Ideal / Gossamer / Music

by Weston Cutter

Ideal Cities by Erika Meitner

Dynamo Carrie Meadows already wrote a full review of this book, and I want neither to tread on toes or cover ground twice, but holy shit is this book worth some of your time. “The windows on the soon-to-be luxury / condos across the way say things / to the darkness I can’t hear. Sometimes / they’re blocked by the train masticating / its way across town.” Those are the opening lines from her “Vinyl-Sided Epiphany,” and ignore, if you’re opposed, how she stuffs strange and unexpected words into expected scenes and thoughts (masticating instead of whatever other verb you’d prefer a train engage in), and if you find the compound adjective (and its gentrifying inplications) in the “soon-to-be luxury” phrasing, well, that’s fine, too, that’s choice and opinion.

What you likely cannot find reason against loving is the windows saying things to darkness that the speaker cannot hear. What you cannot argue against all through Ideal Cities, Meitner’s second collection (and a Natioanl Poetry Series winner), are poems like “You Are Invisible,” which begins “and everything is tucked in twice. / It is night-time at the Waffle House.” Plus there’s more, page by page: it’s easy enough to get caught up in the mesmerizing mesh of voice Meitner uses throughout the work (it’s all a unified voice—I’d argue hard that the speaker’s consistent throughout the book—but sometimes the voice is talking old parties and buzz, sometimes a kid sleeping through the night and now), and comically simple to thrill at the variety of cities at work in here, and how Meitner understands and moves through them (“Interstate Cities” might be the best, if yr the type who looks for a best). And all that doesn’t come close to how the book, in the end, makes you feel: there’s no way to read this book without, by its end, wondering about ingredients—for ideal cities, for ideal selves, ideal days. Read now.

Flowing in the Gossamer Fold by Ben Spivey

Honestly? I’d rather not talk about the what of this book. This is dangerous territory, somewhat: like Kristina Born’s One Hour of Television, Spivey’s Flowing is a sentence-driven machine (or, larger, a language-driven one), which is fine, but that also means plot and other aspects are stuffed, gagged, trunked. Maybe not are but can be. Is it a problem? It could be a problem (a note: I’m coming to this review having met with a student yesterday who announced “the goal for the week is to write a story with a plot.”)

Yet Spivey’s Flowing‘s got a plot: there’s Malcolm, a movitvational speaker, whose wife leaves him within the first clutch of pages. It moves out from there, and by out I mean Out, and by from there I mean the plot works toward and with emotional events as narrative events. The reason plot’s in the backseat though, in Flowing? What’ll make you keep turning pages in this are sentences as follows: “Her face was static like a seizure.” Or “The same velvet behind my eyes that granted darkness, a similar feeling as sleep, encased me as I left the city’s limits.” Or “The holes in the home became my mind, or at least an obsession in my mind. The holes in the home became the spaces between myself and my mind. The spaces between love, and a lack of reconnaissance.”

It’s funny: this review makes me sound ambivalent about this. I’m not, entirely, absolutely not ambivalent: Flowing in the Gossamer Fold is one of the richest, most sentence-delicious reads I’ve had in some time. Does it matter that it gets its rocket fuel from word-level work than structural, narrative-level work? It does not matter, at least to this reader, and it shouldn’t to you, either.

Amore: the Story of Italian American Song by Mark Rotella

As is clear to anyone who reads this site regularly, I’ll read damn near anything about music and/or sound (therefore, too: silence). My experience with Italian American music basically begins with Louis Prima and ends with, I don’t know, Sinatra, or so I thought: the reason to pick up Rotella’s incredibly engaging and quick-to-plow-through Amore is that, much like the blues, Italian music laced and laces through much of the music made and loved in the US after, say, the 30′s. I’d never once thought about “Runaround Sue” as having anything to do with Italian music, for instance. Plus, even for us Sinatra-loving dudes who believe we’ve read about all there is to read about the man and the voice and etc., it’s worth reading Amore simply for the fact that Rotella, aside from breezing confident and good through the music writing, does an exceptional job articulating exactly what Italian music means. That’s a loaded phrase, what Italian music means, and it’d be stupidly cruel of me to say anything other than this: Rotella’s where to begin if that phrase interests you, even remotely.

Could Bo Have Known It’d Be Like This?

by Weston Cutter

I liked Michael Weinreb‘s Game of Kings enough—liked it plenty to finish it fast, and to push it on a friend or two. That book—a story of a high school chess team from NY—was enjoyable, an easy and quick read, etc. What that book did not at all prepare me for was this, Weinreb’s Bigger Than the Game, which is one of the smartest, fastest, best sports books I’ve read in some time. Bigger/Game announces Weinreb’s entry into the ranks of Must-Read writers, regardless of what subject he’s covering—and, better, Bigger/Game shows that Weinreb can write about anything.

Meaning what? Meaning here’s your subtitle: Bo, Boz, the Punky QB, and How the 80′s Created the Modern Athlete. If you’re at all like me, you’re buying the book the second you see the picture of Bo Jackson (true: the first bio I ever read was Bo Knows Bo, and all I retain from it is the story of him spotting, through windows, some adult couple getting intimate)(I read it when I was 14). However, even if you’re not inspired to read by a picture of one of the best athletes of the last half-century, what you find soon is that the last bit of the subtitle, How the 80′s Changed the Modern Athlete, is where Weinreb’s gonna be spending the bulk of his time. For instance, here’s the start of “We’re Not Here to Start Trouble,” chapter 4:

Something was happening in Chicago that fall, something weird and dynamic and compelling, the origins of which could be traced back to the Thursday night in Minnesota when a woozy and petulant Jim McMahon nagged his way into a football game. It wasn’t just that the Bears were winning week after week after week (though, considering their fans had endured two decades of routine futility, that was strange enough). It was that the bears were winning with such naked audacity; it was that they actually appeared to be reveling in their own very public dysfunction. In the same city where a morning-show host named Oprah Winfrey was in the process of refashioning the tabloid talk show into a syndicated group-therapy session, the Bears were quickly becoming an affirmation of the new American ideal: a motley group of individualists who embraced capitalism and celebrity, who embodied nothing so much as immoderation and self-regard.

What’s cool about Weinreb’s fantastic Bigger Than the Game is the same thing that’s cool about the best sports writing (I’m looking at you, Mahler): he’s got a philosophic framework he’s fitting this stuff into, and so the sports under examination and discussion suddenly are larger by being contextualized. Like most of my peers, I, early on, bought into the notion that I absolutely needed to possess pairs of Air Jordans, and then, later, I realized the heat of that fervor was misplaced, was the result mainly of awe at Jordan and perfect work by Nike and the various ad agencies it worked with. What I didn’t consider, not once until Weinreb pointed it out, was that the mid-80′s allowed a terrifically strange cultural moment for folks like Jordan (and Bo, and Boz, and whoever Len Bias could’ve been) to take the stage.

And what was the cultural moment? Weinreb’s got suggestions, namely Reagan and Stallone movies. Before you balk at the notion, consider it for just a second more: Reagan was, yes, old enough to be a fossil, yet he was always canny, and he—Mr. Morning in America, the Gipper—led America with his image as much as anything else. And his image was, of course, old Hollywood, the rugged individual, that western ideal of self-sufficiency and -reliance. Rambo and Rocky were, of course, cut from much the same cloth. Nothing’s inherently wrong with this individualistic framework, but Weinreb points out how things got strange because of it: rugged, radical individualism came to be considered a legitimate form of citizenship. Think, for a second, of Rocky, fighting the Russian (Dolph Lundgren may as well be nameless, he’s just the Russian, but, of course, Stallone wrote the screenplay: dude’s name’s Ivan Drago) in Rocky IV, and the movie’s end, him wreathed in bruises and blood, wrapped in the flag, doing the whole thing for his country.

It’s hard to do this level of philosophic work justice, this stuff Weinreb does. His point is that, in the 80′s (mid-80′s, specifically: 85/85), there was a sudden twining of notions of wild inviduality(/-ism) and patriotism. Think otherwise? Think Joe Namath: he was a celebrity QB, and his style certainly gave rise to McMahon and the rest, later, but Namath wasn’t co-opted, instantly, by brands or a country’s hunger for authentic heroes. And don’t think that means nothing, the country’s hunger: ’85 was the middle of Iran/Contra stuff, was a decade after Watergate, Greed is Good and 9 years into what T. Wolfe called the Me Generation: Bo Jackson, Brian Bosworth, Michael Jordan, Jim McMahon—these men took the positions in culture they did because we needed them there, we need sports stars who, through self-interest, served everyone. It’s a scary but not serious stretch to think of this stuff in pretty Ayn Rand-ian terms.

There’s much, much more to this fascinating, absolutely devourable book: there’s lots about Len Bias who Weinreb slots in almost as a cipher, as an un-puzzlable clue. In fact, Weinreb almost uses Bias as the perfect example of the rise he’s tracking: Bias was quiet, dedicated, worked his ass off publicly, never drank or smoked or did anything around his teammates and coaches…yet had, according to several folks, another side, a coke-sniffing side. He never got the chance to—like McMahon, like Bo Jackson, like Jordan—be fully Himself (in order: cans of beers clutched on exit from limos; breaking bats over knees and playing whatever the hell sport he wanted; ushering in a whole new wave and level of branding in the NBA) publicly (of who he Himself most was was a drug-user). Bigger Than the Game is a riveting read, and one of the best books—not sports books, not nostalgia books, just books, period—of the fall. Get in on the Weinreb wagon early.

Grimm/Colds/Redemption (not in that order)

by Weston Cutter

The Grimm Reader, edited by Maria Tatar

This is one of those books you covet without even being aware you were coveting, like the Pevear and Volokhonsky translations of Dostoevsky, like a really good, smartly-edited collection of Kafka. Publishers, of course, are counting on our covetousness, hence new versions of, say, Huck Finn or Dickinson’s poetry, despite that both are beyond copyright protection and that, therefore, we could get them for free. If you’ve ever had a hankering to purchase a good-looking version of old Greek myths, or Gilgamesh, you know what I’m talking about.

Maria Tatar edited and translated The Annotated Brothers Grimm like 5 years ago, and that book was massive and epic, more than 400 pages and to-the-gills-stuffed with smartness (Norton’s been behind several exceptionally gorgeous Annotated Editions—Hans Christen Anderson, Secret Garden, Wizard of Oz, etc.) and fascinating insights. The Grimm Reader is, basically, the rock-and-roll version of that book: (most of) the stories remain, and the deft and infinitely readable translations stand, but the annotations—the noodly lines drawn grounding the Grimm stories to the world they were written in—are gone.

Of course it’s a loss, that lack, but look at what you have, look at this book: an anthology of absolutely necessary stories, work you need on your shelf—as reference, as starting point, as reminder of the harrowing power of story or the harrowing aspects that attend the credulity of childhood—as surely as you need a dictionary and the collected Shakespeare. Of course, if you think you don’t need those things, that’s fine: give it time. These stories are almost 200 years old. They’ll be good whenever you get to them.

The Cross of Redemption by James Baldwin

I fell hard for Baldwin, just like everybody should or does at some point, but what’s strange is how little of his stuff I’ve found myself going back to. I’ll pull out “Sonny’s Blues” annually, maybe page through bits of Notes of a Native Son (always that intro, always back to that), but not whole pieces, not extended works; I can’t remember the last time I read Giovanni’s Room. Anyway, I forget, as do, I imagine, lots of us.

But Baldwin’s just waiting, fresh and righteously angry as ever, and The Cross of Redemption might actually be an ideal Baldwin title to have: it’s by design dip-into-able, by nature something to take (relatively) smaller sips of. Feel bad about not having time to get fully immersed in Going to Meet the Man? Grab Redemption and read “The Nigger We Invent,” Baldwin’s comments at a House Select Subcomittee about history textbooks and feel the angry wind blowing hard and hot, still, 41 years later, or read his “Letters from a Journey,” printed in ’63 in Harper’s, written while Baldwin was traveling in Africa and while he was working toward The Fire Next Time.

What’s shocking, when one puts one’s mind against Baldwin’s still echoing work, is this: intellectuals used to be lit from within, impassioned, righteous. What’s sad about that realization is this: how far down we’ve fallen, how ‘intellectualism’ now gets marked and recognized as a tic, as an umbrella term denoting stuffy language and excess abstraction. “I am the flesh of your flesh and bone of your bone; I have been here as long as you have been here—longer—I paid for it as much as you have. It is my country, too. Do recognize that this is the whole question.” HEAR THAT HOWLING?! You feel that fire? You owe it to yourself to fall back in love with Baldwin, and to remember that intellectualism used to feature urgency, used to be bloody and breathless, real. Read Baldwin and remember.

Ah-Choo by Jennifer Ackerman

A note first: this book’s from Twelve, the imprint that only drops a dozen titles a year, which is rad and cool in itself, but it also makes one stop and go: well, okay, so, in some office in Manhattan, several people got together and decided that this book, this book, was what they wanted to identify with and be identified by this whole month. Sure, yes: small presses often don’t even publish a dozen titles a year, but this Twelve business is by design, and their stuff is consistently great (Scorpions, the one about FDR’s four supreme court appointees, will come in November, and it’s infinitely readable). Anyway: Twelve. Take note.

And this book, Ah-Choo? Seemingly disposable, seemingly light reading, seemingly a time-passer of a book? That’s all false. This book could’ve been simpler, dimmer, sillier, less whatever, but, as is, it’s basically the perfect book about the common cold. I hesitate to use that phrase, just because it sounds like such faint praise: this is the perfect book about the common cold! Well, who gives a damn though, right? Do we need a book about the common cold?

Yes, we do. We need a book in which, at the start, the writer allows herself to be used in a medical experiment (she gets dosed with the common cold), and one which, at the end, we’re warned of how to keep from getting the cold (plus recipes! plus poetry on the common cold!) and which, in the middle, explains why we feel so shitty when we get the cold, why it’s basically impossible to immunize against/for, why we’re so easily tempted into buying anti-microbial, say, pencils or protractors, seduced by a patently absurd claim that a topical ointment on plastic will be enough to keep things germ free.

It’s way more than the perfect book about the common cold: it’s smart, and it’s funny, and, given the chances that you’ll get a cold sometime in the next six months, is one of the most useful books you’ll get in awhile.

“It’s All in the Eyes”: An interview with squint

by Jeremy Griffin

In the interest of journalistic integrity—ignoring for the time being that I am not nor have I ever been a journalist, but rather a lowly blogger with obvious delusions of grandeur—let me get this out of the way first: I am hopelessly biased here (though, [ahem] let me also point out, in case you haven’t been paying attention, that “hopelessly biased” is a banner we fly pretty high here at Corduroy). During my high school years and a few thereafter, squint more or less constituted the small but lively local music scene in my tiny north central Louisiana hometown, or at least served as the de facto figureheads thereof. Many were the night I snuck into overcrowded bars, wedging myself between sweaty drunk college students, to watch them perform. They released their first studio album during this time, Beeker, which earned them opening slots for the Goo Goo Dolls, the Toadies, and several other high-profile acts of the time.

Fast forward to the present, and the band, now based in Austin, is celebrating its third studio release, Goodnight, Bad Intentions, and has already put out a music video for the single of the same name (Psst! There’s hookers and guns!). They have also snagged endorsements from Jagermeister and Atlas Microphone Stands.

Side note: Shortly before my interview with vocalist Dane Adrian took place, the band’s tour trailer was stolen, along with most of their personal effects and several thousand dollars’ worth of music equipment which, as most professional musicians will tell you, is often the kiss of death for independent acts (the trailer was later recovered by police—empty). And yet squint has managed to maintain their touring schedule, using whatever resources are at their disposal to continue performing. And so if you like good music and you like helping people and you have even the slightest inkling of decency in you, you will go here and donate a couple bucks. Because you care.

Okay, so here goes:

1. Your third album, Goodnight, Bad Intentions, just came out. Tell us a little about it. What have the songwriting and recording processes been like in comparison to your previous albums (Beeker and Tinsel Life)? Is songwriting a collaborative process for the band? How do you determine which songs make it onto an album?

With every album we write, I believe we grow a little bit. Likewise, I believe we grow a little bit with each song we write.  Guitarist Matt Fredrickson and I write all the songs.  I can really only speak for myself and how I craft a song lyrically as to whether or not songwriting process has changed over the years, and it has. I used to sit and write and write, aimlessly writing down words and ideas in notebook after notebook, and this yielded me a lot of notebooks with very few concrete song ideas. 

Now I only write down ideas for songs.  Virtually every song on Goodnight, Bad Intentions started as a sentence that began with “Write a song about BLANK.”  I view songs as 3-minute over-reactions. You really only have a very short amount of time to try to get your point across, a couple of verses and a chorus; about all you can accomplish, if you are lucky, is getting one point across.  So I like to make that point and then pretty much go off about it for 3 minutes. Hopefully at the end of the song you can step back and say “that was a song about BLANK”. If that happens, I feel like I did my job.

One thing we did differently on Beeker was that we tried to self-produce the album.  We thought we knew what the best songs were and in what order they should be in and what sounds would work best for each track.  This was fun, but after recording Tinsel Life with producer Ed Stasium, we knew that introducing a 3rd party to help guide and mold the album was the correct way to do things, at least for us it was. 

For our new album we recruited producer Dave Percefull.  We brought Dave about 25 songs, and from those, he picked the tracks that would make the record.  He picked the order.  He picked the sounds.  We of course could veto whatever we felt compelled to, but for the most part you have to put your trust in your producer.  We like the end result; I think you will as well.

2. You just released your first music video–”Goodnight Bad Intentions,” directed by Jeff Adair. Tell us a little about what the filming was like. How much creative input did the band have? Do you think that the video is an accurate representation of the band’s character (inasmuch as that’s what music videos are supposed to do, which is sorta debatable)? What did you hope to accomplish with the video? What has the response been like?

“Goodnight, Bad Intentions” is our first video, and the response has been overwhelmingly positive.  The entire filming experience was amazing.  I cannot wait to do it again.  Producer Jeff Adair was a spectacle to watch work.  He took control of the set and didn’t let go—I don’t think I saw the man eat for 3 days! 

The concept for the video was pretty much a literal translation of the song.  The words of “Goodnight, Bad Intentions” tell a story, a story of temptation, a story we all know so very well.  It is that moment when you can either do a very bad thing, or just roll over and go to sleep.  I think Jeff managed to nail it on the head with the video.  He captured just about every visual I was painting lyrically and captured them well. 

The video world has changed so much over the last few years; we really aren’t quite sure what we are going to do with the video just yet.  It’s a very powerful tool, but how exactly to engage the tool is still up for debate.  We plan to take a run at as many outlets as possible, everything from local stations up to MTV and Fuse, but as an indie band, we really aren’t sure how much traction we are going to get.  The video has already been picked up by HDNet and is airing nationwide, so that is a start!

3. In terms of content, Squint’s songs tend to focus on relationships, or perhaps more specifically, the dissolution of relationships, and by extension, the process of recovery (I’m thinking of tunes like “Anthem for Closure” and “Postergirl”). With respect to Squint’s songs, what is the relationship between the actual music and the content? Do you go into a song with a certain subject or premise in mind, or does it generate naturally from the instrumentation?

I think I sort of already answered this question, but I can elaborate a bit.  Matt generally brings me some music. I give it a few 10′s of listens, get a feel for it, chart it out and start messing with melodies. Once I have a few starting melodies, I start leafing through ideas for songs that I’ve written down.  I generally try to match the mood of the music, but since there are two separate writers and two separate opinions, I don’t always get the mood that Matt was envisioning.  You brought up “Postergirl”—a very good example of Matt writing a happy, pop song, and me writing a set of sad lyrics to go over the top of it. A lot of times I will actually ask Matt “what do you believe the mood of this music to be?” Sometimes I will follow it, sometimes I will pay it no mind whatsoever.

I think you’ll find the new squint album covers a lot more ground lyrically than previous albums.  I write from the heart, and when crafting both Beeker and Tinsel Life, heartbreak was what I knew best.

4. Okay, so, here’s a radically condensed version of Squint’s geographic history: Originated in Michigan, relocated to Louisiana, and are now based in Texas. What’s the deal behind all the moving around?

Matt and I have been best friends since we were 8 years old.  We met in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan (the U.P.).  As we made our way through school we started writing music and started to get pretty serious about it.  We wanted to hit the road and play live music as much as possible at first, so being in the U.P. was a rough place to try to do that.  We had snow on the ground about 70% of the year and the nearest town of any size was Green Bay, Wisconsin, which was a 3 1/2 hour drive south.  Not the most conducive home base to tour out of.  So we decided to go somewhere where there wasn’t snow and somewhere in the middle of the country.  That landed us in Louisiana.  We toured out of Louisiana for years, playing from LA to NYC and back to the U.P.  After touring the entire U.S. for years, we decided that we wanted to start focusing on putting out more music.  We were living in the small town of Ruston, Louisiana, where there wasn’t a single studio in the city.  So we decided to move to a music town—we picked Austin, TX.

5. You guys have been at it for awhile now, and, if the blog on your site is any indication, you have been through a lot together. What do you think it is that keeps a band together? I’m not talking about just success or acclaim; rather, I mean in terms of musical chemistry: do you think that’s something that comes naturally, or is there any way to foster it?

There are 3 things that keep us going:

1. Fans. I know I get great pleasure from giving the fans a great show, or a new song.

2. Friendship. It’s not hard to keep hanging out with your best friend—what better way to do that than travelling around the country making music together?  Good times, good stories, every single night.

3. Stubbornness. I love our songs, and I know we can convince the rest of the world if given the chance.

6. What do you ultimately hope to DO with your music? Is there a collective vision among you, or does each band member have his own ideas of what squint’s music should do?

This is an answer that has changed over time and will probably continue to morph forever.  At first it was fame that drove me, but that is a very distant thought at this point.  I think we all have a similar vision at this point – we just want to be able to play music and call it our job.  No more slinging drinks or punching clocks or whatever it is that each of us have to do in order to make music every possible chance we get.  So, to answer your question in one word, “career.”

7. What is the future for squint, and what kind of advice can you give to bands or musicians who are just starting their careers?

I don’t know what the future holds for squint—I think that is the most wonderful part about it.  I never have known what was coming next.  If someone told me I would be sitting in Austin in 2010 still playing in the band that Matt and I formed so many years ago in the U.P. while in high school, I would have laughed at them. What I do know is this: squint will be making music for as long as we can possibly keep squint going. 

As far as advice goes, that is simple: DO SOMETHING.  Get up every single day and do something that pushes your music forward.  That could be something as obvious as writing a song or building a website or something that isn’t obvious like calling companies for sponsorships or setting up a charity event—just do something.  Some of it will work, some of it will not, but if you do something every day for a month and then look back at where you were at the beginning of the month and where you are at the end of month, you will be surprised how far you’ve come by doing just 30 things.  Now, get every member of a 5 piece band doing something every day: that will be 150+ different things that have been done each month to push your career forward—you will be surprised.

There is no syllabus to follow to become a rock star—you have to make your own. *

Blitz Takes Part I

by Weston Cutter

In an effort to unclog the apparatus around here, we’re gonna do a couple entries of speedy reviews—not in depth, just quick coverage to deserving books. Hopefully this won’t take too long.

How To Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe by Charles Yu

I ended up not liking this book as much as I’d hoped to, nor as much as Ander Monson liked it in the Times (though we do agree that the conceit’s wacky). Here’s what’s for sure: the book cloaks itself, seems to be offering one thing but then offering something quite other at its finish. What you won’t expect, or what I didn’t expect, was such heart, such emotional gravity: there are moments of pretty sincere devastation in this.

Functionally, the story is about a guy, Charles Yu, who is a time-travel machine repair man, and he’s checked out of the regular circadian-rhythmed earth; he’s bubbled himself. His dad’s missing, gone someplace/somewhen Yu can’t find him, and his mom’s in a single hour loop, living the same fictional dinnertime ceaselessly. There’s a sexy computer as a love interest, and a fake dog. Much of the laughter seems to build off smirks instead of anything like guffaws. The Charles Yu of the novel’s looking for his dad, and the end result of his search—the ‘meaning’ and loaded imagery of things—is fine, if a little cloying. It’s an interestingly strange book, if not wholly satisfying: more than anything, it’s a shocking reminder of how visual reading is, and how lost a reader can get without a clear way to see what’s being talked about (the whole book’s set in an alternate universe, once which seems similar to ours but crucially different; the actual conception of how someone can, in some metal contraption/ship, re-enter time, that’s not nearly fleshed out enough).

The Citizen Machine by Anna McCarthy

I’ve meant to cover this book this summer, and it’s actually fair to start even easier: I’ve meant to talk about this book since it’s from The New Press, and since The New Press doesn’t ever miss a beat, and just about everything they release is interesting or beautiful or something you didn’t even realize you desperately wanted to read about, or all three of those traits and more. McCarthy’s text on television was, for this reader, a revelation: for anyone interested in ideas of intent, authority, and agenda (in any form, visual or textual or whatever), this book’s a must-have. It’s more than just notions of intent/authority/agenda that get complexly messed with in The Citizen Machine: the most swept-away aspect is anything resembling that precious word purity, and the questions raised, about what’s gained in that transaction, will make your relationship to television—old TV and tonight’s—much dicier, in all good ways.

Common as Air by Lewis Hyde

I’d hope my tardiness in mentioning this is totally unimportant: this is Hyde, and everyone already knew, as of months ago, that he had a new one, yes? And that, to coincide with the book’s release, a new printing of Trickster Makes This World was gussied up and offered, one with an intro by Chabon?

Look, it’s simple: if you’re not reading Hyde, your life is less rich and more difficult than it needs to be. Meaning what and how, exactly? Meaning he’s one of a dozen or so writers whose work is both monumentally moving and good to read and what’s written will literally change how you see the world. Wallace was like, ditto Stevens, Graham, Jonathan Mahler, Adrian Nicole LeBlanc, Weschler, OKDavis, Helen DeWitt. In order (chronologically, his nonfiction), Hyde’s made me 1) reconsider what I think I mean/understand by the word ‘value,’ 2) re-evaluate the schism presented in the Stay-In-One-Place vs. Travel-Lots spectrum (which is a brutal oversimplification, but okay), and, now, with Common as Air, Hyde’s made me 3) rethink what ownership means, what it means to use stuff. It’s maybe the book you’ll be most made better because of reading this fall.