Michael Walters's Blog

The late Warren Zevon is, of course, the crime-fiction fan's songwriter of choice.  Not just because he was a terrific songwriter (though we was) but also because he was such a fan of the genre himself.  He was a huge fan of Ross Macdonald, co-wrote songs with the likes of Carl Hiassen and Thomas McGuane, and was friends with James Crumley, Stephen King, Faye and Jonathan Kellerman and Ridley Pearson.  I'd always had him pegged as a hard-boiled type, but at one point in his journals he even enthuses about a forthcoming Barbara Vine book.  He had ambitions to write crime fiction himself.  It never happened, but we get a flavour of what might have been in countless of his songs. 

And the favour's been returned.  Hiassen and many others have referenced Zevon's music in their books.  'Things To Do in Denver When You're Dead' and Christopher Brookmyre's debut 'Quite Ugly One Morning' borrowed their titles from Zevon songs. 

I mention all this because I've just finished reading I'll Sleep When I'm Dead (another song title that was borrowed for a film, this time by Mike Hodges, incidentally), a biography of Zevon, written by his ex-wife, Crystal Zevon.  On the whole, I'm not a big fan of rock-star biographies.  My impression is that despite (or, more likely, because of) the drugs and debauchery, the life and thoughts of rock-stars tend to be pretty dull.  But Zevon, for all his brilliance as a writer and performer, was never quite a rock-star.  His work has a mercurial genius, but always occupied an awkward space somewhere between mainstream and cult.  And in his earlier years, when albums like Warren Zevon and Excitable Boy might really have pushed him to stardom, he was too busy putting the 'hell' into 'hellraiser'. 

But all of this makes a fascinating read.  Shortly before his death from lung cancer in 2003, Zevon asked his ex-wife to write a biography that would tell the whole truth about his 'dirty life and times'.  Unsure how to approach this daunting task, Crystal Zevon interviewed Zevon's friends, relatives and associates and compiled what turned out to be a quite extraordinary oral account, beautifully constructed and always gripping.  It is, in any case, a remarkable story.  Zevon's mother was a Mormon and his father was a small-time gangster.  Zevon learned to play on a piano that his father literally won in a poker game.  As a musically-gifted teenager he visited Stravinsky at his home in Hollywood.  He moved from California to New York to become a folk singer, with some initial success, and ended up as musical director for the Everly Brothers.  Well, you probably get the picture.

Zevon's first real success came with the Warren Zevon album, a mordant, witty chronicle of LA life which, unlike much from the mid-1970s, sounds just as good thirty years on.  His growing success, however, coincided with a descent into a spectacular alcoholism.  Even on the scale of celebrity excess, Zevon's was something quite startling.  It's even more remarkable, in hindsight, that he managed to pull himself back from it and spend the last 17 years of his life (at least up to his diagnosis with terminal cancer) completely sober.  It's worth adding that Zevon is one of the few popular musicians whose later recordings (Life'll Kill Ya, My Ride's Here and the post-diagnosis The Wind) are easily a match for the work of his supposedly prime years. 

Zevon comes across as a consistently paradoxical figure - nightmarish and impossible to live with, but inspiring a weird loyalty in many of his friends and associates.  It's a cliche to suggest that bad behaviour is a fair price to pay for genius.  It's also untrue - many true geniuses have managed to live perfectly stable lives.  But it might be that Zevon's particular gifts, like those of Scott Fitzgerald, were the recompense the fates allowed him in return forthe chaos of his daily existence.

One small afternote.  Each chapter of the book begins with a quote from a different Zevon song.  I was finishing reading it the other night while listening to Zevon's 2000 album, Life'll Kill Ya.  Just as I reached the opening of the chapter 'Ourselves to Know', I found myself listening to Zevon singing, in precise co-ordination, the words that were printed in front of me.  If you make a pilgrimage, Warren reminded me, 'you take that holy ride yourselves to know'.  Whether Zevon ever really got to know himself, I'm still not sure. 

...But possibly not quite the space you might expect. 

I've written before about Susan Hill's fine Simon Serrailler series.  Perhaps along with Kate Atkinson, Hill has been one of the most successful mainstream interlopers into the crime genre.  Many of the distinctive qualities of her writing - strong characters, a powerful sense of place, an intriguing, slightly enigmatic style - lend themselves very well to crime fiction. 

Her new book, though, is something of a return to the mainstream.  The Beacon is a short, intense book - little more than a novella in length, but it leaves a powerful impression.  The book describes the Primes, a farming family who had lived for generations at The Beacon, a farmhouse in a remote part of Northern England.  May, the eldest daughter, has devoted her life to caring for her widowed mother, and the books begins at the moment of the mother's death.  We then gradually learn the history of May and her siblings - and in particular that of the estranged youngest brother, Frank. 

May, we learn, was academically gifted and won a place at London University, but was driven back home by a series of panic attacks and terrifying visions.  Her younger brother and sister, Colin and Berenice, have made unambitious but largely satisfactory lives for themselves in the local community.  Frank, silent and watchful as a child, also went to London and made a name for himself, first as a journalist and then through a 'miserylit' memoir in which he described the abuse he supposedly suffered as a child at the hands of his parents and siblings. May, Colin and Berenice are horrified by Frank's fictitious claims and, prior to their mother's death, have had no contact with their brother.

In other hands, this might have been the basis for a melodrama of claim and counter-claim.  But Hill is more interested in the restraint and repression that underpins this family - a life in which most things are left unsaid and everyone copes.  We are left to ponder on the possible links between Frank's depiction of the family and May's unexplained London panics.  We are left also,  particularly in the eerie final paragraph, to consider the possible truths - emotional if not physical - that might lie behind Franks outrageous claims.  And we are left to meditate on the nature of family life - the changing generational dynamics, the meaning of 'home', the significance of one's relationship with these unchosen others. 

It's a beautifully written book without a wasted word (although, as one reviewer has pointed out, with some odd and clearly deliberate verbal chimes which contribute to the reader's unease), intensely powerful in its depiction of both the family and the seasonal landscape around them.  In a world of blockbusters, it's refreshing to read a brief, perfectly constructed fable that carries such resonance. 

An interesting and optimistic account from the Huffington Post of the inauguration of Mongolia's newly elected president, Elbegdorj.  The author, Ming Holden, concludes that 'those who are watching Mongolia at this point in its history [are left] enthusiastic, impressed, and hopeful'.

Rafe McGregor, a fascinating author and enthusiastic blogger (not to mention very good company at this year's Crimefest), has been kind enough to interview me for his McConfidential series.  Some very intriguing questions, and you can read my responses here...

Just a quick note to thank everyone for their support and kinds words following yesterday's hacking of the blog, and particular thanks to Maxine Clarke for being kind enough to send me a copy of the Nesbo/Harry Hole posting which had been deleted.  Fortunately, we've been able to restore the missing items so, for the moment at least, everything's back to normal. 

Thanks also to webmeister John O'Malley for his usual speedy response and assistance. 

I've written before about the impact of the economic downturn on Mongolia.  Here's a piece from Reuters, which paints a fairly gloomy picture of the damage inflicted by the recession on the country and its people.  On the other hand, here's some more positive economic news for the country, and even the IMF seems moderately optimistic. 

I blogged a little while ago about the translators' panel at this year's Crimefest.  The discussion was fascinating and all the panel members were luminaries in the field, but I think I've begun to develop a particular respect for Don Bartlett.  Bartlett, among other credits, is the English translator of the Norwegian writer, Jo Nesbo, author of the Harry Hole series.  I've just finished my third of Nesbo's books, and he's emerging as my current favourite among the plethora of Scandinavian crime writers now appearing in English.  The atttraction of the books for me is the character of Hole himself, and the wonderful deadpan wit that permeates the dialogue.  Hence my admiration for Bartlett - I presume that the tone of the books is Nesbo's, but Bartlett succeeds admirably in establishing the perfect English voice for the books and their characters. 

There has been some controversy about the publication of the English translations as the books were, rather unhelpfully, published out of order.  Bartlett explained that The Devil's Star, actually the fifth book in the series, had been published first in English simply because it had attracted the most interest in Scandinavia.   This is fairly standard publishing practice, and in most series it doesn't matter too much.  Unfortunately, the third, fourth and fifth of the Hole books have an overarching sub-plot (if a sub-plot can overarch - underpinning, perhaps?) which is critical to the development of the core characters.  Although each of the books stands up well in its own right, reading The Devil's Star first would inevitably have reduced the pleasures of the preceding books.  

Purely by chance, I picked up The Redbreast (the earliest of the books so far available) first and so was able to enjoy the books in the order intended.  The pleasures of the books are manifold - as well as Hole's character and wit, I like the fact that Nesbo is prepared to deal fully with the consequences of his characters and plots.  Hole, for example,  is a serious long-term alcoholic, with all that that entails - not simply a middle-aged cop who has a whisky or two too many at the end of a hard day.  The Redbreast contains a plot development which I won't reveal but which is genuinely shocking and which reverberates through the succeeding books. 

Some have complained that Nesbo's plotting is too convoluted, and there's probably some truth in that.  At times, the books have a slightly Christiesque desire to spring yet another surprise which (while there's nothing wrong with Agatha) for me sits slightly uneasily with the essentially realistic depiction of character and situation.  But that's a minor gripe - and I'm sure many readers will see the complex plotting as a strength.  What stays with me is Hole's dry-as-dust, sometimes bitter irony, and a cast of highly memorable characters. 

I was fortunate enough to walk away from the Crimefest pub quiz with, as my share of the second-place prize (achieved courtesy largely of Ali Karim and Peter Rozovsky, it must be said) a copy of Nesbo's latest English release, The Redeemer. So that's next on the pile to be read - in, I'm pleased to say, the right order. 

After George Bush, newly-elected Mongolian President Ts.Elbegdorj becomes another victim of shoe throwing.  The perpetrator, one E.Delgermurun, explained (and I use the word very loosely): “I was drunk and at one point I had to throw my shoes. I did not have any intentions. Just wanted to throw. When President George W.Bush visited Iraq, he was thrown a shoe as well.”  It sounds as if he might have intended the shoes as a gift.  In any case, he presumably found that his escape was rather hindered...

It didn't exactly dominate the media here in the West, but Mongolia elected a new President at the weekend.  Here's an interesting, if perhaps slightly fanciful, piece from Globalpost comparing the new President, Tsakhiagiin Elbegdorj, with Barack Obama.  And here's what the BBC had to say. 

I'm delighted that the Rap Sheet's regular 'books you have to read' column this week features my review of Dan 'Julian Barnes' Kavanagh's splendid, if long forgotten, Putting the Boot In.

Thanks to J Kingston Pierce for publishing the review.  And, if you haven't come across Kavanagh's Duffy books, they're well worth tracking down.

I think even I can justify only, to adapt Maxine Clark's elegant phrase, a triphasal recovery.  I've been interested by Declan Burke's take on Crimefest.  I've some sympathy with his views on the panels, though I don't really agree with his view that such conventions are primarily about the business of marketing.  I suspect that only the bigger names and the terminally optimistic would approach Crimefest mainly as a marketing opportunity.  While I'm never averse to shifting a unit or two of product, for me Crimefest was essentially an opportunity to meet like-minded readers and fellow-writers and to engage in some friendly interchange on the subject of crime-fiction.  With the odd glass of wine or beer.  Or two.

I've more sympathy with Declan's view that writers talking about writing isn't very interesting.  If the panels discussions simply focus on promoting individual books/authors, they rapidly can become uninteresting.  The most successful panels, in my view, were the ones that, by accident or design, ended up discussing some more general topic or ranging across a number of authors.  Peter Rozovsky points out, in a comment on Declan's posting, that one of Declan's own panels ended up debating some important aspects of copyright and intellectual property (and, personally, I was also much taken by Declan's citing of Enid Blyton as a literary influence - you and me both, Declan).  In a similar vein, I very much enjoyed the final day's panel, chaired by Martin Edwards, with Steve Hague, M R Hall, Brian McGilloway and Caro Ramsay, which ended up discussing various aspects of authorial technique - plotting, point of view and so on.  I found it fascinating, both as a writer and as a reader. 

There's a lot more I could talk about , even just from my own panels - Leighton Gage discussing Brazil,  Yrsa Sigardordottir discussing Iceland, Stephen Booth pointing out that a realistic police procedural would comprise 250 pages of paperwork before a member of the public phones in to identify the culprit...

But I've recovered now, so I can start thinking about next year.

A few more random thoughts on Crimefest.  There was an enormous amount of good stuff and I'm conscious that, in picking some (personal) highlights, I'm inevitably excluding numerous other excellent sessions.  But, for what it's worth, here are a few of the sessions that particularly lodged in my brain.

First, there was the session on forgotten authors on Thursday afternoon, chaired with characteristic aplomb by the frighteningly knowledgeable Martin Edwards (who also, quite deservedly, took home the Crimefest Mastermind trophy despite receiving only a single point - and a round of applause - for naming all the past presidents of the Detection Club).  It's chastening to realise, not just that authors are forgotten, but that current celebrity is not necessarily an indication of future longevity.  Which in turn raises the question of why some authors survive while others - equally famous in their day, perhaps even equally talented - disappear into the mists of time.

Second, there was the fascinating session on translation, featuring Don Bartlett, 'Reg Keeland', Tina Nunnally and Roz Schwartz.  I was left filled with admiration, not only for their skill and professionalism, but also for the integrity and creativity they bring to the task - the balance between being true to an author and finding the creative mechanisms to reflect that author's voice in a new language.

Third, and last for today, there was John Harvey's session.  While many of us were disappointed that Bill James was, in the end, unable to participate, a solo Harvey gave splendid value for money.  I admire Harvey for countless reasons - not least because he's made a career as a professional author in a world which seems to have rendered full-time writing nearly untenable.  That would be reason enough to admire him even if he were just a journeyman.  But, of course, he's also one of the most gifted crime writers we have.  And, on top of that, he appears to display consummate taste in everything from literature to music to, well, Nottingham.  If he wasn't so charming, I'd probably hate him. I was surprised that, as Harvey comments ruefully on his blog, so few came along to the session.  But everyone else missed a treat. 

More tomorrow, I should think.  I haven't even got on to my sessions yet (which is probably just as well). 

Well, I got home from Bristol's Crimefest last night, and immediately felt like taking another weekend off.  But it was a thoroughly enjoyable few days. 

There were countless highlights for me, and I'll write more about them in the next few days.  But it was very pleasing finally to meet a whole raft of virtual acquaintances - Maxine Clark, Karen Meek, Martin Edwards, Peter Rozovsky, even the mysterious crimeficreader - and discover that they are all real people after all. And all utterly charming. 

I ought to add particular thanks to Edward Marston, who not only moderated the first of my panels superbly, but also went some distance out of his way to make a newcomer feel at home.  And of course thanks to Adrian and Myles, the organisers, and their colleagues  - I've attended many conferences but rarely one that seemed to run so smoothly.  I imagine they were paddling frantically below the surface at times, but to participants the whole event exuded swan-like elegance and calm. 

Given the problematic state of the UK's finances, here's an initiative that Gordon Brown might consider adopting...

I'm afraid that it was news to me that People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (or PETA, as we all know them) run a 'world's sexiest vegetarian' competition.  But, given that they do, I'm pleased to see that Mongolian singer Nominjin is in the running for the Asian title.  And, if you think I've posted this story only so I could use the headline above, well, you could be right.

There, I knew that title would grab your attention.  The phrase 'paradox of capitalism' was actually taken from an interesting article in today's Guardian by Timothy Garton Ash.  Ash's article, about the status of global capital, touches on many issues, including the semi-serious proposition that those responsible for the curent financial crisis might be accused of 'bankslaughter'.  His conclusion, drawing on Max Weber and Daniel Bell, is that there is a fundamental tension at the heart of capitalism, in that "the production side depends...hard work, punctuality, discipline and a readiness to accept deferred gratification" whereas  "the demand side...depends on [people] being self-indulgent, expansive, pleasure-seeking and given to living in the now".

It's an interesting argument, but I was more struck by a passing comment, earlier in the article, about the financial crisis: "not for the first time, novelists (such as Tom Wolfe) and filmmakers (such as Oliver Stone with his Wall Street, featuring Gekko) were ahead of economists and political scientists in identifying the disorder".   From my recollections of The Bonfire of the Vanities and Wall Street, I'm not entirely sure whether Wolfe and Stone really identified the disorder, or were simply joining in the party.  But Ash's comment did ring a bell in respect of some of the crime fiction I've been reading recently. 

In preparation for attending the Crimefest convention in Bristol (14-17 May, details here), I've been proving that I'm not entirely "self-indulgent, expansive, pleasure-seeking and given to living in the now" by dutifully reading books by as many as possible of my fellow panelists.  Not, of course, that it's in any sense a duty as, without exception, the books have been thoroughly enjoyable. 

But, particularly in reading reading books set in disparate parts of Europe such as Yrsa Sigurdardottir's My Soul to Take (Iceland) or Anne Zouroudi's The Taint of Midas (Greece), I've been struck by the premonitions of the financial crash.  Both of these books were, I presume, written before the worst of the downturn and so make no explicit reference to the crisis.  Both books, though, appear aware of the fragility of a bubble which, as it turned out, was on the point of popping.  Interestingly, too, both books address the paradox that Ash describes.  Sigurdardottir's highly entertaining book is set in a struggling new age health spa which wonderfully embodies all the dysfunctionality of a society which has accrued more money than sense.  Zouroudi's equally enjoyable novel explores a financial corruption that depends on the exploitation of free-spending tourists.  Both books contain plenty of barbed commentary about a species of capitalism which, as we now know, was teetering on the edge of collapse. 

It'll be fascinating to see where crime fiction goes next.  Wherever it is, I suspect we'll be a step or two ahead of the politicians. 

While I'm drawing your attention to unconsidered trifles from the UB Post, I should direct you towards this brief but informative piece on khoomi or Mongolian throat singing.  Khoomi gets a few passing mentions in The Outcast, and if you don't know what it sounds like, well, here's an example. 

I've so far managed to avoid eating in a Subway sandwich bar, but I understand that its competitive pricing is going down well in the recession.  Certainly, they seem to be intent on occupying every spare inch of retail space across the world.  It doesn't look as if they've quite reached Ulaan Bataar yet, but some enterprising souls have got there first. 

As you're probably aware, today is Shakespeare's birthday (and, supposedly, also the date of his death).  I've always thought that almost any other nation, presented with the coincidence that its greatest writer's birthday falls on the day of its patron saint, would have been only too eager to declare a national holiday, but to my disappointment the English have always resisted the idea.  I'm disappointed, I should add, not for any nationalistic reasons, but just because it happens to be my birthday as well.

Still, the English do finally seem to be reclaiming St George and their national heritage from the far-right.  There's an interesting article in today's Guardian looking at the St George's day folk-music bash being organised in Trafalger Square by the Mayor of London, alongside a rather more radical commemoration of the Topuddle Martyrs being organised on the same day by Billy Bragg and Martin Carthy.  The article  touches on the rather depressing attempts by the British National Party to appropriate English folk music to its political aims. All the more reason, I suppose, to applaud Billy Bragg's notion of the 'progressive patriot'.

Elsewhere in the Guardian, the poet Ian McMillan draws our attention to the remarkable array of other poets who followed Shakespeare's example by dying on 23 April.  These include, apparently, Cervantes, William Wordsworth, Henry Vaughn and Rupert Brooke.  I'm not really a poet, but I have had a few poems published over the years.  So perhaps I should keep my head down today, just in case.