Thomas Pluck's Blog, page 64
April 4, 2012
Carry on my Native Son
Eva Dolan has been hosting an excellent series of blog posts by crime writers reviewing classics that have an element of crime to them. Crime & Punishment, MacBeth, and Heath Lowrance wrote a terrific one on Flannery O'Connor's Wise Blood. I was toying around with a post on A Confederacy of Dunces before settling on Richard Wright's inflammatory and brutally unflinching classic. The link is below:
Criminal Classics: Native Son
© 2012 Thomas Pluck
I post on Twitter as TommySalami ~ My Facebook Page
Criminal Classics: Native Son
© 2012 Thomas Pluck
I post on Twitter as TommySalami ~ My Facebook Page
April 3, 2012
The 5-2 Crime Poetry blog tour - Keith Rawson's $25
Welcome to the 5-2 Blog Tour kick-off! Thanks to Gerald So for having me. He runs a great site, and helped immensely when I submitted my poem, "Just Ice." Hell, he edited so much that I should give him a co-author credit.
Admittedly, I was skeptical when I heard the term "noir poetry." I'm not sure why. I'm sort of an old crab when it comes to mash-ups and transmedia, and that had the same ring. Then I read a few poems at Beat to a Pulp by Gerald So and others, and I realized I was being a stubborn ass. Poetry can be all about emotion, and that's one reason crime fiction resonates with me: the strong emotions inherent in criminal acts. Whether it is violent or not, in every crime someone feels violated.
There have been many excellent poems since Gerald opened up the 5-2: Crime Poetry Weekly, but the one that resonates with me most so far is Keith Rawson's $25. If you haven't read it, go read it now.
It's a very simple narrative which eschews over-description. He uses penny and nickel words to great effect. In a poem about giving blood, he doesn't even use the word phlebotomist, which is admirable. I'd have given in to temptation, tried to rhyme with it, and messed the whole thing up.
Instead, we're treated to a face "blotchy with whiteheads," and a voice like "a cat's tail slammed in a rusty screen door." If you haven't pictured this nurse with the needle in her hand, you're not paying attention. In the end, it's not the imagery that gives it power. That's just the foundation. It's the honest apathy of it. I gotta pay the rent, lady. And it's too much trouble to rob you, so stick the needle in.
I wasn't surprised when I read Keith's bio and he said that it was based in reality. It has that ring to it. The inexperienced would dramatize it, appeal to our dignity. "Look man, I'm selling my blood. I'm reduced to that." But someone who's been there knows there's an apathetic sadness to it. A resignation. I could sell my sweat or my blood. I've learned that in the end this is easier than sticking you up. I've been down that road, he says, using no words at all.
And that's poetry, baby.
Here's the schedule for the rest of the blog tour.
© 2012 Thomas Pluck
Admittedly, I was skeptical when I heard the term "noir poetry." I'm not sure why. I'm sort of an old crab when it comes to mash-ups and transmedia, and that had the same ring. Then I read a few poems at Beat to a Pulp by Gerald So and others, and I realized I was being a stubborn ass. Poetry can be all about emotion, and that's one reason crime fiction resonates with me: the strong emotions inherent in criminal acts. Whether it is violent or not, in every crime someone feels violated.
There have been many excellent poems since Gerald opened up the 5-2: Crime Poetry Weekly, but the one that resonates with me most so far is Keith Rawson's $25. If you haven't read it, go read it now.
It's a very simple narrative which eschews over-description. He uses penny and nickel words to great effect. In a poem about giving blood, he doesn't even use the word phlebotomist, which is admirable. I'd have given in to temptation, tried to rhyme with it, and messed the whole thing up.
Instead, we're treated to a face "blotchy with whiteheads," and a voice like "a cat's tail slammed in a rusty screen door." If you haven't pictured this nurse with the needle in her hand, you're not paying attention. In the end, it's not the imagery that gives it power. That's just the foundation. It's the honest apathy of it. I gotta pay the rent, lady. And it's too much trouble to rob you, so stick the needle in.
I wasn't surprised when I read Keith's bio and he said that it was based in reality. It has that ring to it. The inexperienced would dramatize it, appeal to our dignity. "Look man, I'm selling my blood. I'm reduced to that." But someone who's been there knows there's an apathetic sadness to it. A resignation. I could sell my sweat or my blood. I've learned that in the end this is easier than sticking you up. I've been down that road, he says, using no words at all.
And that's poetry, baby.
Here's the schedule for the rest of the blog tour.
© 2012 Thomas Pluck
April 2, 2012
We Wrote a Zoo
Patti Abbott put forth a challenge last month- 1200 words, set at the zoo. More than a dozen writers, including Patti and myself, responded. Albert Tucher, Sandra Seamans, Todd Mason... check them out. Patti's was hilarious, and I hope, historically accurate...
Zoo Stories
© 2012 Thomas Pluck
I post on Twitter as TommySalami ~ My Facebook Page
Zoo Stories
© 2012 Thomas Pluck
I post on Twitter as TommySalami ~ My Facebook Page
Suspect Has a History
Crime writer Jack Bates has a poem at The 5-2 entitled "Suspect Has a History," inspired by long nights listening to his police scanner. Gerald So, Alison Dasho and I recorded a reading of the poem. I play the cop. I didn't have a donut to eat while recording it, but I did my best. It's a fine poem that captures the sense of futility first responders feel when dealing with folks who just seem to have it in for themselves.
Suspect Has a History
© 2012 Thomas Pluck
I post on Twitter as TommySalami ~ My Facebook Page
Suspect Has a History
© 2012 Thomas Pluck
I post on Twitter as TommySalami ~ My Facebook Page
April 1, 2012
The Ten Thousand Pound Banana
This story was written for Patti Nase Abbott's A Day at the Zoo challenge:
The Ten Thousand Pound Banana (featuring Candle)
Me and Nige were in the shop talking about potassium when Cy told us we had to break a bloke's legs.
That's code for rough him up. If you break a man's legs he can't work. He can't work he can't pay. Which works cross purposes to the whole point of smacking him around.
I'm good at that and not much else. Cy don't let me drive no more on account of losing the battery on a bank job.
Codgers. Don't trust them.
It's a long story.
Nigel sat on the counter eating a banana. He's a wee bastard, but he's not a dwarf. He carries a cosh for fellas who joke about his height.
So don't do it, if you know what's good for your kneecaps.
"You ought to eat more fruit, Candle," he says. "Nothing better for you. You need your vitamins, you know."
I prefer to get mine from a porterhouse and a pint. Two of the former and a dozen of the latter, but I don't say so. Nigel usually holds a conversation better by himself, but he's looking at me to say my piece, start an argument over it, break the afternoon monotony.
Thank heaven Cy roars in and saves me the trouble.
Cyrus is a whiskey barrel with legs, and a mouth like a train whistle. He rushes in the door, slapping his newspaper on the dusty shelves.
He sells novelties. Of an adult nature. But no one comes here, they get it all on the Internet now. It's all cover for his less than legal activities, and I like it better without the perverts wandering the aisles. We had to sell them the odd item to look legitimate, and I didn't like taking the bills from their grubby hands. I kept a pair of tweezers for it.
"Candle, get your pet monkey off the countertop, he's scaring off customers."
If someone else said that, Nigel would cosh him for certain, but not the boss.
"Cyrus, I was telling Candle here he ought to eat more fruit."
"What, you think it will stunt his growth? Look at him. He barely fits in the door as it is."
Cy swats the banana out his hand with the newspapers.
Nigel looks down at the severed bit of banana. "That's a waste of good food."
"You're a waste of food, you idjit. Take the bananas out of your ears and listen. You're going to break this fella's legs. He's two weeks behind, and Calloway tells me he just spotted him at the dog track."
The fellow's name is Ellis and he's a haberdasher. When he wanted to expand, he approached Cy for a loan. Which is all fine and good. When he's late on a payment we all get new hats.
On the drive, Nigel crunches away at an apple he found under his seat. "They keep the doctor away, you know."
The dog track's across from the zoo. I wonder if sniffing the lions makes them run faster. I haven't been to a zoo since my father took me. Good man, he was. He liked the apes. Said they reminded him of people.
Nigel takes a harsh turn into the car park and his apples careen off my ankles like billiards. He picks a fedora from the pile in the boot, a green one with a purple feather, and we shoulder our way in.
It's between races. Some are buying for the next, rest are cashing in.
"I'll take the seats, you look by the ticket counter," Nigel says.
I'm a head above the crowd. But I don't see nothing but a positively rotund child cracking candies between his teeth. His piggy eyes follow Nigel's hat.
I know what he's thinking. Nige looks like a leprechaun. A leprechaun eating a banana at the dog races. That's pretty funny, but I've got other things to worry about.
I remember Ellis when he measured me for my suit. You don't find my size on the rack. He reminded me of a squirrel, how he darted around the shop. With stubby little fingers. Wondered how he held onto the pins.
It was those fingers I saw first, shuffling notes at the payment window. Then I noticed the whole squirrel. Bouncing on the toes of his shoes, the fancy kind with tassels on.
I've have trouble hiding behind a giraffe, but Ellis was all caught up in his winnings. He bounced right past. I followed him toward the exit and figured I'd pick him up by his little neck until he passed out, and deliver the goods to Cyrus. Get on his good side. Maybe get to drive again.
Then Nigel goes and ruins it. When he spots Ellis, he drops his banana peel. Then he slips on it. Right on his arse. Knocks his hat off, which rolls on its brim in a circle.
The fat kid runs up and grabs his cuff. "Give me your pot of gold!"
The crowd laughs and points, and my father's right. They do look like monkeys.
Then Ellis spots me, leaps three feet straight up, and bolts for the car park.
The crowd slows me but I manage to spot him fumbling with his keys. I shout a few choice words and charge. He drops his keys and runs cross the road, dodging traffic. Right for the Zoo. He hops the turnstile, and I nearly get flattened by a bus.
Nigel catches up to me, his little legs pumping. We meet at the turnstile. The ticket lady is out of her booth, having none of it.
Nigel pays for us both with a tenner. "Don't tell Cy about the banana."
The place is near empty but Ellis has a head start. I find myself looking up the trees, like he's a real squirrel. Then Nigel sees a family pointing, and we run over.
It's by the monkey house.
The apes have a pit, real nice down there. Lots of grass and a playground to climb and swing around on. The gorillas are all riled up. Pounding on their chests, like two blokes over a bird.
And Ellis, squatting in the middle of them. His suit's all torn up, and he's clutching his winnings like his favorite acorn.
Me and Nige look down, then at each other. What was our boy thinking?
"Job well done then?" Nigel says.
"What if they tear him limb from limb, what do we tell Cyrus then?"
"Well, you go in. They're practically relations."
Right then, I get an idea. Not often that happens. I pat Nigel's pocket. "Hand it over."
"It's my last one, Candle."
"Don't be a prat."
I climb over the meager fence and hang down, waving the banana at our little squirrel among the apes. "Nice fat envelope you have, Ellis. Care to trade?"
And that's why I drive the car, now. Still smells like a fruit stand, though.
---
Fin
© 2012 Thomas Pluck
I post on Twitter as TommySalami ~ My Facebook Page
The Ten Thousand Pound Banana (featuring Candle)
Me and Nige were in the shop talking about potassium when Cy told us we had to break a bloke's legs.
That's code for rough him up. If you break a man's legs he can't work. He can't work he can't pay. Which works cross purposes to the whole point of smacking him around.
I'm good at that and not much else. Cy don't let me drive no more on account of losing the battery on a bank job.
Codgers. Don't trust them.
It's a long story.
Nigel sat on the counter eating a banana. He's a wee bastard, but he's not a dwarf. He carries a cosh for fellas who joke about his height.
So don't do it, if you know what's good for your kneecaps.
"You ought to eat more fruit, Candle," he says. "Nothing better for you. You need your vitamins, you know."
I prefer to get mine from a porterhouse and a pint. Two of the former and a dozen of the latter, but I don't say so. Nigel usually holds a conversation better by himself, but he's looking at me to say my piece, start an argument over it, break the afternoon monotony.
Thank heaven Cy roars in and saves me the trouble.
Cyrus is a whiskey barrel with legs, and a mouth like a train whistle. He rushes in the door, slapping his newspaper on the dusty shelves.
He sells novelties. Of an adult nature. But no one comes here, they get it all on the Internet now. It's all cover for his less than legal activities, and I like it better without the perverts wandering the aisles. We had to sell them the odd item to look legitimate, and I didn't like taking the bills from their grubby hands. I kept a pair of tweezers for it.
"Candle, get your pet monkey off the countertop, he's scaring off customers."
If someone else said that, Nigel would cosh him for certain, but not the boss.
"Cyrus, I was telling Candle here he ought to eat more fruit."
"What, you think it will stunt his growth? Look at him. He barely fits in the door as it is."
Cy swats the banana out his hand with the newspapers.
Nigel looks down at the severed bit of banana. "That's a waste of good food."
"You're a waste of food, you idjit. Take the bananas out of your ears and listen. You're going to break this fella's legs. He's two weeks behind, and Calloway tells me he just spotted him at the dog track."
The fellow's name is Ellis and he's a haberdasher. When he wanted to expand, he approached Cy for a loan. Which is all fine and good. When he's late on a payment we all get new hats.
On the drive, Nigel crunches away at an apple he found under his seat. "They keep the doctor away, you know."
The dog track's across from the zoo. I wonder if sniffing the lions makes them run faster. I haven't been to a zoo since my father took me. Good man, he was. He liked the apes. Said they reminded him of people.
Nigel takes a harsh turn into the car park and his apples careen off my ankles like billiards. He picks a fedora from the pile in the boot, a green one with a purple feather, and we shoulder our way in.
It's between races. Some are buying for the next, rest are cashing in.
"I'll take the seats, you look by the ticket counter," Nigel says.
I'm a head above the crowd. But I don't see nothing but a positively rotund child cracking candies between his teeth. His piggy eyes follow Nigel's hat.
I know what he's thinking. Nige looks like a leprechaun. A leprechaun eating a banana at the dog races. That's pretty funny, but I've got other things to worry about.
I remember Ellis when he measured me for my suit. You don't find my size on the rack. He reminded me of a squirrel, how he darted around the shop. With stubby little fingers. Wondered how he held onto the pins.
It was those fingers I saw first, shuffling notes at the payment window. Then I noticed the whole squirrel. Bouncing on the toes of his shoes, the fancy kind with tassels on.
I've have trouble hiding behind a giraffe, but Ellis was all caught up in his winnings. He bounced right past. I followed him toward the exit and figured I'd pick him up by his little neck until he passed out, and deliver the goods to Cyrus. Get on his good side. Maybe get to drive again.
Then Nigel goes and ruins it. When he spots Ellis, he drops his banana peel. Then he slips on it. Right on his arse. Knocks his hat off, which rolls on its brim in a circle.
The fat kid runs up and grabs his cuff. "Give me your pot of gold!"
The crowd laughs and points, and my father's right. They do look like monkeys.
Then Ellis spots me, leaps three feet straight up, and bolts for the car park.
The crowd slows me but I manage to spot him fumbling with his keys. I shout a few choice words and charge. He drops his keys and runs cross the road, dodging traffic. Right for the Zoo. He hops the turnstile, and I nearly get flattened by a bus.
Nigel catches up to me, his little legs pumping. We meet at the turnstile. The ticket lady is out of her booth, having none of it.
Nigel pays for us both with a tenner. "Don't tell Cy about the banana."
The place is near empty but Ellis has a head start. I find myself looking up the trees, like he's a real squirrel. Then Nigel sees a family pointing, and we run over.
It's by the monkey house.
The apes have a pit, real nice down there. Lots of grass and a playground to climb and swing around on. The gorillas are all riled up. Pounding on their chests, like two blokes over a bird.
And Ellis, squatting in the middle of them. His suit's all torn up, and he's clutching his winnings like his favorite acorn.
Me and Nige look down, then at each other. What was our boy thinking?
"Job well done then?" Nigel says.
"What if they tear him limb from limb, what do we tell Cyrus then?"
"Well, you go in. They're practically relations."
Right then, I get an idea. Not often that happens. I pat Nigel's pocket. "Hand it over."
"It's my last one, Candle."
"Don't be a prat."
I climb over the meager fence and hang down, waving the banana at our little squirrel among the apes. "Nice fat envelope you have, Ellis. Care to trade?"
And that's why I drive the car, now. Still smells like a fruit stand, though.
---
Fin
© 2012 Thomas Pluck
I post on Twitter as TommySalami ~ My Facebook Page
March 31, 2012
Spinetingler Awards
Spinetingler has announced its nominees for this year's awards, and I'm glad to see many of my favorite writers receive well-deserved nominations. Not to leave anyone out, but some books getting the attention they deserve include The Bitch by Les Edgerton, Josh Stallings' Beautiful, Naked & Dead, Frank Bill's Crimes in Southern Indiana, Johnny Shaw's Dove Season, Donald Ray Pollock's The Devil All the Time, and Megan Abbott's The End of Everything.
I nominated more, like Matthew McBride's incredible debut Frank Sinatra in a Blender, and I still don't know how that didn't make it. I haven't read all the nominees, but they had better be astounding to knock Matt out of the running.
I've crowed about how great my buddy Josh's two novels are many, many times... but here it comes again. I read them before I met him, and I sought him out because he writes like James Crumley with anger displacing the sense of loss that master infused in his work. A much deserved nomination.
I'm also very happy to see Sabrina Ogden, Sandra Seamans, Elizabeth White, Heath Lowrance, and Patti Abbott nominated for the David Thompson Community Leader award. They are pillars of the online crime fiction community, and give the genre a boost when it often can spin its wheels going over the same muddy ground. It's a very tough choice to choose just one of them.
I'm not nominated specifically- I was hoping to get a nomination for best short story on the web, but there is some very tough competition and I'm happy for all the writers who did make it. Matt Funk, David James Keaton, Court Merrigan, Nigel Bird, Peter Farris, Hilary Davidson... I hope one of you knocked me out of contention. That would be a death with honor.
Several publications I've been a part of are nominated, so please vote early and often:
Beat to a Pulp: Hardboiled AND Off the Record are both nominated for best short story anthology. My stories "Black-Eyed Susan" and "Free Bird" appear in them, respectively:
Beat to a Pulp: Hardboiled
Off the Record
Pulp Modern, Beat to a Pulp, Shotgun Honey, Needle, Noir Nation, and Crimefactory are all up for Best Zine (hey, no Plots With Guns?) and I my stories have or will appear in all six of those... and Plots with Guns, who I think is criminally underrated, no pun intended.
"Legacy of Brutality" in Pulp Modern
"A Glutton for Punishment" in Beat to a Pulp
"Faggot," "Shogun Honey," and "The Last Sacrament" in Shotgun Honey
"Tiger Mother" in Noir Nation #2
"Lefty" in Crimefactory #10
"Gumbo Weather" in the next issue of Needle
I'm proud as a Proudfoot to have stories in these excellent zines, and I'm glad the ballot's secret. I have no idea how to choose just one.
And don't forget that Spinetingler just released their first Kindle issue, and my story "Two to Tango" is included. If that story doesn't affect you, I'm handing in my gloves.
Please take the time to vote. We writers can be little attention leeches, but even the champs love to hear when they throw a good punch, and you readers have the good seats. We can't always tell from inside the ring.
VOTE HERE.
© 2012 Thomas Pluck
I post on Twitter as TommySalami ~ My Facebook Page
I nominated more, like Matthew McBride's incredible debut Frank Sinatra in a Blender, and I still don't know how that didn't make it. I haven't read all the nominees, but they had better be astounding to knock Matt out of the running.
I've crowed about how great my buddy Josh's two novels are many, many times... but here it comes again. I read them before I met him, and I sought him out because he writes like James Crumley with anger displacing the sense of loss that master infused in his work. A much deserved nomination.
I'm also very happy to see Sabrina Ogden, Sandra Seamans, Elizabeth White, Heath Lowrance, and Patti Abbott nominated for the David Thompson Community Leader award. They are pillars of the online crime fiction community, and give the genre a boost when it often can spin its wheels going over the same muddy ground. It's a very tough choice to choose just one of them.
I'm not nominated specifically- I was hoping to get a nomination for best short story on the web, but there is some very tough competition and I'm happy for all the writers who did make it. Matt Funk, David James Keaton, Court Merrigan, Nigel Bird, Peter Farris, Hilary Davidson... I hope one of you knocked me out of contention. That would be a death with honor.
Several publications I've been a part of are nominated, so please vote early and often:
Beat to a Pulp: Hardboiled AND Off the Record are both nominated for best short story anthology. My stories "Black-Eyed Susan" and "Free Bird" appear in them, respectively:
Beat to a Pulp: Hardboiled
Off the Record
Pulp Modern, Beat to a Pulp, Shotgun Honey, Needle, Noir Nation, and Crimefactory are all up for Best Zine (hey, no Plots With Guns?) and I my stories have or will appear in all six of those... and Plots with Guns, who I think is criminally underrated, no pun intended.
"Legacy of Brutality" in Pulp Modern
"A Glutton for Punishment" in Beat to a Pulp
"Faggot," "Shogun Honey," and "The Last Sacrament" in Shotgun Honey
"Tiger Mother" in Noir Nation #2
"Lefty" in Crimefactory #10
"Gumbo Weather" in the next issue of Needle
I'm proud as a Proudfoot to have stories in these excellent zines, and I'm glad the ballot's secret. I have no idea how to choose just one.
And don't forget that Spinetingler just released their first Kindle issue, and my story "Two to Tango" is included. If that story doesn't affect you, I'm handing in my gloves.
Please take the time to vote. We writers can be little attention leeches, but even the champs love to hear when they throw a good punch, and you readers have the good seats. We can't always tell from inside the ring.
VOTE HERE.
© 2012 Thomas Pluck
I post on Twitter as TommySalami ~ My Facebook Page
March 29, 2012
Review: Townie
Townie by Andre Dubus III
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
An excellent memoir that hit painfully close to home for me. Andre Dubus explains the pain of divorce for a child and the fearfulness that settles in after the shake up, and how it makes a young boy an easy target for bullies. He goes on to show with artful cogency how this fear turns to armor and muscle, as he heads toward a Golden Gloves match in his early twenties, and pounds the snot out of every bully and wifebeater he sees. This would be a glorification if he didn't delve further, and dig out the nugget of truth behind every white knight. That it is not about saving the damsel, it is about defending his own honor and proving his own mettle.
His slow maturation as a man and a writer make for interesting reading; he lingers on the conflicts and bares the raw nerve endings that made these confrontations occur. It also serves as a sort of biography of his father, the writer of "Killings" and many other classics of short fiction. While it may be painful to see the feet of clay his father had, it shows the roots of his Hemingway-inspired vision of manhood and how falling short of such in front of his own father drove him to a self-absorbed life of narcissism. His father redeems himself in the end, and his life serves as a portrait of the generation that came after WW2 who weren't exactly baby boomers, the war babies, and how they dealt with their war hero fathers.
I'm not usually a fan of memoirs, but this one gripped me. I recognized the relentless coyote stare of the frightened young boy inside the chiseled and toughened man. It was a fascinating and familiar read, a document of young male rage, its roots and causes, and how one angry boy tamed them to become a man, and settle conflicts with his brain and not his fists.
View all my reviews
March 28, 2012
Song in my head this week: Silent E by Tom Lehrer
Tom Lehrer is one of those clever and witty satirist songwriters that everyone says they like but rarely listen to. Maybe you've heard Poisoning Pigeons in the Park, or his hilarious poke at German rocket scientist Werner von Braun, but odds are you've heard the songs he did for Sesame Street (or was it The Electric Company?) the most. Silent E and L-Y.
L-Y is even better, it has a creepy vibe to it and uses adverbs properly for the sake of brevity. It's also very funny. Lehrer had a great and cynical wit, and a prodigious output that I keep wishing to delve into. But I never do. I sit back and think of porcupines and turning a hug huge instantly, and that's as far as I get.
Any big fans of Lehrer out there? Which album is your favorite?
© 2012 Thomas Pluck
I post on Twitter as TommySalami ~ My Facebook Page
March 23, 2012
That's a Lulu - Grift #1
I neglected to share the purchase link for GRIFT #1, John Kenyon's new quarterly which includes my short story "Six Feet Under God."
Here's where you get Grift #1
It's now 15% off. Grab it and a couple copies of Needle Magazine, and the Off the Record Anthology by Luca Veste, which contains my story "Freedom Bird" that broke some hearts and made grown men cry.
It has stories and articles by Lawrence Block, Ken Bruen, Ray Banks, Scott Phillips, Matthew C. Funk, Chris F. Holm, Keith Rawson, Court Merrigan, Alec Cizak, Todd Robinson, Craig McDonald, Jack Bates, and a little plucky plucker named Thomas Pluck.
© 2012 Thomas Pluck
I post on Twitter as TommySalami ~ My Facebook Page
March 22, 2012
Song in my Head this Week: Wreckless Eric
My wife and I disagree on what makes good music, sometimes. I turned her on to the Black Keys and the Flaming Lips, and she hooked me on the Fratellis and the Roots. She prefers classically trained singers who can really belt it out, who sound the same on stage as in the studio, like Muse for example.
I lean more towards singer-songwriters who can often write better than they can sing, but give everything they've got. Warren Zevon, Tom Waits, Janis, and... Wreckless Eric. His song "The Whole Wide World" has been covered numerous times by better singers than he, but I like the balls-out, barely coherent original. When Eric warbles and growls that he'll go the whole wide world to find the girl meant for him, you know damn well he will, and he won't stop walking after 500 miles. No, he'll crawl on his belly in the sand and the grit like a leopard-skin Terminator, until the girl crushes him in an industrial press.
Not a bad song at all to have stuck in your head. Eric also wrote "Be Stiff," which was covered later by Devo. This album's a lost gem of pure energy, and I urge you to seek it out.
© 2012 Thomas Pluck
I post on Twitter as TommySalami ~ My Facebook Page
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