Nineteen Seventy-Four

Red Riding #1

by David Peace

Jeanette Garland, missing Castleford, July 1969.
Susan Ridyard, missing Rochdale, March 1972.
Clare Kemplay, missing Morley, since yesterday.

Christmas bombs and Lucky on the run, Leeds United and the Bay City Rollers, The Exorcist and It Ain’t Half Hot Mum.

It’s winter, 1974, Yorkshire, and Ed Dunford’s got the job he wanted. Crime correspondent for the Evening Post.He didn’t know it was going to be a season in hell. A dead little girl with a swan’s wings stitched to her back. A gypsy camp in a ring of fire. Corruption everywhere you look.

Nineteen Seventy Four is the finest British crime debut since Derek Raymond’s He Died With His Eyes Open.

Genres: Fiction, Crime, Mystery, Thriller, Noir, Historical Fiction, Mystery Thriller

320 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1999

About the author

David Peace was born in 1967 and grew up in Ossett, near Wakefield. He left Manchester Polytechnic in 1991, and went to Istanbul to teach English. In 1994 he took up a teaching post in Tokyo and now lives there with his family.

His formative years were shadowed by the activities of the Yorkshire Ripper, and this had a profound influence on him which led to a strong interest in crime. His quartet of Red Riding books grew from this obsession with the dark side of Yorkshire. These are powerful novels of crime and police corruption, using the Yorkshire Ripper as their basis and inspiration. They are entitled Nineteen Seventy-Four, (1999), Nineteen Seventy-Seven (2000), Nineteen Eighty (2001), and Nineteen Eighty-Three (2002), and have been translated into French, Italian, German and Japanese.

In 2003 David Peace was named by Granta magazine as one of twenty "Best Young British Novelists." His novel GB84, set during the 1984 miners' strike, was published in 2005.

from contemporarywriters.com

Reviews

[Trin · Rating 1 out of 5]

Okay, so. I'm fucking sick of it.

I'm sick of thrillers that burn through female characters like the author is keeping score. None of these women have any agency: they're clearly there to be fucked and beaten and raped and abandoned and called bitches and be mad drooling hags and be violently killed. Oh, except for the one lucky woman who gets to be the hero's mom.

Hero's totally the wrong word, though, of course. Instead of anyone remotely admirable or interesting, we're forced to suffer through this valley of despair and human indecency with some racist, homophobic, misogynistic schmuck who has no interesting character traits outside of what an asshole he is. Great, let's spend 300 pages watching this charmer bumble around investigating a bunch of little girls' brutal murders that turn out to be part of some sort of giant conspiracy of I don't give a fuck. Like, the police, politicians, and businessman are sometimes corrupt and stuff. I'm positive no one has ever used that plot before!

And, sure: I get this is all supposed to be gritty and real. Whatever. I am so tired of that being used as an excuse for another vile, cynical book that doesn't say anything interesting about humanity other than the fact that the author apparently thinks it fucking sucks. Or at least that the '70s sucked. Except, aside from the protagonist constantly telling us the year (I'm not sure I caught it...is it NINETEEN SEVENTY-FOUR?) and tossing out song references ("Life on Mars" was playing in a pub at one point, and god did it make me wish I was watching that show instead), this book could pretty much take place whenever. It certainly doesn't make any interesting points about how things may or may not have changed in the last 36 years. Just: people are shits, people are shits, people are shits. Thank you, please sexually harass your waitresses.

I can't read any more books like this. These highly-acclaimed thrillers that are blurbed with words like "explosive" and "raw" and that are the equivalent of spending several hours hanging out at the bottom of a cesspit. But how to avoid them? Certainly read fewer thrillers by men; definitely skip anything blurbed by Ian Rankin. And you know what: maybe for a while sidestep thrillers all together.

Anyone got any recommendations for books in which women with swords get to stab a lot of people? For some reason I have a craving.

[Baba · Rating 4 out of 5]

(apologies, previously placed this review on the sequel to this book!)
This is a smashing piece of compelling crime noir set in mostly the North of England, in Yorkshire in, can you guess? Yep, 1974 :). Women are being viciously murdered and a policeman and a reporter are hot on the case, neither is a 'good guy' but both are far less abhorrent than their peers. A stunningly accurate portrayal of policing and the media in the 1970s (I was a kid in that decade), that pulls no punches and may feel unreal or overhyped when read by those from later generations. A story of brutal men and brutalised women.

An uncompromising and unrelenting story that plumbs the depths of the times and paths taking and the pain caused by and to police, women, minorities and... justice! All told in a punchy staccato style mostly devoid of real empathy despite the explicit sex and violence, and sexual violence. Relentless is the word that sums up this stunning debut quasi-historical novel telling stories often lived, but rarely told. This book has a fair bit of purposefully repetition, and almost stream of consciousnesses first person narrations. Utterly brutal, dark, and offensive, yet underneath there is a beauty to how the growth and build of the story, is almost a work of art! One of those books that I was in awe with only after I finished the last page! A Four Star, 9 out of 12 read.

2025 read

[Dan · Rating 2 out of 5]

When a little girl goes missing, crime reporter Eddie Dunford is on the case. Eddie finds a pattern between the girl's disappearance and others. Where will the trail lead and will Eddie have anything left when he gets there?

There's a greasy spoon close to my house that serves something called The Mess, a pile of scrambled eggs, hashbrowns, bacon, sausage, and gravy, a meal that will simultaneously help you achieve Nirvana and hit your life's nadir. That's what this book reminded me of.

Nineteen Seventy-four is a cluster fuck of biblical proportions. Crime reporter Eddie Dunford is in way over his head from day one. In fact, I don't really buy him as a crime reporter seeing as how he's kind of a coward.

The narrative starts a bit slow but is soon bouncing around at ninety miles per hour, zig-zagging like a mouse on a speed. Much like Eddie, I had no clue what was going on a great percentage of the time.

The repetitive style grated on me after a while, making me long for the prose of such crime writers as Lawrence Block and George Pelecanos. In fact, Eddie reminds me of a less competent version of Nick Stefanos.

Another thing I wasn't crazy about was all the people with similar names. Also, practically every damn character in the book was in on the crime. I wasn't sure if I actually liked the book while I was reading it and wasn't any more certain by the end.

Nineteen Seventy-four was unique and powerful at times but I can't really say I enjoyed it. I guess we'll call this a 2.

[J. Kent Messum · Rating 4 out of 5]

A bloody brilliant book. David Peace's writing is sharp, sometimes unhinged, and its barreling pace just whips you along. A thriller that tosses murder, corruption, and characters around like a cement mixer. The plot is complex, an ongoing spiderweb of violence, set-ups, double crosses and the like, all stemming from the disappearance of a young girl and one green journalist's mission to uncover the truth. This novel will require your undivided attention as you navigate its uncomfortable murk. Some of it will seem confusing, much like how the narrator was confused throughout, but I believe that was the intention.

On that note, 1974 is very much a story of its time. Northern England in the 70s was a rough, racist, homophobic, and misogynistic environment (like the majority of places in the West at that period). I've noticed an awful lot of people whinging and whining in their reviews of this book over the swearing, perceived sexism, and politically incorrect nature surrounding the story. It reminded me of those people complaining about the language of the junkies in my novel 'BAIT'... to which I always thought, "Christ, have you ever heard an addict or crack-head actually talk???"

Yep, there are an awful lot of 'fucks' in this book, that's how people from lower and middle classes spoke back then (Fuck me, it's even worse now I think). The dialogue is spot on, as is the vibe and reality of that place in those days.

Honestly, if historical accuracy and time-capsule culture in a story offends you, then get bent. Past realities are not going to censor themselves because you've decided to crawl out of your sheltered life to risk a look around.

Altogether 1974 is a cracking read, and one I highly recommend for style, story, and substance.

[Greg · Rating 2 out of 5]

1.

As long as nothing really happened this book was pretty readable. It moved along at a quick clip, it had a certain zip to the writing style and it was like a junior league mid-period (LA Quartet) era James Ellroy. Sort of.

Once stuff started happening the book got worse. And as more stuff happened the worse the book got. And then as the book started to resolve and the mysteries began to be solved the book got even worse still. If the book had gone on much longer it may have turned into a mucoid stream of shit. Literally, the book would have turned into shit-like snot in my hands. That would have been pretty fucking gross.

2.

The book got worse.

The author likes recapping / repeating, in italics, lines that are important to the resolution of the mystery very soon after they are said in the text. Then he repeats them in italics over and over and over again in case you are a fucking moron who didn't catch it the first time he repeated the lines with no structural slash narrative reason. Over and over and over again. Towards the end you think maybe it is because the narrator is going insane, but then you say nah, it's because the author thinks his readers are fucking morons.

And we are if we believe in the believability of the main character.

3.

It adds neat little twists to a story when your narrator is basically fluid nonsense that can be morphed into whatever is needed for each scene. This add's the element of, wow I never saw it coming that he was going to anally rape that poor woman right after he said he loved her. Wow, what a twit he is he threw up just looking at an autopsy photo (I mean he is only a crime journalist, wouldn't think he'd come across something like that).

4.

Every character in the book probably shouldn't be implicated in the crime. Ok I'm jesting a little. But just a little. Who did it? We all did it. We are all guilty. Ok, good. We are all guilty now write a fucking coherent crime novel. Or maybe the review was a harking back to the Scooby Doo endings where every time you thought you knew who did it a mask was pulled off and you found out someone else was really guilty.

The book got worse

5.

I'll finish this review with my own neat-o-riffic homage to my favorite type of exchange the author wrote. At first I thought, what the fuck, when I read it. But then when the author repeated the style of dialog a second time (and I think a third time, maybe only twice though) I thought, wow I've never seen this in a book before. To think most authors would think of another way of handling this but David Peace doesn't shy away from the gritty realism.

"Tell me why you wrote this shitty book," I asked.
"No," David Peace responded.
"Tell me why!"
"No"
"Tell me why you did it."'
"No, I won't tell you."
"Tell me."
"I won't."
"C'mon, tell me or I'll hit you."
"No I don't tell you, I'm not afraid of you."
"I'll hit you. Tell me."
"No."
"Please tell me?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"I want you to tell me."
"And I don't want to tell you."
"Tell me."
"No."
"Yes."
"No. I won't tell you."
"Tell me, we've been at this for almost a page, it can't go on much longer."
"I won't."
"Please? I can't go on asking you."
"No."
"I must go on asking you, please tell me."
"Hell no."
"Fuck you, tell me!"
"Fine. For the money, I did it all for the money."
"A-ha!"

[Ted · Rating 3 out of 5]

3 ½ I guess.



This novel tells a pretty good story, about the abduction of a young girl, possible related abductions of other girls, how the story is handled by a fairly corrupt police establishment, how it’s reported by a local newspaper, and … well, it’s a pretty good “page-turner” … but I don’t know, I just feel not all that enthusiastic about recommending it or rating it highly. In fact I really don’t know what to say about what I liked in this book, other than the fact that I did read it over the course of about three days (during which I didn’t have a whole lot of reading time), and read no other books during that time, so it was a story that held my interest. Beyond that? I don’t know.

My favorite American crime writer, George Pelecanos, actually praises this book (back cover). He is quoted as saying that the book “is raw and furiously alive, the literary equivalent of a hard right to the jaw. David Pearce has delivered the finest crime fiction debut of the year.” Well, but I still think Pelecanos writes better novels than this one.

The book is raw, both language and sex are raw, and the violence is raw. That doesn’t disturb me in the least. (Pelecanos’ novels are also raw, on at least the first two of those points.) But Pearce doesn’t give us the characters that we can root for in the way Pelecanos does.

Here's some of the things that left me unimpressed.

1) Too many characters. This is a problem for me because of my memory, mostly. The characters that are mentioned frequently from the get-go I can handle. But there are many characters in this book that are mentioned very briefly the first time or two, then later in the book become more prominent/important. By that time their names were simply fog-shrouded signposts to me, and I didn’t search back to find out who they really were.

2) The main character, the narrator (it’s first person all the way) was unbelievable to me.

First, he’s not a tough guy, except that he is able to punch out or otherwise physically harm several women in the story. But put him up against another man, and he basically is a punching bag – doesn’t even put up a fight, gets the shit kicked out of him again and again. In fact he gets beaten worse than the previous time over and over, and eventually the sadism of his many beaters is so extreme that I simply couldn’t believe that within hours, he seems to be pretty much okay again, as if that beating was nothing but a bout with alcohol, and requires no more than getting though the morning after hangover.

Second, he seems to cry a lot when he’s confronted with photos of victims, or personal sob-stories from victims. I have no problem with his tears, but this simply seems thrown in by the author to make him more … something, I don’t know. It doesn’t seem to fit with the way he acts otherwise, his anger, his rough language.

Our sensitive narrator also uses the phrase “I’m sorry” at least a hundred times in the story (it seems). Any time he isn’t demanding something, or pleading with someone to give him information, or saying “fuck”, he’s saying “I’m sorry”. (note: re comment #4 below, this mildly disturbing aspect of the dialogue is apparently a realistic depiction of how the English speak.)

3) Like Pelecanos, Pearce throws in references to pop music throughout the story. But the mentions are just brief throwaways. The music means nothing to the characters, they aren’t playing it themselves because they like it – it’s just music they hear over the radio as they drive, or hear coming out of a club as they walk by or enter. It recalls the time, the era of the story – but nothing else.

4) The dialogue is perhaps realistic? But also a bit leaden. Just one example.

Paula Garland came back in and closed the red door. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘No, it’s me that should be sorry, just phoning up …’
‘Don’t be daft. Sit down will you.’
‘Thanks,’ I said and sat down …
She started to say, ‘About last night, I …’
I put up my hands. ‘Forget it.’
‘What’s happened to your hand?’ Paula Garland had her own hand to her mouth, staring at the graying lump of bandages on the end of my arm.
‘Someone slammed my car door on it.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘No.’
‘Who?’
‘Two policemen.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
I looked up and tried to smile. ‘I thought you might be able to tell me.’
‘Me?’
She had a piece of red cotton thread … blah
But I said, ‘The same two coppers warned me off after I was here on Sunday.’
‘Sunday?’
‘The first time I came here.’
‘I never said anything to the police.’
‘Who did you tell?’
‘Just our Paul.’
‘Who else?’
‘No-one.’
‘Please tell me?’
Paul Garland was standing … blah
‘Please, Mrs Garland …’
‘Paula’, she whispered.
I just wanted to stop … blah
But I said, ‘Paula please, I need to know.’
… ‘After you went, I was upset and …’
‘Please?’

Oh well.

Look, there are two more books in this series. As of May '17 I've decided I will try to get the next book in the series read - maybe sometime this year.

But I’m just not bowled over by Mr. Pearce. Maybe you will be. If you like raw crime fiction give it a try.

NB. By the way, as I understand, the reason for all the accolades was basically the backstory of the novels, that is, the utter corruption of the regional police and the horrendous violence they routinely perpetrated in order to cover up this corruption. So maybe you're not supposed to pay too much attention to the characterization?

[Becky · Rating 4 out of 5]

If ever there was a book to really make you appreciate how versatile the word "fuck" can be, I think this might be it.

I'm not sure if that's a compliment or not. You'd think it would be, from me, considering that it could be considered a 'get rich quick' scheme for someone to put a swear jar in my vicinity. But my goodness, there were a fucking lot of fucks being said in this book, and I think that, in combination with the slang, it tended to muddy the waters a bit and make it harder to follow conversations. It was a bit hard to follow in general, though, especially when there's apparently an unwritten rule where one never finishes a sentence or question, and one never gives a full answer when a grunt will do.

Not that I'm complaining all that much about it. It's far more realistic this way than if everyone was super forthcoming and just spilled all of their secrets bond villain style. But what did not help at all was the fact that there were so many recycled names. Multiple Clares, one being a young girl who is the catalyst for the story when she goes missing, and the other one being a middle-aged Scottish woman. Multiple Pauls/Paulas, double Barrys and Johns, etc. Basically, what I'm getting at is that, between the reused character names, choppy dialog, the dialect, the slang, and the busy-bee "fuck", I was doing a lot of context guessing and a lot of hoping that things would make sense in the end.

And now you're dying to know: DID things make sense in the end? Umm, kinda. The whodunnit's revealed and whatnot... but it was a bit messy and convoluted, and a little bit out of left field. Like life, I guess. And I'm not even sure if THAT is a complaint, because... well, the structure of the story, and the narrative, are just kind of neurotic and random and always a step behind and confused... so the resolution being that way, while a little frustrating for the reader, does fit.

This story is broken into three parts. Parts one and two felt a lot like build up to me. There were a shitton of strings going in every direction, with our narrator, Eddie, following them rather blindly and not quite knowing what the fuck he's doing, but just feeling like there's something more and that things just aren't quite right, so he keeps digging until he's in over his head. (Well, to be fair, he was in over his head from the start.. but he just didn't know it yet.)

Part three, though. Part three starts with a fucking wrench to the face and then graduates to sledgehammers and keeps hitting. Never having read David Peace before, I wasn't sure how much to trust the narrative style. I mean, it's first person, right? So one naturally assumes that the narrator is going to make it through to the end of the book? Except that a skilled writer who isn't afraid to fuck with the reader's head can get around that... and Peace is one of those, for sure.

Eddie is the kind of character that I just wanted to slap, constantly. He is an inexperienced, weak, idealistic, selfish, dick. He wants to see his name in print, but won't stand up for himself or his story, and let's his senior staff walk all over him. Granted, he does whatever he wants anyway, but I just wanted him to grow a pair. But then the deeper he goes into his investigation, the more... unhinged he becomes. His sort of unraveling is fascinating, in a "Oh shit, where is this going??" kind of way. It was very deftly handled, and he's about as unreliable as they get. Even I didn't trust him... though I WANTED to trust that he was at least being honest with himself and trying to get to the truth, despite his being a totally unstable shitbag.

The investigation into the missing girl goes fucking EVERYWHERE and ties into just about everything. There are, as I mentioned before, a TON of characters, many of them sharing names, and it is hard at times to keep them straight. So, as I said before, it's something of a mess, though it does all.. mostly, come together in the end. There are a few loose ends though - and these may be tied up throughout the rest of the series... or maybe not and they were just forgotten, or there was some oblique reference to them that I missed or something.

I don't know where I'm going with this review. I can't say that this book was light reading in any sense (content or style), but once it started to pick up, it was hard to put back down, so overall, I enjoyed it quite a lot.

[Paul Bryant · Rating 1 out of 5]

VERY GENERAL SPOILER ALERT

I just saw the TV movie dramatisation of this, entitled “Red Riding 1974” and I wanted to make a couple of notes here for myself really, to try and figure out a) why I hated it and b) why everyone else loved it. This is a not unfamiliar feeling for me of course but usually it’ll be some major Hollywood blockbuster (Avatar!) or some chintzy adaptation of Charlotte Bronte that everyone is swooning about while I remain sneering haughtily at the array of lemmings before me. (It’s not a pleasant characteristic I know.) Red Riding, though, is just up my street – gritty crime story set in working-class England in the 1970s, what’s not to like? Well… once you peer through the grimy window and focus your eyes, you’re in any old plot-by-numbers thriller all the way back to Chandler and Hammett, the guys who invented the cliches. And by now I'm demanding that thriller/crime story writers should have a whole NEW set of cliches. but David peace hasn't discovered them yet. So In this story you get
- the hero is a jack-the-lad who gets to shag the women
- there is a person who is trying to spill the beans to the hero but who’s drugged/imprisoned in a mental instutution/both before she can
- there is a femme fatale who looks innocent but it turns out she’s all mixed up with the bad guys – surprise!!
- all the cops are corrupt
- the hero takes many bad beatings but just like a toy in a budgerigar’s cage keeps woozily popping right back up, nothing can hospitalise this guy
- the bad guys keep killing anyone who knows too much just before the hero gets to them
- the bad guys don’t mind killing the peripheral people, but for some strange reason they balk at killing the hero – now why would that be? Because it would be inconvenient for the author? Could be!

That’s on one level but there’s another thing which is much worse. A book/movie like this is the expression of a particular quasi-political argument which I don’t buy, which is our old friend the Conspiracy Theory. The whole plot can be summed up thus: they’re all in on it! This book is dressed up in the grungy clothing of verisimilitude – naturalistic setting and dialogue, expertly rendered period detail, references to real events – but it peddles a giant falsehood, which is in this case that top policemen would collude with a rich local businessman who happens to get off on slaughtering children (!); and the web of deceit involves local newspaper editors and various cop minions. I don’t buy the psychology of the rich worldly guy who likes killing children and I don’t buy the conspiracy – but many many people do, just as many people don’t think Arabs flew the planes on 9/11. How serious are we to take this? Well, when it’s Bond fighting Goldfinger we know it’s a funny fantasy. But when the author is using child murder and police corruption for his story we may feel a little disappointed to discover they’re just as much props to his noirish adolescent paranoia as the Batcave and green kryptonite were in the comics I used to collect.

That said, the movie is beautifully shot and acted. All dressed up and nowhere to go.

[Dagio_maya · Rating 1 out of 5]

”In attesa del mio primo articolo di Prima Pagina, con la firma e tutto, finalmente: Edward Dunford, Corrispondente di Cronaca Nera per l'Inghilterra del Nord; due giorni troppo tardi, cazzo.
Lanciai un'occhiata all'orologio di mio padre.
Erano le nove del mattino e nemmeno uno di noi poveri stronzi era stato a letto; eravamo passati direttamente dal Circolo della Stampa a quell'inferno, con ancora addosso il puzzo di birra.”


Siamo nello Yorkshire ed il dicembre del 1974 (ma va?).
Il cronista Edward Dunford è con i colleghi alla conferenza stampa convocata nel stazione di polizia: Clare Kemplay, dieci anni, è scomparsa mentre andava a scuola.

Comincia così una corsa adrenalinica, a caccia della verità.
Non ci si risparmia nulla e si procede con uno stile sconnesso ma che ben riflette l’alternarsi tra i truci pensieri di Dunford (già in partenza abbastanza disturbato) tendenti allo stato allucinatorio e una realtà dove la violenza è all’ennesima potenza.

Non mi piace essere definitiva nelle mie affermazioni e sono convinta che il “mai dire mai” valga ancora.
Quindi non dirò che il genere “hard boiled” non fa in assoluto per me.
Mi attengo a quello che ho letto e dato che ne esco fisicamente nauseata non leggerò i successivi della serie Red Riding Quartet di cui questo è il primo.
[Forse quando incontrerò un protagonista meno misogino/omofobo/razzista…chissà?]

Può della buona musica fare un buon film?
Direi di no.
Può della buona musica fare un buon libro?
E proprio no.

Però, ecco quello che salvo da questo libro è della buona musica anni ’70.
-Playlist-

Carpenters- “We've only just begun”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=__VQX...

David Bowie- “Life on Mars”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AZKcl...
Rebel rebel
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U16Xg...

Desmond Dekker & The Aces - "Israelites"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mxtfd...

Hey Song - Rock n roll part 2- Gary Glitter
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t-hB1...

Elton John- “Good bye Yellow Brick Road”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DDOL7...

Elvis- Always on My Mind
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d4lVk...

The Bay City Rollers All Of Me Loves All Of You
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bg_BM...

Aretha Franklin "Young, Gifted And Black"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aclO4...

John Kincade - Dreams Are Ten A Penny
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Od8w...



• Ma attenzione! La melodia che domina in questa storia è “Tubular Bells” (Mike Oldfield)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TXvtD...
(per chi non lo sapesse è la musica utilizzata ne “L’esorcista”...ho detto tutto..)

[Paul Bryant · Rating 1 out of 5]

Blech.

Oh how the crime thriller is a paradoxical conflation
Of the realistic and the bonkers in one tough narration.
Our author requires us to sit back and gape
At his tale of child torture and of course anal rape.

Like every other crime thriller, this packs in as many exact details as possible and he’s very good on English life in Leeds in December 1974 – it’s gritty, unceasingly unpleasant, and the incessant use of the F word is very authentic in certain areas of English society. But the more the story ploughs on in a relentless James Ellroyish way (David Peace is a big fan) the stupider it gets. I can refer to two big plot items which are not spoilers because they are mentioned in the blurb (watch out, the first one is gruesome).

1. The child killer stitches a pair of real swan wings to his latest 10 year old victim. So when did you ever hear of something outlandish like that happening in the actual world? Never. Leaving aside the fact that it would be physically impossible to do that (the wings would not be able to be sewn, they’d be too heavy), murderers don’t have those kind of florid fantasies – or maybe they do, but they don’t have the time or the resources to put them into practice. They just want to rape, torture and murder, nothing as fancy as swan’s wings.

2. By the end of the book there’s a series of child murders but also, within the space of a week, a series of criminal-conspiracy murders of adults – maybe six or seven in total, I may have lost count. A series of murders like that has never happened in Britain. I’m not saying it never could, but it never has so far. Six related execution-style murders in one town in one week? It’s off-the-scale ridiculous. Leeds in 1974 was not Ciudad Juárez in 2010.

So you get the realistic surface and the florid conspiracy theory. We can see this in miniature when the hero reporter takes a terrific series of beatings and tortures lasting at least 24 hours (inflicted by a whole stationful of bent coppers), and then is dumped at the side of a road someplace, and then springs back into life and is on the trail of the bad guys as soon as he wakes – and doesn’t require the week in hospital to recover. Same thing would happen in Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns, but there it was all part of the fun. Here, with your gritty realism, it’s beyond parody.

I just read James Baldwin’s amazing short story "Going to See the Man". There is hair-raising very extreme violence in this story, real violence which you feel in your heart and bones. It’s there because it was there in real life. It’s not there because you have to crank up the shock value to get through to the jaded.

1974 is a sad indictment of itself and its genre.

[Susan · Rating 4 out of 5]

Set in Leeds, in the run up to Christmas 1974, this novel is full of anything but Christmas cheer. Edward Dunford is the North of England crime correspondent on the Yorkshire Post - desperate to make his name and always coming second to veteran reporter Jack Whitehead, a man on easy terms with both the police and court personnel. The story begins during a conference at a police station, asking for information on missing ten year old Clare Kemplay. After the conference, Dunford rushes to the funeral of his father and, in many ways, the entire book is like that opening chapter. This is noir at it's darkest, with Edward Dunford chasing leads amongst a cynical population, where the police are corrupt and the 'good guys' only less marginally violent than the criminals.

It is soon apparent that Dunford is in far over his head. A story he had previously covered about the 'Ratcatcher', that by a colleague about building regulations, missing schoolgirls, a missing rugby player and gangsters collide in a frenetic and utterly compelling storyline. This is a world of pub toilets, office banter, physical attacks and, more than anything, the loss of three little girls. It is fair to say that none of the characters are particularly likeable, even our 'hero' Dunford - whose search for the truth owes as much to his career as his desire to find the truth, especially at the beginning of the book, and who is not even thoughtful towards the two women who he is linked to. However, if you like your crime realistic, violent, fast paced and hard hitting, it is fair to say that you will like this. I intend to take a deep breath before embarking on book two Red Riding Nineteen Seventy Seven: Red Riding Quartet.

[Makis Dionis · Rating 4 out of 5]

Γραφή δρόμου.
Στακατη, βρώμικη, συναρπαστική

Παντού νεκρα
Παρκαρα έξω από ένα κατάστημα παπουτσιών
Άνοιξα το Πορτ μπαγκαζ
Έβγαλα από τη μαύρη σακούλα την καραμπίνα
Τη γέμισα επιτόπου
Εχωσα στην τσέπη μου μερικά φυσίγγια
Διέσχισα κάθετα το δρόμο
Άνοιξα την πόρτα κι ανέβηκα τα σκαλιά ένα ένα

Όλοι ήταν στην μπάρα και παντού γύρω τους υπήρχαν ουίσκι και πούρα:
Ο Ντέρεκ Μποξ,ο Πολ, ο αρχιφύλακας Κρέιβεν κι ο αστυφύλακας Ντάγκλας

Το τζουκ μποξ έπαιζε το Ροκ εν Ρολ παρτ 2

[Roman Clodia · Rating 4 out of 5]

For the first time my prayers were not for me but for everyone else, that all of those things in my notebooks, on all of those tapes, in all of those envelopes and bags in my room, that none of them were true, that the dead were alive and the lost were found, and that all of those lives could be lived anew.

Given that 'dark' and 'bleak' are standard adjectives used about contemporary crime fiction, this book stands out not so much for the depictions of viciousness (though they're there) but for the visceral aura of violence which overhangs and permeates the text. No-one comes off well: not the anti-hero reporter who puts his life at risk for both the story and his own by-line, not the wives of depraved businessmen, certainly not the police (with one possible exception).

Peace writes with vigour and at a frenetic pace which pushes us through the book at top-speed. There are moments when his prose is almost poetic: the black, depraved poetry of a Baudelaire, dripping with the secretions of the human body. At other times, he's not quite in control: I didn't believe how much of the time our narrator spends crying; and the dreams get over-used even in a narrative which is part nightmare.

Overall, though, a gut-punch of a book that leaves other corruption-and-brutality-in-high-places stories standing.

[Toby · Rating 4 out of 5]

A brilliantly bleak British Christmas noir, told first person from the perspective of an ambitious young crime correspondent as he investigates the seemingly related abduction, rape, torture and murder of young girls in Yorkshire in the early 1970s. Set against police and council corruption and the apparent disintegration of British society, Peace weaves a tale based on actual events and loaded with historical references.

Other than his willingness ta take the reader in to the darkest reaches of what men are capable of Peace's most remarkable feat is the slow disintegration of the mind of his protagonist represented by a lack of cohesion to his narrtion the further down the rabbit hole he goes. Often compared to James Ellroy because of his dark subject matter, sentence structure and pop culture references, 1974 is no different, although he is much more literary than Ellroy's staccato sentences can reach and despite Edward Dunford being a little shit of a protagonist I found myself taking a liking to him in a way that I just couldn't ever imagine doing with Elrroy's men.

[Nancy Oakes · Rating 4 out of 5]

Rereading the entire Red Riding Quartet after many years have gone by, and I'd forgotten how brutal this novel is. I will post more about this book when I've read the other three.

Not for the faint of heart for sure; extremely disturbing and noirest of noir.

more to come

[Gavin Armour · Rating 5 out of 5]

Re-Lektüre, Wieder-Lektüre, Neu-Lektüre [?] – Zwischen 2005 und 2008 wurde David Peace` Romanquintett „Red Riding“[1] – 1974 (Original: NINETEEN SEVENTY-FOUR; 1999), 1977 (NINETEEN SEVENTY-SEVEN; 2000), 1980 (NINETEEN EIGHTY; 2001) und 1983 (NINETEEN EIGHTY-THREE; 2002) – auch auf Deutsch veröffentlicht, womit die berühmt-berüchtigte Reihe, die in England bereits Kult-Status errungen hatte, auch hierzulande bekannt wurde. Jedes Jahr ein Roman der Reihe – man las es und war überfahren von der sprachlichen Wucht, Peace´ ungeheurem stilistischen Willen, diesen Wortkaskaden, die auf den Leser niederprasseln, und seinem Mut, etwas zu bieten, das nominell als Kriminalliteratur gehandelt wurde und im Kern eigentlich das genaue Gegenteil ist. Denn nichts beweisen diese Werke mehr, als daß es nichts aufzuklären gibt, wo niemand an Aufklärung interessiert ist. Und hier, in keinem der vier Romane, ist wirklich jemand um Aufklärung von Verbrechen interessiert – und die, die es sind, überleben meist nicht. Oder sie sind so tief in eigene Schuld, eigenes Versagen und all die kleineren und größeren Korruptionen des (polizeilichen oder politischen) Alltags verstrickt, daß ihr Wille zum Wissen sie früher oder später in Regionen menschlicher Abgründe führt, aus denen sie nicht mehr zurückfinden.

Schaut man dann die Verfilmungen, die Channel 4 im Jahr 2009 auf Basis der Romane produzieren ließ und die das Geschehen zwar dramatisiert und für eine Filmversion gestrafft haben, es dennoch verstehen, den Geist von Peace´ Werken einzufangen, will man irgendwann noch einmal genau wissen, wie das in den Romanen war. Und nimmt sie zur Hand und entdeckt sie neu, wenn man sie in einem Rutsch hintereinander weg liest. Re-Lektüre? Vielleicht. In gewissem Sinne ist es aber ganz sicher auch eine Neu-Lektüre, kann man sich so doch sehr viel besser auf all die Figuren, die Namen, die Zusammenhänge und scheinbaren Koinzidenzen konzentrieren und versteht dieses Geflecht sehr viel besser als beim ersten Mal. Denn bei der Erst-Lektüre ist es zunächst Peace´ Stil, mit dem der Leser zu kämpfen hat, vor allem in den Bänden zwei, drei und vier. Es ist ein im besten Sinne postmoderner Stil. Eine Collage, ein Pastiche, ein sich nie erklärendes Mosaik aus Wiederholungen, aus Mantren ähnelnden Absätzen, die wieder und wieder, Refrains gleich, die Texte strukturieren (oder auch de-strukturieren), aus Songfragmenten, Ausschnitten von Radio-Sendungen, Übertragungen polizeilicher Ermittlungsakten. Das alles vermischt mit geraunten Berichten aus der Hölle, dargeboten von verschiedenen Ich-Erzählern, die uns berichten und bei denen wir dann lernen müssen, daß ihre Berichte direkt aus dem Reich der Toten kommen können, immer neuen und immer wiederholten Andeutungen und losen Enden. Hinzu kommen erzählende Passagen und reine, manchmal seitenlange Dialoge, die man sehr genau lesen sollte, um zu verstehen, wer da gerade spricht und um die Fallstricke, die doppelten Böden und hinterlistigen Hinweise zu entdecken, die der Autor gerade in ihnen, in ihrem oftmals nur alltäglich anmutenden Inhalten, versteckt. Peace macht es seinen Lesern wahrlich nicht leicht. Aber warum auch? Er erzählt aus einer Dekade, die es den Menschen nicht leicht gemacht hat und von Begebenheiten, die wahrlich alles andere als leicht waren.

Nominell kreisen alle Bände lose um die Geschehnisse in West-Yorkshire in den titelgebenden Jahren, wobei die Morde des sogenannten ‚Yorkshire-Ripper“ Peter William Sutcliffe die Klammer bilden. Band zwei und drei befassen sich dann auch direkt mit der Suche nach dem Prostituierten-Mörder, der schließlich 1980 eher durch Zufall gefasst werden konnte. Doch geht es Peace weder darum, die Geschichte eines Serienkillers zu erzählen, noch, heldenhafte Polizisten auf der gefährlichen Suche nach dem Ungeheuer zu begleiten. Viel mehr nutzt er die Ermittlungsarbeiten als eine Art Blaupause, die es ihm erlaubt, das Portrait einer Gesellschaft zu zeichnen, die vielleicht schon komplett dem Wahnsinn verfallen ist. Eine Gesellschaft, die sich von jeglichem Glauben, aller Hoffnung und jedwedem Mitgefühl abgewendet hat und in die Abgründe ihrer eigenen Verdorbenheit blickt.

Im ersten Band, 1974, liegen die Morde, zumindest die der Öffentlichkeit bekannten, noch in der Zukunft. Hier kehrt der Jung-Reporter Eddie Dunford in seine Heimat im Norden Englands zurück, wo er bei der Evening Post eine Stelle als Gerichtsreporter antritt. Er war einige Jahre in London und hat dort versucht, bei der „Fleet-Street-Meute“ unterzukommen, also jenen Hauptstadtjournalisten, deren Redaktionen traditionell in der berühmten Fleet Street beheimatet sind. Es gehört zu Peace´ Strategie, uns wissen zu lassen, daß Eddie dort irgendetwas versaut hat – ob privat oder beruflich – aber uns nie darüber aufzuklären, was es war, das ihn zurück in die Provinz getrieben hat. Schnell wird er nun auf den Fall Clare Kemplay angesetzt, ein junges Mädchen, das entführt, mißbraucht, gefoltert und ermordet wurde. Er kommt mit den diensthabenden und ermittelnden Polizisten in Kontakt, muß sich gegen den von ihm verhassten Vorgänger Jack Whitehead – zweimaliger „Gerichtsreporter des Jahres“ – zur Wehr setzen und vor allem begreifen, daß es sehr viel besser ist, sich mit gewissen Kreisen gut und allgemein nicht zu viele Fragen zu stellen, denn, so erklärt es ihm der Polizist Bob Craven in einer der unangenehmsten Szenen des Buches, „dies ist der Norden und hier machen wir, was wir wollen!“ Wobei immer im Unklaren bleibt, wen dieses „Wir“ eigentlich umfasst.

Peace webt ein unglaublich dichtes Geflecht aus mehr oder weniger in den Fall (besser: die Fälle, denn Eddie ist bald überzeugt, daß man es hier mit einem Serientäter zu tun hat, der mindestens schon in den Jahren 1969 und 1972 zugeschlagen hat) verwickelten Personen, die in völlig undurchschaubaren Beziehungen zueinander stehen. Und viele dieser losen Enden werden sich erst im Laufe der Folgebände klären, beziehungsweise lösen lassen, einige aber werden im Dunkel der Geschichte und ihrer Geheimnisse verschwinden. Restlos aufgeklärt wird hier nichts, denn zu viel steht für zu viele auf dem Spiel. Und zu viele offizielle Personen – Polizisten, Stadtabgeordnete, Bauleiter und Beamte und allerlei Geschäftsleute, die ihre jeweils eigenen Süppchen kochen – nutzen die Vorgänge sowohl um den Mord an Clare Kemplay, als auch später jene um den Ripper, um ihre eigenen Geheimnisse, ihre Geschäfte und Machenschaften zu kaschieren – und zu viele sind schlicht und ergreifend zu tief in Verbrechen verwickelt, die gefährlich nahe an die Kindermorde heranführen.

So ist es nur folgerichtig, daß der Leser, dem immer nur die Perspektive des erzählenden Eddie Dunford geboten wird, den Passionsweg des Reporters nachvollziehen muß. Und genau das ist es: Ein Passionsweg. Denn Eddie gräbt viel zu tief, er wirbelt viel zu viel Staub auf und kommt viel zu wichtigen Leuten in die Quere, als daß man ihn einfach machen ließe. Ihn machen lassen könnte. Peace legt stilistisch hier schon an, was in den Folgebänden immer manifester wird: Das Offene des Erzählens, die Andeutungen, die nie geklärt werden und den Manierismus (und es ist ein Manierismus) der Wiederholung von einzelnen Worten, Sätzen und Absätzen. Zudem schafft er ununterbrochen eine Atmosphäre, die dem Leser während der Lektüre den Eindruck vermittelt, daß das Eigentliche irgendwo passiert, wo Eddie – und also wir – nicht ist. Oder daß es hinter dem Wenigen, das Eddie wirklich offenlegt, immer noch ein Anderes gibt, etwas, das wir nicht greifen, nicht fassen können, eine zweite Wahrheit, eine zweite – vielleicht dritte, vierte, fünfte – Wirklichkeit, in deren Geheimnisse wir nie eindringen werden. Es ist eine bedrohliche Atmosphäre, in der einige – Polizisten, Reporter, Chefredakteure – immer schon etwas zu wissen scheinen, nichts preisgeben, ihren Kollegen aber in offene Messer rennen lassen. Bis sich der Leser fragt: Weshalb? Weshalb wird dieser junge, bei all seinen Fehlern doch engagierte Mann so hingehängt? Doch auch dafür wird uns nie eine Erklärung geliefert, was das Gefühl des Bodenlosen, des Haltlosen, des Bösen, wenn man so will, immer weiter verstärkt. Die Folgebände werden einiges klären, aber meist um den Preis, daß die Ungeheuerlichkeit dieser zweiten, dritten, vierten, fünften Wahrheit und Wirklichkeit immer ungreifbarer, immer komplexer und auch immer bedrohlicher wird.

Peace gelingt aber eben auch das realistische Bild eines provinziellen Englands Mitte der 70er Jahre. Die dreckigen, klebrigen Pubs mit ihren Resopaltischen, den schnellen Pints und billigen Whiskeys, die schmierigen Imbissbuden, der Dreck in den Straßen und die heruntergekommene Infrastruktur, die billig und schnell gebauten Sozialsiedlungen der 60er Jahre, die schon nach einem Jahrzehnt zu bröckeln beginnen – all diese Zeichen der englischen Wirklichkeit jener Jahre dienen Peace, um seiner durchaus auch vom Irrationalen getragene Erzählung die richtige Erdung, die passende Kulisse zu geben. Dazu tragen aber auch die bereits erwähnten Einschübe aus Radiosendungen, Zeitungsartikeln und TV-Berichten bei, die oft auf politische, sportliche oder kulturelle Ereignisse fokussieren, die mit der Handlung selbst nichts zu tun haben. Zumindest nicht unmittelbar.

1974 ist sicher der zugänglichtse Band des Quartetts, hier wird die Grundstruktur gelegt, hier werden die Figuren eingeführt, die mal weniger, mal mehr in den Vordergrund treten im Laufe der Entwicklungen in den Folgebänden. Da treten Personen auf, die später, viel später, wesentliche Handlungs- oder dramaturgische Funktionsträger werden. Um die Zusammenhänge und Beziehungen zu begreifen, bietet sich die zügig aufeinander folgende Lektüre aller Bände geradezu an, da man kaum alle Details, alle Andeutungen und Hinweise über längere Zeit wird behalten können. Mit Eddie Dunford begegnet uns hier ein Protagonist, der zwar auch seine Fehler hat, der wenig empathisch, wenig sensibel ist, dem es lange vor allem um seine Position als Reporter, letztlich also um seine Karriere, geht, der aber irgendwann – und es ist schwierig, den Moment, in dem das passiert, zu definieren oder zu markieren – eine Grenze überschreitet, in einen emotionalen Bereich der Betroffenheit eintritt und dann und damit seinen Abstieg in die Hölle beginnt. Seinen Passionsweg, wobei diese religiöse Begrifflichkeit ganz gut passt, bei dem, was der Autor dem Leser in allen vier Bänden bietet.

Am Ende dieses Weges steht Gewalt, fürchterliche Gewalt, Gewalt, die Eddie ausüben wird, und das scheint fast folgerichtig, denn Gewalt ist das bevorzugte Kommunikationsmittel nahezu aller, die hier auftreten. Zumindest aller Männer. Peace´ Welt ist eine Männerwelt. Frauen, mehr noch Kinder, sind hier Opfer. Sie sind Waren. Sie sind Objekte männlicher Begierde und genau damit auch männlicher Verachtung. Peace´ Welt ist als männliche eine sexualisierte, vor allem aber eine gewalttätige Welt. Er scheut sich nicht, diese Gewalt zu beschreiben, allerdings nutzt er sie nie zur Erheiterung (heiter im Sinne von unterhaltsam ist hier so oder so nichts), er suhlt sich auch nicht in ihr, obwohl sie momentweise erschreckend explizit ist, erst recht verherrlicht er sie nicht. Er stellt sie dar, oft stilisiert, immer nüchtern. Jede Art von Gewalt – physische (vor allem Folter durch die Polizei), sexuelle und auch psychische – wird hier ausgeübt. Der Blick des Autors ist der Blick auf eine Gesellschaft, die zynisch geworden ist, eine Gesellschaft, deren einziges, wenn überhaupt vorhandenes, emotionales Movens Sentiment ist, da jedwede natürliche Regung sofort als Schwäche gebrandmarkt und ausgenutzt wird. So kann man schlußendlich nur jenen zustimmen, die nicht müde werden zu betonen, daß wirklich gute Kriminalliteratur immer Gesellschaftsliteratur ist. David Peace führt diese Sichtweise an ihr bitteres, ihr konsequentes Ende.

Ihr, die hier eintretet, lasset alle Hoffnung fahren.

[1] Ridings sind traditionelle Verwaltungseinheiten der englischen Grafschaftorkshire Der Begriff geht auf das Altnorwegische zurück, wo es den „dritten Teil“ bezeichnet.

[Jennifer · Rating 5 out of 5]

Vivid, gritty, and just a plain brilliant noir crime thriller. The writing is excellent.

Nineteen Seventy Four takes place in 1974 West Yorkshire, Northern England over the course of the week leading up to Christmas. Young newbie crime journalist, Edward Dunford, has just come off his first case reportage covering the grotesque Ratcatcher, a homicide-suicide involving a middle-aged man and his sister who shared a house together. In the time between the Ratcatcher case concluding and seeing to his father's funeral, his editor gives him his next big break to cover a murder story of a young girl found on a building site with swan's wings sewn into her back.

As he begins to investigate the case which he believes is linked to two other young girls' unsolved murders dating to 1968 and 1972 he meets with resistance from those who refuse to see it as anything other than an isolated instance. Eddie finds himself up against a corrupt police force, crooked real estate developers, parents of the murdered children who refuse to speak to him, and others afraid to get involved due to violent physical repercussions. His nemesis, Jack Whitehead, awarded crime correspondent exemplar year over year also stands in his way. To get to the bottom of the story, Eddie must change his tactics and not be afraid to get himself hurt.

If you're a fan of noir crime, I highly recommend this fast-paced, edge of your seat read.

[Kirsten · Rating 1 out of 5]

I'm either stupid or this was poorly written, because I have literally no idea what happened in this book. I don't even know who the main character was, really - at one point he's a writer, and then he's confessing to crimes, knocking down doors, raping people (how does that even play into this, I honestly was just so beyond confused at this point that it didn't even phase me), and I don't even know who ended up being the culprit. The thought process was so twisted and disjointed that I honestly didn't know who anyone was at any given point in the book. The amount to which I disliked this book is so disheartening because I had been really excited to read it for years (ever since I found out Andrew Garfield starred in the film/TV adaptation) and now it was such a huge letdown. You know when you're "reading" a book but you're only looking at the words? That was me through this whole book.

This will be the first time I remove things from my To-Read list, and I'm only doing it because I know the other three will be as torturous as this one.
Ugh, so unimpressed right naw.

[emily · Rating 3 out of 5]

‘A circus here, a circus there; here today, gone tomorrow.’

Surprisingly (to me) this is quite brilliant. Usually I can’t do novels so packed with dialogues (especially when they are very ‘simple’, full of ‘clichés’ (not so much in this one I don't think) and don't really open up to new ideas/go anywhere (doesn't apply to this one)). For instance, I’ve tried Ballard a few times, and I just can’t do any of them pass a quarter way through because of that very reason (that being the primary reason anyway, I feel). But with Peace, he’s very ‘direct’. Every line is well-considered and intentional (or seems to be). They’re so ‘succinct’ that they almost remind me of poetry/free verse. But I could be the only one to say this about his writing (let’s hope not; validate me).

“If you want to know the artist, look at the art.” He was usually talking about Stanley Matthews or Don Bradman when he said it.

“Everything’s linked. Show me two things that aren’t connected.”

“Stoke City and the League fucking Championship,” laughed Gaz again, Mr Sport, lighting up another.

“Big match tomorrow, eh?” I said, part-time football fan.

“Be a right fucking shambles if it’s owt like last week.”

I thought I wouldn’t like this, but I actually ended up thinking that the writing was clever. The setting and characters were so well-written (don’t get me wrong, none of them were likeable). For me, the hyperviolence so often topples over to either homoeroticism, or simply and absurdly dark comedy (which is probably not the writer’s intention, but just the way I read/perceived or rather responded to it). Half-laughs inducing — like I’m obviously uncomfortable about it, but also impressed that it was written that way. I think horror/violence and sex/romance are a few of the most difficult things to write well because it could just end up appearing ridiculous and resembling a bad imitation of something else — ‘kitschy’ is not the right/accurate definition, but I think something along those lines.

‘There was Elvis on the jukebox.

“Power’s like glue. It sticks men like us together, keeps everything in place.”

“You and Foster are…”

“We’re peas in a pod, me and him. We like to fuck and make a buck and we’re not right choosey how we do either. But he’s got too big for his fucking boots and now he’s cutting me out and it pisses me off.”

On the other side of the office, Gaz was taking bets on the Newcastle-Leeds game.’

The way Peace went about those matters in his novel is exactly how I like it/them to be — straight to the point, no gross authorly self-indulgence (which to me, always look/seem very trauma-pornographic or even just like the author having a literary wank sesh (and that’s just kind of ‘sad’ and gross to read/experience really)). Everything was well-described with well chosen diction, well-constructed lines, without any unnecessary extras. The characters are all so believable (but no less ‘bizarre’) as well; so well done in every way.

‘The half-time scores were coming up under the horses: Leeds were losing at Newcastle.

Yesterday Once More on the jukebox, my money. Fuck The Carpenters, my eyes stinging from my own smoke.

The M1 southbound out of Leeds, seven o’clock busy, the rain beginning to sleet in my headlights. Always on My Mind on the radio. Flicking through the radio stations, avoiding the news.

Newstead View was a single line of terraces looking out onto dirty moorland. Ponies grazed between rusting tractors and piles of scrap metal. A pack of dogs chased a plastic shopping bag up and down the road. Somewhere babies were crying.

“You tell me you love me, tell me you care, and then you fuck me up the arse and write this shit.” She picked up the paper, opened it, and started to read: A Mother’s Plea by Edward Dunford. Mrs Paula Garland, sister of the Rugby League star Johnny Kelly, wept as she told of her life—’

Reading Peace’s novel today in comparison to reading it closer to the publication date might make a difference perhaps? The real-life ‘crimes’ that influenced Peace’s writing are well-known and nothing surprising to ‘contemporary’ readers. But it’s the way that he so cleverly ‘used’ them that adds/results to the brilliance of the writing/novel as a whole. To reiterate, all the characters are very ‘real’ and horrendous people. There is no ‘hero’ in the story, not that one should be expecting one (but those who are more ‘used to’ reading popular crime novels might ‘want’ that feel-good ‘moral’ satisfaction/relief).

‘Huddersfield were playing Everton. Town got a free kick on the edge of the Everton area. Vie Metcalfe steps up, bends the ball round the wall, Jimmy Glazzard heads it in. Goal. Referee disallows it, forget why, says take it again. Metcalfe steps up again, bends the ball round the wall, Glazzard heads it in. Goal, the whole crowd in fucking stitches.’

Not surprised that this was adapted into a TV series(?). It makes sense. Felt ‘cinematic’ (excuse the horribly inaccurate phrase). Read this primarily because I thought the covers (of the tetralogy(?)/quartet) was stunning (or at least to my taste/preference — and I specifically meant the ones published by Serpent’s Tail). I think I might ‘enjoy’ the TV series(?) more ( like how I felt about ‘Sharp Objects’ by Gillian Flynn). Not because the writing is ‘lacking’, but just because this particular ‘story’ translates better on screen/film. Lots of car rides, music (song after song; just brilliant, complements the writing so well), fast action; fast-paced in general anyway. An easy read. Read someone comparing this to ‘True Detective’ (TV series), and I can see why the comparison was made, but I personally don’t agree with that (as I think very, very highly of ‘True Detective’ — and by that I meant Season 1, and only that one (I couldn’t care less about the rest)).

‘Fuhrer of a bunker of my own design, screaming, I’VE NEVER DONE BAD THINGS.

Tears soft and cock hard, screaming across six lanes of shit, I’VE NEVER DONE ONE SINGLE FUCKING GOOD THING.

Radio 2 suddenly silent, white motorway lines turning gold, men dressed in rags, men dressed in crowns, some men with wings, others without, braking hard to swerve around a crib of wood and straw.

Honey, I’m home.

Giving you all you ever wanted.’

[Sheila · Rating 4 out of 5]

Originally posted at www.bookertease.blogspot.ca

Now, I know that normally I do my book reviews at the midpoint… but having a few reviews under my belt by now, I have come to the realization that that doesn’t always work. Sometimes there is no secret to be uncovered so there is nothing for me to guess at. Other times I am just too enthralled in the story; the thought of stopping and then taking the few days to write a review is just too hard! Sometimes a book is just so messed up that if I stop reading I may start to realize just how fucked up it is, and I will never start reading again. That was the case for Nineteen Seventy Four by David Peace.

Nineteen Seventy Four is the first of four in a series entitled the Red Riding Quartet. The series deals with police and political corruption in Yorkshire and was inspired by the Yorkshire Ripper murders – active between 1975 and 1980. It’s the story of Eddie Dunford, The Evening Post’s new crime reporter, promoted days after his father death. Right away Eddie gets in over his head; trying to connect the disappearance of a little girl to those of other missing girls, he is told under no circumstances to explore the connection. Days later when the little girl is found dead with swan wings stitched into her back Eddie is more determined than ever to find the connection. Unfortunately, Eddie is a coward and not too bright… not really the guy to bring the underhanded politically connected to light. The story itself is kind of insane and I am not sure that I could even try to begin to explain it. Eddie goes down a rabbit hole that connects just about everyone to the murder; from construction workers to police officers, business men and local politicians. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with any of the information he obtains, half of it comes to him by accident, and he can’t seem to stop getting beat up. All the while his mother is in mourning and trying to get him to come home.

The story is incredibly convoluted, although it mostly comes together in the end. I know a guy who has read all 4 books and he says that the stories make more sense when read as a whole – so I guess I will have to get on the rest of them soon! Cause they weird thing is – even though it was confusing and horrifying; I devoured the book. It was compelling and intriguing… and I needed to know whether Eddie even made it out alive (it was touch and go many times).

I had never heard of David Peace before being recommended this series, so I did a bit of research on him before writing my review. He seems like a pretty interesting character. He grew up in Yorkshire around the time of the Yorkshire Ripper Murders and became obsessed with the murders, even to the point of being afraid that his father might be the ripper. It turned out to be one Peter Sutcliffe who was convicted of murdering 13 women and attempting to murder another 7. It was a pretty scary time in Yorkshire and left a lasting impression on Peace, as he says in an interview with Crime Time “I wrote about Yorkshire in the 1970s and early 1980s because that was where I was and when I grew up and I still have the scars.” Peace also goes on to talk about the responsibility of being a crime writer; “I believe the crime writer, by their choice of genre, is obligated to document these times and their crimes, and the writer who choose to ignore the responsibility is then simply exploiting, for his or her own financial or personal gratification, a genre that is itself nothing more than an entertainment industry constructed upon the sudden, violent deaths of other, innocent people and the unending, suffering of their families.” Normally I am not so interested in an author’s background – but the uniqueness of the horror that Peace writes had me intrigued. He is critical of most other crime writers, while praising the efforts of a few - but he is very specific about his criteria for how crime should be written “Crime is brutal, harrowing and devastating for everyone involved, and crime fiction should be every bit as brutal, harrowing and devastating as the violence of the reality it seeks to document. Anything less as best sanitises crime and its effects, at worst trivialises it. Anything more exploits other people’s misery as purely vicarious entertainment. It is a very, very fine line.” It was very interesting to read these statements given that I found Peace’s descriptions of the crimes in his book as particularly gratuitous – he wants his writing to be ‘brutal, harrowing and devastating’ so how does he even determine what is crossing the line? How does one determine how much and which ‘truth’ should be given out? Especially when one is writing crime ‘fiction’?

It keeps making me laugh that I rated this book so highly yet I seem to be pretty disparaging about it. I definitely do not recommend it for everyone, maybe only fans of pretty descriptive crime writing, or rather people who don’t mind it. I am looking forward to finishing the series. I want to know where Eddie ends up in life… I don’t expect he makes it very far….

[Έρση Λάβαρη · Rating 4 out of 5]

Νομίζω πως αρχικά (κυρίως επειδή πολλοί άλλοι έχουν πολύ πιο ουσιώδεις παρατηρήσεις απ' τις δικές μου) πρέπει να τονίσω το εξής: ετούτο εδώ είναι ένα τρομερά εκκεντρικό μυθιστόρημα. Το είδος, αυτός ο ιδιαίτερος τρόπος που παίρνει μπρος η πλοκή αλλά και το στιλ της γραφής, μου φαίνεται πως μιλούν σε μια πολύ συγκεκριμένη κατηγορία αναγνώστη.

Δεν ήξερα πως ήμουν και η ίδια τέτοιος αναγνώστης, μέχρι που το διάβασα. Τόσο η αφήγηση κι αυτός ο κάπως χαοτικός χαρακτήρας της όσο και η ιδιαίτερη ανάπτυξη της πλοκής σε συνδυασμό με την διαολεμένα παράξενη πέννα του Πις, τουλάχιστον με ενθουσίασαν. Οι αφιλτράριστες σκέψεις και οι αυθόρμητοι συνειρμοί του Έντουαρντ Ντάνφορντ συστήνουν γρήγορα μιαν αληθινή, ταπεινή προσωπικότητα, και η αντίληψή του για το περιβάλλον του και τους γύρω του αποτελούν, ως έναν βαθμό, μιαν ιδιότροπη παρηγοριά για το γεγονός ότι, καμιά φορά, όταν αισθανόμαστε πως όλα γύρω μας είναι πολύπλοκα και ακατανόητα με αποτέλεσμα η αναγκαία προσαρμογή μας σε καινούριες καταστάσεις να καθυστερεί, δεν ευθυνόμαστε μονάχα εμείς, αλλά και οι άλλοι γύρω μας.

Το μυθιστόρημα αρχίζει με την συνέντευξη τύπου σχετικά με την εξαφάνιση της δεκάχρονης Κλερ Κέμπλεϊ, στην οποία ο Έντουαρντ Ντάνφορντ, ως αστυνομικός συντάκτης της Ποστ, οφείλει να παραβρεθεί παρόλο που η κηδεία του πατέρα του έχει προγραμματιστεί σχεδόν για την ίδια ώρα. Μ' αυτό τον τρόπο ξεκινά μια κάπως διεστραμμένη ιστορία που καταφέρνει να συνδυάσει την κακοποίηση ζώων με τις απαγωγές παιδιών σε μια ευρεία κλίμακα που ταξιδεύει στον χρόνο μιαν ολόκληρη δεκαετία, και στην οποία ο Ντάνφορντ, ίσως λόγω της φιλοδοξίας του, εμπλέκεται επικίνδυνα. Ενώ η προσωπική του ζωή καταρρέει και η αποξένωσή του από το οικογενειακό του περιβάλλον οξύνεται σταδιακά, η υπόθεση που καλύπτει περιπλέκεται και μετατρέπεται σ' έναν ζωντανό εφιάλτη. Όσο αναδύονται περισσότερα περιστατικά αγνοούμενων κοριτσιών, όλα με τα ίδια φυσιογνωμικά χαρακτηριστικά, τόσο διευρύνεται και το πεδίο έρευνας του Ντάνφορντ, που έρχεται σε επαφή με όμορφες μητέρες που πενθούν, ασυνάρτητες πνευματίστριες που παραληρούν, εργολάβους οικοδομών που σιωπούν και δραματικές φιγούρες του υποκόσμου, που ο καθένας τους με το λιθαράκι του φαίνεται να τον εκθέτουν βαθμιαία σε κίνδυνο.

Η γλώσσα είναι άψογη, κατά τη γνώμη μου απόλυτα ταιριαστή με την αφήγηση, η οποία σε ορισμένα σημεία εκτρέπεται από την παραπλανητική της νηφαλιότητα και μετατρέπεται σε μια μεθυστικά χαώδη, άγρια εκδοχή της πρώτης, χωρίς ποτέ να ανακτά αυτή την σχετική πνευματική σαφήνεια με την οποία ξεκίνησε το μυθιστόρημα. Οι εικόνες είναι ζωντανές και σκοτεινές και διαδέχονται η μια την άλλη με μια σχεδόν κινηματογραφική αισθητική, και θολώνουν ομοιόμορφα και συγκεχυμένα προς το τέλος χωρίς να δίνουν απαντήσεις σε όλα τα ερωτήματα που εγείρονται από τις πρώτες κιόλας σελίδες. Το έδαφος καλλιεργείται με μαεστρία για την έλευση των επόμενων τόμων της τετραλογίας, δημιουργώντας εύστοχα μια διάθεση προσμονής.

Ο κεντρικός χαρακτήρας, ο Έντουαρντ Ντάνφορντ, μου έκανε μεγάλη εντύπωση. Είναι κάτι τελείως διαφορετικό από τον μέσο πρωταγωνιστή αστυνομικού μυθιστορήματος, και απέχει πολύ από τον ήρωα που έχουμε συνηθίσει να συναντάμε στα περισσότερα βιβλία του είδους. Είναι προσγειωμένος, ένας άνθρωπος σαν όλους τους άλλους, που τυχαίνει να έχει μιαν αρκετά μεγάλη αδυναμία στις γυναίκες και γερές δόσεις φιλοδοξίας. Εξελίσσεται με πολύ ενδιαφέρον μέσα σ' αυτές τις σχεδόν τετρακόσιες πενήντα σελίδες, μ' έναν ιδιαίτερο τρόπο που συνδυάζει την ανάγκη, την απόρριψη και τον παραλογισμό. Δεν είναι δειλός, ούτε όμως προσποιείται τον γενναίο, και προσπαθεί, μέσα από τις διάφορες περιστάσεις που καλείται να αντιμετωπίσει, να επιβιώσει.

Εν πολλοίς, η ιδιαιτερότητα και η εκκεντρικότητα του συγκεκριμένου μυθιστορήματος έχουν μια πολύ λεπτή, ακανθωτή γοητεία που στηρίζεται σ' ένα σύνολο από αρκετά ευαίσθητες ισορροπίες, οι οποίες με την σειρά τους βασίζονται στην γραφή, στην πλοκή, αλλά και στην ίδια την αφήγηση. Κατά τη γνώμη μου ο συγγραφέας καταφέρνει να δώσει ακριβώς ό,τι ζητάει ένας πολύ απαιτητικός αναγνώστης, με την βοήθεια μιας πολύ γήινης ειλικρίνειας, ενός ιδιότροπου χιούμορ και μιας δυσδιάκριτης ειρωνείας που δεν την αντιλαμβάνεσαι κάθε φορά αλλά που είναι εκεί, και που όλα μαζί διαμορφώνουν ένα αρκετά αντισυμβατικό μυθιστόρημα.

[James · Rating 4 out of 5]

David Peace’s ‘Red Riding’ quartet of books (‘1974’, ‘1977’, ‘1980’ and ‘1983’ respectively) provides us with an extremely intense, dark, brooding and menacing series of connected stories.

Set against the backdrop of Yorkshire (where Peace grew up) the books have the notorious ‘Yorkshire Ripper’ murders (1975-80) as an underlying, but almost omnipresent theme throughout.

These are hard books about hard people and hard lives with hard themes of murder, corruption, sexual obsession, sadism and then some – they are definitely not for the more faint-hearted reader.

Whilst I haven’t as yet read Peace’s ‘Tokyo’ Trilogy – the ‘Red Riding’ series of books are for me his strongest piece of work to date. Referred to by some as part of the British Noir genre, I think these books transcend those limitations. It doesn’t feel as though Peace is trying to provide us with a British re-write of Chandler or Hammett, but something quite different.

I am not one to specifically enjoy violent novels / novels containing violence per se, or for the sake purely of the violence within. Peace’s ‘Red Riding’ novels don’t glorify the violence portrayed but acknowledge it and don’t in any way shy away from it as an integral (although clearly hateful and terrifying) part of the darkest of social landscapes that he is portraying here. He is effectively holding a mirror up to some of the darkest themes and elements in a society, which although fictional – is frighteningly perhaps not in many ways that far from reality.

Whilst the UK TV adaptation of the ‘Red Riding’ books was very well produced, it somehow lost the edge that the books most definitely have. Worth watching, but as is usually the case – read the books first. All of which are consistently strong and compelling in a very gruesome and frightening way.

[Tom Mooney · Rating 5 out of 5]

Jesus Christ. I've read some seriously dark shit in my time but I think this might well be the darkest.

What starts as a story narrated by a young journalist reporting on the brutal murder of a young girl, widens into a complex and brutal web of corruption, death, sex, revenge and horror.

Like James Ellroy did for LA, Peace tells us the truth through fiction of bad northern men doing bad shit and not giving a fuck about the consequences. Nearly everyone in this book is reprehensible scum. Every time you want to hang on to someone, they show you who they really are.

Packed with British cultural references and written in Peace's signature staccato style, it is a bolt of fresh air compared to most of the British crime fiction out there. Absolutely incredible.

[Ubik 2.0 · Rating 5 out of 5]

A centoventi all'ora.

Quando ci ripenso alla fine dopo aver tirato il fiato, mi rendo conto che la cruda trama dei fatti narrati, benchè complicata da riassumere, non è poi così originale: ma il romanzo colpisce, e colpisce duro, perchè qui è lo STILE che fa da padrone, lo caratterizza in modo indelebile e determina un impatto che potrà anche avere alcune ascendenze (Ellroy) ma è assolutamente unico nell'estremizzazione dei suoi componenti.

Un ritmo che corre sempre più accelerato, travolge tutto e strazia via via ogni personaggio, vittime, carnefici e lo stesso protagonista, uno dei più martoriati che io ricordi da molto tempo a questa parte, lasciando la sensazione concreta del dolore fisico e morale, dello sporco schifoso negli ambienti, sulle persone e nelle anime, sotto un cielo freddo, bianco e piovoso dove non c'è alcuna speranza e si può reagire solo ripetendosi un ipnotico e patetico mantra: l'eterno delirio del cazzo, del "fuck" che riempie gli innumerevoli vuoti del pensiero e della parola.

Inevitabile che alcuni risvolti della vicenda, non è chiaro se per perdita di controllo da parte dello sfrenato narratore o del tramortito lettore, sembrino restare su binari abbandonati (L'Acchiappatopi?) o evolvere in modo poco motivato: è l'effetto che conta, l'accumulo di azione quando non hai ancora digerito quella precedente, pestaggi ossessivi, sesso travolgente ma privo di appagamento, svelamenti di trame sempre più ignobili, brevissimi flash di pietà.

Che importa in fondo se qualcosa sembra non tornare usando un bilancino di precisione fra cause (ambigue) ed effetti (devastanti)?
Che importa se alcuni contorni appaiono sfocati e indistinti quando sei lanciato a centoventi all'ora?

[Mark Desrosiers · Rating 2 out of 5]

OK, sure here's December 1974, John Lennon just released his shittiest post-lost-weekend album, and David Peace has the gall to create a journalist-detective who's tougher than Jesus? Seriously, our narrator here -- a junior reporter who just lost his dad (zzzzzzzz) -- bumbles through this complex and dangerous murder investigation (dead raped girl with live swan's wings stitched to her back) while constantly drunk, hungover, popping pills, pulped, bloodied, tortured: a Caviezel-cavalcade of martyrdom. Yet his nether bone remains alive and fully functioning when the plot doesn't require it at all, except for that one miraculous and symbolic moment when he achieves non-consensual anal sex with one hand wrapped in a cast. Bigger than Jesus.

I dug the convolution of the plot -- the gay blackmail, the creepy locals, even the nasty beatdowns and torture of our hero (possibly copycatted at Abu Ghraib? -- this novel's from 1999), but I couldn't parse any relevant political/ideological lessons from the whole nutzoid collusion-conspiracy scene. It's all sensationalism and nasty, a Daily Mail front-pager to ring in New Year 1975. Our hero is a hapless priapic drunkard with a couple brain triggers that keep his scented trail alive, at least while his secret tape recorder's on. But when he fires up the cognition, finally, the murder mystery gets resolved in a corpse-filled, coal chamber of stoopid, with me staring goggle-eyed at the implausible resolution, and several loose ends (plus the narrator) left hanging... so, one star docked for a terrible Ellroy-lite ending.

[Paul · Rating 4 out of 5]

Gritty, violent & relentless. Good stuff!!

[Eirini Proikaki · Rating 4 out of 5]

Το "Χίλια εννιακοσια εβδομήντα τέσσερα" του David Peace είναι ένα πολύ σκληρό βιβλίο. Μια σκοτεινή ιστορία γεμάτη αίμα, σπέρμα και σκατά. Μια ιστορία με παιδιά δολοφονημένα με φρικτό τρόπο βγαλμένο από εφιάλτη. Μια ιστορία βρώμικη, πνιγμένη στη διαφθορά και την αδικία.
Βιβλίο περίπλοκο, όλα είναι μπερδεμένα μέσα στην σκοτεινή του ατμόσφαιρα όπως μπερδεμένος είναι και ο πρωταγωνιστής του που δεν ξέρει από πού να φυλαχτεί και από πού θα του έρθει το επόμενο χτύπημα.
Μπερδεμένη παραμένει η ιστορία μέχρι τέλους και η αφήγηση ανεβάζει ρυθμούς όσο πλησιάζουμε προς αυτό, εγώ τουλάχιστον γυρναγα τις σελίδες μανιωδώς και με μεγάλη αγωνία. Έμεινα με κάποιες απορίες αλλά δεν με πείραξε καθόλου, μου άρεσε πολύ το βιβλίο.

[Theo Austin-Evans · Rating 5 out of 5]

Quite the perfect Christmas read, Peace’s filthy goddamn Yorkshire horror story is fucking fantastic. It’s a real accomplishment when you can return from the adapted material, Channel 4’s excellent three-part series of TV films, to the source material and get a serious kick out of it without going ‘Oh I know where this is all going, so what’s the bloody point?’

Peace’s prose is crystal clear, grimy, yet absolutely ideal for the yarn he spins here - a journalistic style primed to adequately elucidate the plight of his protagonist. You crack open a page of Nineteen Seventeen Four and bile practically seeps out of the page, coagulated blood makes the book so sickly and sticky you can barely pry the thing open. It’s pitch perfect nausea, absolutely unrelenting. I mean this thing is pegged as Yorkshire noir, but calling it noir isn’t a sufficient enough term for the blackness found here.

Nineteen Seventeen Four swings like a pendulum between God and his angels and the abject horror of a dead young girl’s leering smile as it emerges from black and white school photos, and the momentum of this thematic swing, this contradiction between the graceful and omnibenevolent movement of a swan to the utterly pitch black corruption of all and sundry creates a giddy sickness and delirium within the (un)fortunate reader. Dreams bubble forth into the narrative, collapsing frameworks of reference, an endless vista of grey nothingness illuminating the entire tragedy.

Mark Fisher’s characterisation of the novels (I’m only at the first so fingers crossed Peace’s own writerly momentum carries through, both thematically and when it comes to being bloody interesting) as Manichaean/Gnostic is spot on. His chapter dedicated to it in Ghosts of my Life is certainly worth a flick through for those interested.

But yeah, fan-fucking-tastic. I devoured this sucker (like our good ol’ character BJ) and will quickly get through the rest. As I bothered doing a review I’ll give the same old music recs to play alongside, even though the book has a sickly discography of its own consisting of Elton John and Bryan Ferry and all that lot if you’re a die hard when it comes to getting the actual diegetic atmosphere.

- Penderecki, Sacred Choral Works
- Branca, The World Upside Down
- Branca, Symphony No.5
- Porter Ricks, Porter Ricks
- Akira Rabelais, Spellewauerynsherde

[Natalia Luna · Rating 2 out of 5]

Decepción. Un batiburrillo de ideas y poca chicha.

[Ben Loory · Rating 2 out of 5]

this world is hell and we're all gonna die, but there's a slight possibility you might be able to do something good before the end, not that it would matter in any way, shape, or form, to anybody, because we're all demons.

it's not a bad book; peace writes good sentences, but i couldn't tell any of the characters apart and got tired of everybody farting all the time and getting pissed and shat on every ten seconds. no one in this world can ever enjoy anything; if someone by some miracle happened to find a cupcake somewhere and bit into it, it would turn out that it would be made of THE GROUND-UP BONES OF CHILDREN and it would BRUISE THEIR LIPS AND TONGUE A SICKLY PURPLE YELLOW a moment before THEY VOMITED INTO THE PISS-AND-SHIT-FILLED BOWL and PASSED OUT AND DREAMT OF BEING FUCKED IN THE ASS.