Tuesday 31 July 2012

Adventures in Modern Literature

Introducing Adventures in Modern Literature (1)

Like myself, I'm sure that many of you out there have picked up novels by the likes of Jonathan Franzen and Jennifer Egan having been told they're monumental literary works, only to be left disappointed. Both writers are impressive enough, but their efforts to date have done nothing to suggest that they'll one day produce a truly great novel. A Visit from the Goon Squad was fine for what it was (a collection of decent short stories dressed up as an ode to Proust), but I found myself bored by the events that were unfolding on more than one occasion. Franzen, meanwhile, seems to equate length with worth. With some judicious editing, both The Corrections and Freedom could have been every bit as thematically dense without the meandering passages, but instead wound up as sprawling books that never quite justify the page count. (2) I suppose these are my feelings toward modern literature in a nutshell.

Of course, a cross-section of two is hardly sufficient when contemplating the last 12-and-a-half years of published work, and isn't what I'm basing my apathy on. I've crossed paths with plenty of modern authors, and enjoyed some and loathed others, but I'm yet to find anything that will stay with me forever. That's what I'm looking for, because at its best that is what the form is all about: efforts that are worthy of being passed down from generation to generation and regarded as classics of literature. (3)

This is a voyage of discovery, one I'm partaking in because of my general disdain for or disinterest in 21st century novels and my desire to change. It's unreasonable to be a student of literature who dismisses the era they're living through out of hand as minor or irrelevant, so I'll be reading through supposed modern classics or highly lauded (or awarded) efforts published from 2000 onward in search of novels that reach the glorious heights the form achieved in centuries gone by. I would be delighted if you'd join me.



(1) I briefly considered calling this Modern Literature is Rubbish (possibly with a question mark at the end), because it'd make for a snappier, more provocative title. But that would be unfair on the thousands of 21st century books I haven't read (and don't intend to read/will never find the time to read), and besides, this is supposed to be a positive exploration rather than an extended condemnation.

(2) "It's too long" is often fingered as one of the weakest criticisms a person can make about a novel, but it really isn't. It's a perfectly valid way of attacking a plot that takes too long to deliver too little, and often speaks of an author's vanity. As far as Franzen is concerned, you can feel the strain he puts himself under to write a Great American Novel whilst reading his work; he reaches for epic but doesn't achieve it because a not unreasonable proportion of what he writes is best described as "padding."

(3) I know the notion of a canon is a tad ridiculous, but then so is the suggestion that "people like what they like" (true enough, but if you take the statement at face value then you render all forms of criticism redundant). Just because opinion is subjective doesn't mean it cannot be useful.

Thursday 12 July 2012

Tales from Barcelona 4

Chapter 2: Under the Shadow of the Arc de Triomf, part one

Living in Manchester means the novelty of tapas wore off many years ago, once a glut of establishments realised they can sell piddling amounts of food for massively inflated prices to gullible customers convinced they're trying something exotic. For example, the following is a list of what £25 of my hard-earned money got me during a recent trip to a tapas restaurant in Chorlton:

1 chunk of chorizo
2 chunks of fried potato
2 bites of chicken stew
2 bites of lamb stew
1 calamari ring
Some bread
2 pints

Money well spent, I'm sure you'll agree. So is eating tapas in Spain a revelation that words can barely do justice? Certainly not in terms of taste; despite my varied slurs, Manchester is capable enough of delivering delicious tapas (and it's not like many of the dishes are particularly complex to put together in the first place). It's just that it always feels so forced. You can replicate the food, but you can't match the experience of actually being in a foreign country, nor can you benefit from the decent weather, and whilst it would be foolish to assume that eating tapas in Barcelona is as authentic as it was before the place became such a massive tourist hotspot, there's still a value to sitting outside in the sun, drinking beer and eating what are essentially bar snacks as the city bustles around you.

After arriving at the hotel and dumping our bags that's exactly what we set out to do. The nearest spot for it was Rambla del Poblenou, which proved to be everything La Rambla isn't; quiet and unhurried, the closest point of comparison in Manchester would probably be Burton Road: an area with all the local amenities you need and an abundance of food and drink options, albeit somewhere you wouldn't want to spend every night.

The winner of the evening was La Buena Vida (which translates as "the good life," I believe), a little bar and restaurant helpfully subtitled Oh My God Tapas! that delivered us artichoke crisps and an inexplicable dish of gyoza-style liver dumplings with a strawberry, paprika, and creme fraiche dip (all of which worked very well together). Before that, we'd sampled various Spanish sausages; afterward, we made a decision that in retrospect might have been influenced by our alcohol intake, strolling into a fish place and ordering a platter of deep fried seafood. After the trauma of our Ryanair flight, it was the perfect way to unwind.

*   *   *

The next day we mooched around the city, collected our festival wristbands, and ate and drank plenty more before making our way to the Arc de Triomf, where a free gig marked the opening of Primavera 2012. We caught the majority of Jeremy Jay's set, which was entertaining enough, proving a solid accompaniment to the slowly setting sun and the cold beers we'd bought from a nearby shop filled with revellers who'd had the same idea, eschewing the expensive on-site stalls. His brand of alt-pop is probably best described as "infectious," given that a few of his songs are still stuck in my head over a month later, the highlight being "Caught in a Whirl," which is basically a Wes Anderson movie distilled into four minutes of evocative music.

Having seen The Wedding Present tear through Bizarro in Berlin a couple of years back, I had pretty high hopes for their latest run-through of a classic album. In comparison, Seamonsters is a much slower and heavier affair, the sort of thing Lou Barlow sang about in "Gimme Indie Rock." This worked against it in the early going, with the sound a little muddy to begin with, but things quickly improved, allowing the material to become as powerful and imposing as it is on record. Gedge was as on as ever, singing songs of heartbreaks twenty years gone, breathing new life into their meaning and validating their existence by holding on to them.

*   *   *

I first caught The Walkmen, when they supported Idlewild at the big Academy in 2002, and was so impressed I talked one of the members of the band into selling me a copy of their debut album Everyone Who Pretended To Like Me is Gone at a slightly reduced price due to a lack of funds on my part. Since then, it's been a case of diminishing returns; neither that record nor any of their subsequent efforts have ever lived up to that transcendental first experience. I give each new album a shot upon release, typically enjoying it but not being moved by it in any way. I like the idea behind the band more than the execution, the way they're described on paper more than the music they produce. To my ears there is an emptiness at the heart of their music that I just can't move beyond, and with a few exceptions their output leaves me cold. Still, in marked contrast to my All Tomorrow's Parties 2010 experience (stay for "The Rat," leave immediately afterward), they struck a chord with me this time. The vastness of the setting gave their songs space to breathe, allowing their grace and elegance to shine the way it deserves to. Maybe I'll come to love them yet.

*   *   *

Deciding to call it a night so as not to burn ourselves out before the festival proper, we headed to the nearest Metro station, where we were lucky enough to hear a busker play the most approximate cover of "You Shook Me All Night Long" of all time. Meanwhile, on the station platform a big screen played basketball highlights, and under the influence I decided that I missed my calling coaching the sport. Before heading back to the hotel, we couldn't resist another trip to La Buena Vida, stuffing ourselves with Iberian kebab and the most delicious chicken strips in the world. Even though we didn't need the food, it seemed ridiculous to order drinks and not grab a bite to eat. It's what they do in Barcelona, after all, and why go against tradition?

Sunday 1 July 2012

5 Reasons I Haven't Watched Any of Euro 2012

1. "Come on England!"

How can any reasonable human being not hate everything to do with the way we support England? People hanging flags from their windows or attaching them to cars. Tabloid newspapers rehashing World War II with lame, offensive humour every time we're drawn against Germany. The ecstasy of victory and agony of defeat suddenly becoming crucial to national self-esteem. People talking about "the mood of the camp." England's Brave John Terry, possibly the most unsupportable man to ever have represented his country. Post-mortems that last for weeks and yet always reach the same conclusion: the players simply aren't good enough. Even people like me, who rebel against this common cause and support whichever team England are facing. These three words - and all they entail - make fools of us.

2. An international tournament without South American and African teams is a waste of everyone's time

The truth is that modern international football tournaments are almost always a letdown. Think about it: since Euro 96, which competition has stuck in your memory as a great sporting event? Certainly nothing that has taken place in the 21st century. If you don't believe me, think about the victors, which include probably the worst Italian and Brazilian sides to ever win anything. Face it: the few great games are vastly outweighed by interminable dreck that punishes a person for taking an interest in the first place. But at least at the World Cup there's always one or two South American teams with genuine flair, and one or two African teams capturing the hearts of neutrals as they chase the continent's first ever World Cup, in both cases playing exciting football. Meaning we get to enjoy spectacles such as Uruguay vs Ghana at the quarter-final stage of the 2010 tournament, an instant classic that had just about all the drama you could hope for. Who was the non-partisan viewer supposed to root for this time round?

3. Spain are the new Greece

On that same note: when Greece won Euro 2004, it was pretty much mandatory to laud their achievement: massive underdogs overcome the odds to lift their first ever international trophy. It wasn't mandatory to actually enjoy their achievement, though, nor was it possible, given that their tactics essentially comprised of boring the opposition into submission and nicking a single goal somewhere along the way.

When Greece adopted this approach, it was understandable; after all, their squad was entirely lacking in quality. Spain, however, have any number of word class players in their ranks, including a midfield that at Barcelona outpass and outplay almost every team they go up against AND score an abundance of goals in the process. Whilst Spain's Euro 2008 success felt like just desserts for a great footballing nation,
 their progress through the 2010 World Cup was essentially one massive prolonged yawn, and by the end I was hoping Holland would butcher their way to victory. Despite their very best efforts to do exactly that, Spain proved triumphant, and in the process validated their approach to the game.

It would be unfair to say that Spain are like watching paint dry. I think of it more like staring at a metronome for 90 minutes. Which of course is an equally dull way to spend one's time. Never again do I want to subject myself to sitting in front of the television as they eke out a 1-0 victory against a side they could put five past if they were willing to shoot a little more.

4. Almost all pundits and commentators in this country are awful

Let us consider that statement in greater depth. Naming a favourite out of hosts Gary Lineker and Adrian Chiles is like Sophie's choice, if instead of her two children she had to pick between a sack of shit and a bottle of piss. Alan Hansen gave up trying years ago, shortly after "you can't win anything with kids" destroyed his professional credibility forever. Roy Keane is too filled with contempt for all mankind to offer anything in the way of insight. Lee Dixon: if by any chance you're reading, being described as "the best of a bad bunch" really isn't a compliment. And the parade of unemployed or unemployable managers on display is like walking through an animal sanctuary: it breaks your heart just a little, especially since you know that most of them have no chance of finding a new home.

Dreadful though they may be, none of the above are the worst offender. That honour is shared between Alan Shearer and Mark Lawrenson. Can you picture anyone sat at home as Shearer offers his patented brand of talking a lot and saying nothing whatsoever in the dullest voice in recorded history and thinking "that's some spot on analysis, Alan"? As for Lawrenson, his asides on commentary often paint him as a man who has not only lost touch with the modern world, but is slowly losing his sanity. When he insults Twitter users, or cracks jokes with racist or homophobic undertones, remember that your license fee is paying for him to do so.

In the battle of the networks, ITV "wins" by virtue of the fact that a) it doesn't employ Alan Shearer; b) it doesn't employ Mark Lawrenson; and c) at least adverts truncate the amount of time the viewer has to spend listening to jibbering inanities delivered by idiots. But the only true winner is the person who opts out.

5. Between live blogs and Twitter, actually watching football is pointless

Despite my refusal to watch any of the tournament, I've still retained a passing interest in it. Not enough to read the infinite number of think-pieces it has inspired, but certainly enough to follow the BBC and Guardian live blogs. For the uninitiated, they provide minute-by-minute coverage and analysis, with plenty of humour thrown in too. I'm free to check in on them as and when I please, and read over what's happened when I've not been paying attention, all the while doing more productive things with my time.

To supplement that, I have wonderful Twitter, and the people who dedicate themselves to cracking jokes. Enjoy shots at Spain not naming a recognised striker in their team, jibes at the obvious futility of England's efforts, or ribs at the cameramen and their propensity to spend a rather disproportionate amount of time lingering on shots of attractive Sweden fans? Twitter has you covered. It's difficult to imagine that any of the actual football could've provided more entertainment than, say, the Betfair Poker Twitter account, a surrealist masterpiece that described the Spain-Portugal match as a "bleak, humourless restaging of Waiting for Godot" and claiming that an iPad wielding Joe Hart was preparing for the penalty shootout against Italy "by watching a DVD of season 2 of Breaking Bad." Or how about News Manc taking the piss out of UEFA's practically unfathomable system for group qualification: "If Denmark manage a victory by two or more goals over Germany and the Dutch beat Portugal, Tottenham still only go into the Europa League." I haven't watched a minute of the tournament, and yet I feel confident in saying that nothing on the pitch topped the online humour it inspired.