Review - So Long Las Vegas

I am always on the look out for books back lit by the long lost neon glow of yesterday's Glitter Gulch. When W. H. Guthrie, tells me in his cover blurb that this offering is 'full of tales about prostitutes, pioneers and gamblers', hey, I'm sold. In truth, he had me at prostitutes.

The stories in So Long Las Vegas are seen through the eyes of a Vegas newspaper editor. You are introduced to an assorted cast of semi-believable characters, which may or may not be based on real life residents of Sin City.

Like any collection of short stuff that you go into cold, I expected to like some more than others. It's a bit like shopping in the bargain bin at K-mart, buying up those cans with no labels. One or two of these stories turned out to be okay (chili with beans) but the rest were downright dull and ranged from lumpy mac and cheese to pedigree choice cuts.

The formula Guthrie employs is very repetitive. Our hero, newspaper guy, meets some loose acquaintance, at a bar / casino / diner (delete as appropriate), who for no good reason tells him their deepest, darkest secrets over a glass of wine / shot of bourbon / cup of coffee. Mr. Editor will then go and perform some random task on their behalf. Once you've waded through a dozen of these, even the Jeffery Archer novel that your aunt sent you for Christmas starts to look appealing.

In the cover blurb, old W.H. goes on to say 'there's no such thing as ordinary people'. This may well be true, but he (or maybe it's she) fails to mention that there is plenty of ordinary writing.

Review - Nobody Move

I'm not really sure why I'm posting a review of a Denis Johnson novel. Others, far more worthy than myself have been lauding, praising and generally blowing their literary smoke up his backside for years.

However, I found Johnson's previous offering, Tree of Smoke, to be a confused, over elaborate, rambling tome of a book, and it nearly finished him for me. So I picked up Nobody Move, more in hope than expectation, but boy, am I glad I did.

Nobody Move is as straight up as the pump action on a 12 gauge Remington (Click-Clack). It feels like Johnson, finally freed from his extended labours on Tree of Smoke, wrote this one quick and dirty.

It's a raging crime caper, full of brilliant, spare prose and wicked, dark humour. The story races along at a speed that will make your eyes water and your ass twitch. Johnson never misses a beat, or the opportunity to splatter the page with 'cherry pie'. He draws his wiseguy characters wonderfully and gives them smart mouth dialogue that crackles back and forth like crossed wires.

Put your back to the wall, open a bottle of Bourbon, keep a loaded thirty-eight on the side, and read this in one hard boiled sitting. My faith in all things Johnson is now restored.

Just William

The late and definitely great William Gay is fondly remembered in a poignant tribute by his friend and fellow writer Tom Franklin.

William was the author of three very fine novels; The Long Home, Provinces of Night, and Twilight. He also published a collection of short stories; I Hate to See That Evening Sun Go Down.
A Vietnam Navy Veteran; he came to writing relatively late in life, but is now widely regarded as one of the most powerful and authentic voices in American southern literature. You will often hear William Gay mentioned in the same breath as literary giants like, William Faulkner, Larry Brown and Cormac McCarthy. Quite right too!

You can read Tom's touching essay on line at the Oxford American Magazine

Hick Lit?

Some of my favourite books have been given this rather unflattering tag. I'm constantly amazed by the debates that rage over which genre a work must have slapped upon it. This occupation seems to be largely the preserve of those who lean towards more literary things (is literary also a genre - discuss). Once they have a book hogtied and branded with 'crime' or 'noir', they are then free to ignore it and can feel superior about having done so.

Keith Rawson has written an excellent article over at Lit Reactor for those who are yet to hitch-hike along the rutted gravel roads of some exceptional writing.
It's more than just meth labs and single wides: A rural noir primer; takes a look at some of the writers plying their trade in the backwoods hollers and hill country shacks of rural America.
Three of my all time favourite authors: Daniel Woodrell, Cormac McCarthy and Donald Ray Pollock, have works discussed, along with many notable others. Stand up guys like Frank Bill and Matthew McBride also get honourable mentions.

Country crime, redneck grit or southern gothic; I don't care what its called, but make sure you don't miss out on some damn fine stuff, just because someone else has stuck it with the label.

You can read Keith's article here: It's more than just meth labs and single wides

Roadkill Tweets

My relentless march into the digital age has taken another giant leap forwards.You can now find me on Twitter @nevadaroadkill. There's a link on the right, so feel free to stalk me, or what ever it is you young people do.

Review – Crimes In Southern Indiana

I picked up my copy of Crimes in Southern Indiana when I was last in Henderson. It got buried in the precarious pile of stuff on the end of my desk and only turned up again when gravity won out. So now I'm busy playing catch up.

Praise for Frank Bill's first book has been flooding in since it was published in the US last fall. Having finally got to it, all I can say is, fuck! This is one hell of a book.

Crimes in Southern Indiana is a collection of short stories, set in the rural, blue collar backwoods and boy is it brutal. I've read (and liked) a lot of stuff that most people would class as the literary equivalent of a video nasty, but Frank Bill takes it to a whole other level. Think of Winter's Bone meets The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, but with a higher body count.

Crimes is about tough lives, lived by what ever means are necessary. There is little thought of consequence or regard for town laws in this part of Indiana. These are harsh stories; cooked up along with the meth in the busted -ass kitchen of a back country shack. And then delivered with a wonderful blast of Frank's unique shotgun equivalence. Most of the characters we meet are doomed never to make it to the last page, but they get some killer dialogue along the way. The whole thing drips with beer-sweat and reeks of revenge. Frank Bill shoots you just to watch you bleed, then sticks his finger in the bullet hole and wiggles it.

You have to read this book, but a word of warning, you're going to get bloody on this one!

Frank Bill blogs at: http://frankbillshouseofgrit.blogspot.co.uk/

Also, check out his interview with Ron Earl Phillips over at Shotgun Honey: http://www.shotgunhoney.net/interviews/frank-bill

Review - Nevada Blue

John Tisley's Nevada Blue is a Vegas crime thriller, played out on the bad end of Fremont.

First published in 1997, and set in the early 1970's (bow-chicka-wow-wow) the story contains a lot of well worn elements; hit men, dirty cops, mobsters with stupid names (Jimmy Jinx, oh really, come on), cheap booze and cheaper women. The whole thing feels dated rather than retro. It's like pulling on your old bell bottom jeans, only to find that now they're two sizes too small.

The clipped 'hard boiled crime' style of writing just didn't work for me and I found myself cringing at some of the tired cliché’s liberally scattered through the narrative. Tisley is an English writer and the one thing that really jarred with me was his use of common British phrases, which you just don't hear in the US. When did a LVPD sergeant ever use the word 'scarpered' or suggest that he might have 'dropped a bollock' ?

On the plus side, I know the streets on which Tisley's characters walk pretty well and I did get a faint whiff of uncomfortable nostalgia from reading Nevada Blue; either that or the sink is blocked again.

Nevada Blue is not the worst book in the world and if you can get past the hackneyed prose there is a reasonable story to be had here. I'm just not sure if it's worth the effort.