JessicaRulestheUniverse.com

Every week we ask a reader to review a recently-published book. This week’s review is by cacs.

Combine jazz, Berlin, Nazis, Paris, race, and war and you’ll probably end up with Esi Edugyan’s Half Blood Blues. Or The United Colors of Jazz in Nazi Germany.

Edugyan’s second novel, shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize in 2011,  may not seem to have the most original of themes. Christopher Isherwood’s Berlin Stories might even come to mind. They’re made of the same stuff anyway: jazz and Berlin. But the two novels play very different tunes.

Half Blood Blues is as polyrhythmic and blue-noted as any of your favorite jazz pieces. You’re not into jazz? Good. In all likelihood you’ll be searching YouTube for videos of Louis Armstrong’s performances after you’ve read this novel. And even if you happen to hate jazz, the novel is so lusciously-written that you may find yourself in the mood for Satchmo.

Esi Edugyan weaves a tale of dreams, jealousy, guilt, loss and betrayal into what one character calls “a damn braid of mistakes.” Mistakes that make for a heartrending story with Louis Armstrong’s gravelly voice lending mass to the plot.

The novel opens in 1940. The Germans have just made Paris a Nazi resort town. The narrator, Sydney “Sid” Griffiths, an American bassist of a popular jazz band known as the Hot-Time Swingers, is out on the town with his bandmate, Hieronymus “Hiero” Flak. Hiero is a young genius trumpeteer, a black half-breed German. A “mischling”.

The two friends are looking for, of all things, milk, after a long night of trying to cut a record. Boots (this is how German occupation forces are referred to throughout the novel) are crawling all over the city, f___ing up people’s lives. Hiero gets arrested and is hauled off to god-knows-where. He is never heard from again. And the only witness to Hiero’s last moments as a freeman is Sid.

Fifty years later, Hieronymus Flak becomes this mythical jazz icon whose only proof of genius is an obscure recording entitled “Half-Blood Blues”. Who is this Heiro guy anyway? What happened to him after the German military took him? Who are the Hot-Time Swingers?

Apart from Sid and Hiero there’s Chip, an American drummer who came to Germany with Sid and would rather keep his middle name a secret. Ernst, a clarinetist, is the son of a wealthy German industrialist. Fritz, the other clarinetist, is a Bavarian built like the Incredible Hulk. Paul, the handsome German Jew, is the group’s pianist, designated Casanova and discoverer of Hiero. There’s also Delilah, another American import, the requisite female character who causes friction within the band. And there’s Louis Armstrong himself making a cameo appearance.

As in real life, friends come and go throughout the book, just not in the usual falling-out kind of way. This is World War II and people’s loyalties are tested. Sacrifices are made. People die or simply vanish.

The novel is peppered with sharp, humorous exchanges between its motley crew of musicians. It’s not so much an action-thriller across Europe in World War II as it is an adventure through time and a meditation on the meaning of friendship.

The reader travels fifty years into the future and fifty years back to gloomy cafés and cobblestone streets in Berlin, Baltimore and Paris. En route it explores those corners of our hearts we would rather not visit but where we hide out whenever we feel that the universe has been unfair to us.

In this Facebook era where being a “friend” has lost most of its meaning, devolved into a clickable act, Half Blood Blues reminds us of the original, pre-digital meaning of Friend.

You may find this story achingly familiar. We don’t admit it, but we all have friends whom we absolutely abhor (or are just annoyed with). And yet we allow them to remain our friends. Never mind the irritating transgressions, the callousness of their behavior, and their pathological douchebaggery. Somehow, for reasons we can’t explain, they fill a void no other person can occupy. If it takes a douchebag to fill that void, so be it.

While reading Half Blood Blues you may catch yourself grinning stupidly or feeling murderous as you recognize the way your own friends have treated you over the years. You might even realize that you, reader, have been the douchebag all these years. That you have not only been a terrible friend but a selfish, despicable creature.

Or you might gain a newfound appreciation of jazz. For this possibility alone it is worth getting a copy of Half Blood Blues.

The LitWit Review is brought to you by our friends at National Bookstore.

Summertime: Number 9A by Jackson Pollock

Standing in front of Jackson Pollock’s Summertime: Number 9A one day, I was struck by an unfamiliar feeling. What I once considered an ugly collection of random paint splatters now spoke to me as a joyous celebration of movement and energy, the bright yellow and blue bringing to mind a carefree laugh.

It was my road-to-Damascus moment – the first time a piece of abstract art had stirred my emotions. Like many people, I used to dismiss these works as a waste of time and energy. How could anyone find meaning in what looked like a collection of colourful splodges thrown haphazardly on a 5.5-metre-wide canvas? Yet here I was, in London’s Tate Modern gallery, moved by a Pollock.

Read Get the picture? Art in the brain of the beholder, in New Scientist (Registration required).

Gerard Courant compressed Jean-Luc Godard’s most famous film A bout de souffle into a four-minute movie. Is it still truth at 524 frames per second? via Dangerous Minds

There have been too many references to Taxi Driver, so here’s a taxi scene from another movie. That’s Chris Cornell and Audioslave in the background.

Our column Emotional Weather Report appears every Sunday in the Philippine Star.

One Saturday afternoon a month ago I took a taxi outside the UP Shopping Center.

“Sa Makati po,” I told the driver.

“Do you have a UP ID?” he asked.

“No.” I mean I had one when I was a student, obviously, but I don’t have a current university ID.

“We’ll have to take Garcia Avenue then,” he said. He was a burly man who looked to be in his 50s. Do you remember Bomber Moran?

“But you went to UP,” he went on and I nodded. I regretted not having earbuds on as a conversation deterrent. Talking to cabbies is always instructive but there is the risk of arguments, yelling, and stuff that leads to cars fusing with lampposts.

“May I ask what you majored in?” (Our conversation was in Tagalog by the way, I’m just saving myself the translation work.) I said Literature.

“I’m here to consult with a professor friend of mine,” he announced. “I’m an inventor, you see.” I congratulated him, for I have a great admiration for inventors. “I’ve invented a process that reduces vehicular emissions.”

I said this was important work and that he should have his invention patented. “That’s not a problem,” he boomed, “I am a mechanical engineer. We’re working on the requirements.”

“Good luck,” I said, hoping this was the end of our chat because I wanted to listen to music. “Don’t get ripped off by evil corporations.”

“I don’t care about the money,” he declared, “I’m doing it for humanity.”

The theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey started playing in my head. “I knew someone who was helping inventors get patents,” he continued. “My friend had found a way to save fuel by using a mixture of gasoline and water. But not a hybrid engine.”

“That’s great,” I noted, “as long as the engine doesn’t explode.”

“No, he solved that problem,” the driver said. “It takes a long time to get the engine started though, about an hour.”

Wonderful for emergencies, said my thought balloon. He went into a long and detailed story about how that guy had actually swindled other inventors but his friend got his patent safely. “Karma,” he concluded.

“That was quick,” I said.

“Yes, karma strikes fast. I’m a cancer survivor, you know. My friend cured me. He taught me how to beat the cancer. I was working in Japan when I was diagnosed; I thought I was a goner. Resigned to my fate, I gave away all my possessions. That’s when my friend showed me the cure. Now I help others to overcome the illness.”

An inventor and a medical genius. Leonardo Da Vinci was my cabbie.

“Do you have bad eyesight?” he asked me. This did not require genius—I was wearing glasses.

“Nearsighted,” I said.

“What grade?”

“High.”

“Would you like laser surgery?”

“No.”

“That’s what I thought until I had the surgery and now my vision is perfect,” the driver declared. “You mustn’t be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid, I love glasses,” I said. This confused him. “They’re part of my work,” I explained. “I work in…fashion.” Not exactly true but not entirely a falsehood.

“I kept sitting on my glasses,” the driver went on.

“I keep them on my face, not my ass,” I told him, obviously omitting the last part. Blast this traffic, I was late for my late lunch.

“I prayed to the lord to give me a girlfriend,” the driver went on. “I’m single, see, but I want to have ten children. I asked God for a beautiful girlfriend. A kind girlfriend.”

Obviously he wasn’t referring to me. “And he answered my prayers!” he cried, like a game show host unveiling a kitchen showcase. He took a framed photo from the dashboard and handed it to me.

“Don’t you think she’s pretty?” I nodded with all the enthusiasm I could muster.

“The other girl in the picture is her twin sister. I didn’t know she had a twin!”

“Good then, you’ll get your ten kids in no time.”

“We became close when she almost drowned during typhoon Sendong,” he recounted. Why do strangers feel compelled to tell me their life stories? It’s not as if I seem sympathetic. “She called me, crying for help. Her house was flooded, the water was rising. ‘Help me!’ she was screaming, then we got cut off. She drowned.”

An inventor, a medical genius and a protagonist in a tragic romance.

“Drowned?” I echoed.

“I didn’t think she’d survive. Lucky her mother found her. They didn’t have a good relationship, they were fighting all the time. But the experience brought them closer together. They are closer now than they’ve ever been.”

Not a tragic romance, good for him. “I’m getting out there, by the coffee shop,” I said.

“Don’t leave your smartphone in the cab, I’ve collected so many from my passengers!” he warned me, cheerfully.

“Keep the change!” I said as I ran away.

As long as you’re agog at the new Bourne Legacy trailer featuring Tagalog dialogue and a chase scene on Manila rooftops, here’s the trailer for the Will Ferrell-Zach Galifianakis movie The Campaign, in which congressional candidate Ferrell sucks up to Filipino tilt-a-whirl amusement park ride operators. “Salamat.”

We’re exiting the X-Men/Avengers universe momentarily to check out recent and classic titles from DC Comics.

As you will no doubt remind us, DC rebooted its entire line of superhero comics, calling them The New 52. Among the relaunched titles is Catwoman, and we don’t know if Selina Kyle has always been this way but in issues #1-6 (The Game) she seems to be auditioning to become a lingerie model. Okay, she has no fear of heights, but who sleeps dangling upside down from a cornice, the better to show off her cleavage?

A few pages in she’s having rough sex with Batman, and shortly after that she’s sashaying into the men’s room wearing a bra. She does have a lot of bras—will there be a Victoria’s Secret marketing tie-in? We get it: the target market is teenage boys. The Catwoman we remember is clever, resourceful, funny and a rebel—we hope she comes back.

Wonder Woman #1-6 goes back to Greek mythology to recount the origins of Diana, princess of the Amazons. The mostly-divine cast includes Hera, still the jealous virago hunting down her husband’s lovers, Hermes the messenger, Eris a.k.a. Discord, Ares the god of war, Hades lord of the underworld, Poseidon god of the seas, and Apollo, who’s making a play for the throne in Zeus’s absence. It’s an action-packed opener with a rather thin plot but there’s room for many interesting developments.

Then there’s Batman, lots and lots of Batman.

Knightfall introduces the villain known as Bane. As in the movie he is born and grows up in a terrible prison, but the escape from Plato’s Cave drama is a cinematic contrivance. Which we appreciated because we found this series a little tedious.

Batman: The Black Glove Deluxe Edition puts the Dark Knight in a truly terrifying situation: fatherhood! Actually we’re shocked that there haven’t been more children because isn’t Bruce Wayne supposed to be a playboy? Or are all those women just for show? Hmmm.

Batman: The Return of Bruce Wayne by Grant Morrison. Yes, we’re not that familiar with Batman comics so we just picked a name we recognize.

In Batman Incorporated, also by Grant Morrison, Batman goes global and opens crime-fighting franchises in Japan, Argentina and other countries. Ah, the free market. Don’t forget that Bruce Wayne has always been a capitalist.

Two classic Batman series: Arkham Asylum by Grant Morrison and The Dark Knight Returns by Frank Miller with the distinctive Lynn Varley illustrations. In the latter Batman is 55 and a creaky, cranky right-wing nut. Well what did you expect?

These graphic novels are available at National Bookstores.
Catwoman: The Game volume 1, by Judd Winick (Writer) and Guillem March (Artist), Php609
Wonder Woman: Blood vol.1 by Brian Azzarello (W) and Cliff Chiang (A), hardcover Php925
Batman: Knightfall vol. 1 by Doug Moench, Chuck Dixon, Alan Grant, Php1215
Batman: The Black Glove Deluxe Edition by Grant Morrison (W), Andy Kubert (A), J.H. Williams III (A) and Tony S. Daniel (A), hardcover (price to follow)
Batman: The Return of Bruce Wayne Deluxe Edition by Grant Morrison (W), Yannick Paquette (A) et al, hardcover (price to follow)
Batman Incorporated Deluxe Edition by Grant Morrison (W), Yannick Paquette (A) et al, hardcover Php1215
Batman: Arkham Asylum 15th Anniversary Edition by Grant Morrison (W) and Dave McKean (A), Php755
Batman: The Dark Knight Returns by Frank Miller (W), Klaus Janson (A) and Lynn Varley (A), Php839