it. The formula's old.
Certainly I was on the verge of saying "oh, no, not another one...sheesh!" when I read the first few passages of Jacob,--it felt too much like Lucian speaking (from Christine Feehan's Dark Guardian), being an enforcer of their species' law and justice and all that. And since Lucian is my favorite supernatural hottie, you can imagine how reluctant I was to be pulled in by another magic-wielding macho. He had better be good.
But then, once the scene shifts to Isabella's POV and her encounter with Jacob (did I mention he's supposedly handsome? No...make that, per Bella, "beautiful."), things start to become interesting. Jacquelyn Frank lays down all the lowdown (sorry, can't help it) on the Demon species. And even the characters of Noah, Elijah, Legna, and Gideon are instantly fascinating.
Though I found Bella's calm acceptance of being embroiled in Jacob's world sketchy at best, her quirky and quick-witted attitude makes her quite adorable to me, despite my better judgment--she's like a less acerbic Anita Blake. Half the time I forget that Bella's supposed to be a wisp of a thing.
And I have nothing but gushing and blushing things to say about Jacob--a true gentleman who thrillingly loses control over the woman he loves, who never loses sight of his role among his people, and is surprisingly funny as well at the most unexpected times. No clichéd brooding warrior in him.
And his yummy factor really need not be belabored.
Anyway, what really made me finish the book until well into the hours of dawn is the sizzling chemistry between him and Bella. In the back of my mind, I know it's going to be really scorching--Jacob is already shown as one of the most powerful Demons who turn out to possess a latent smouldering passion; ergo: "hot sex."
Beyond their bed scenes, though (which, for the sake of modesty I have to keep mum about), the attraction, pure need, and possession that arises between the two every time they are together, despite the presence of other people, are like goodies for a starving romance junkie. "Destiny" about the two of them aside, they really are two halves of a whole. And the author does not stint on making Jacob and Isabella voice their love for one another--without verging on the syrupy.
So, yeah, ms Jacquelyn Frank, you have a fan in me. Jacob is a thrilling, action-packed new beginning to another breed of paranormal heroes. Heck, his and Bella's story is even quite satisfactory enough for me. There's a really warm and giddy feeling by the end. But then, such is the thrill infused in these characters that I really am looking forward to Gideon.
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