Given the lack of discussion of this month's topic, I thought
I'd at least briefly mention the UK titles I've read this
month
UNDERGROUND by Russell James. This was James's first book,
and I thought it was a good time to re-read it. It didn't
make such an impression on me this time round, but that's
largely due to knowing the protagonist's identity. Suffice to
say, you can't get much more a social outcast than this guy.
The writing is as taut and the subject matter and atmosphere
as noir as any of James's later novels. Highly
recommended.
THE SACRED ART OF STEALING by Christopher Brookmyre. Half the
cast of Brookmyre's most recent novel are American, which
might a difference to anyone otherwise dissuaded by
language/dialect considerations. Essentially a simple tale of
the art of illusion, Brookmyre puts together some brilliantly
bizarre situations, my favourite being a bunch of armed
robbers performing Beckett's Waiting For Godot to keep their
hostages amused. The books opening rant on the virtues of one
of the few honest-to-God financial transactions left in the
modern world, the retail blow-job, is inspired. I thought
this was his best novel since NOT THE END OF THE WORLD.
NINETEEN SEVENTY FOUR by David Peace. Being a huge fan of
NINETEEN SEVENTY SEVEN, I was expecting to be disappointed by
Peace's first novel. Apart from the fact that certain
characters kept "hissing" sentences that contained no
sibilants, I thought this was a tremendous achievement. It's
every bit as brutal as SEVENTY SEVEN, and the characters are
every bit as nasty. I still find it incredible that a
publisher (Serpents Tail) has the balls to print Peace's
work. He's been compared to Ellroy, but I think the
comparison is fairly superficial (he uses short sentences, so
what?). SEVENTY FOUR, like SEVENTY SEVEN, is one big
heart-rending scream.
LIVE AND LET DIE by Ian Fleming. Recent discussions of James
Bond's hardboiled credentials made me realise not only that I
wanted to form my own opinion but that I hadn't read a Bond
novel for 23 years. Ouch. The only one I had to hand was Live
and Let Die, which I've never previously read, so I gave it a
shot. I was pleasantly surprised by Fleming's sense of place.
I know Edward Aarons gets praise for conjuring up foreign
locales, but Fleming ain't bad either (I had no memory of
this from my youth). Another surprise was the extent to which
Bond admitted how scared he was. In fact, fear and
uncertainty saturated the entire novel. The voodoo theme
helped create the atmosphere, as did the various man-eating
sea creatures, skin-flaying coral, etc. As much as anything,
though, Fleming's language helped evoke decidedly sinister
images. Conclusion? Noir, definitely. Hardboiled, probably
not.
CARDIFF DEAD by John Williams. The only previous book I'd
read by list-member John Williams was the excellent INTO THE
BADLANDS, in which John travels around America interviewing
just about every hardboiled crime writer you care to mention.
CARDIFF DEAD, a novel, comes with a cover blurb from George
Pelecanos: "an atmospheric thriller...fresh, dirty and real."
And it's hard to disagree. Perhaps not hardboiled enough for
some rara-avians
(although the protagonist's favourite novel is FAREWELL, MY
LOVELY), I found it extremely entertaining. John brings
Cardiff to life. I've never been there, but I kind of feel
like I have after reading the book. The plot revolves around
the members of a defunct ska band, who, as a result of the
death of one of their members, meet up again twenty years
later. The relationships between them are all very complex,
as are the detailed characterisations which drive the
narrative. I couldn't get enough of Tyra. If only she were
real...
HE DIED WITH HIS EYES OPEN by Derek Raymond. Having only read
one of the Factory novels before (and not being overly
impressed) I have to confess, now, to being utterly sold on
Derek Raymond. This, the first, is bleak, beautiful, sad,
ugly, terrific. I have another couple of his books which have
gone straight to the top of my to-be-read pile.
Al
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