{"id":149454,"date":"2020-12-04T17:50:06","date_gmt":"2020-12-04T22:50:06","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=149454"},"modified":"2020-12-04T18:38:52","modified_gmt":"2020-12-04T23:38:52","slug":"staff-picks-mingus-monologues-and-memes","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/12\/04\/staff-picks-mingus-monologues-and-memes\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Mingus, Monologues, and Memes"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Hannah Sullivan. Photo: Teresa Walton.<\/p><\/div>\n

As much as there are perfectly crafted lines of poetry I think about often, there are perfect titles, too, that I find myself thinking about as much as the poems themselves. Recently, variations of the title \u201cYou, Very Young in New York,\u201d the first in Hannah Sullivan\u2019s Three Poems<\/em><\/a>, have been at the front of my brain\u2014looking at old photos from old summers, making future plans, bestowing this very young in New York<\/em> phase of my life with the dynamic cadence of the phrase. Though corporeally I am still in a body that is still in New York, that cadence seems to belong to a past or future self that I sometimes feel I have to go back in search of or somehow move toward. Yet Sullivan\u2019s poem dispels this notion. While it overflows with precise detail and indulges each of the senses spectacularly, the poem makes space for slowness, too. From the first page, the reader is invited to embody the second-person narrator\u2014to hail their cabs, to wait for age to wear down a type of unwelcome innocence. Even then, \u201cthe senses, laxly fed, are self-replenishing,\u2009\/\u2009Fresh as the first time, so even the eventual\u2009\/\u2009Sameness has a savour for you,\u201d which is a gorgeous comfort to imagine now. The sumptuousness of the poem, then\u2014the vivid colors and tastes of huckleberry jam or overripe peaches \u201csitting with their bruises\u201d\u2014happens not despite the quiet moments but inside them. The second poem, \u201cRepeat until Time,\u201d lets the days stretch out even more. There, \u201cdays may be where we live, but mornings are eternity.\u2009\/\u2009They wake us, and every day waking is an absurdity.\u201d I\u2019m learning from Sullivan how to thank the sameness for its savour, to wake to the absurdity as well as the sun. \u201c\u2018You will know when it\u2019s time, when the fair is over,\u2019\u201d says the opening stanza of the collection, and by the time the poem ends, it still isn\u2019t over, but \u201cthrough tears, you are laughing.\u201d \u2014Langa Chinyoka\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

Audacious<\/em> is the word that kept coming to mind as I read Katharina Volckmer\u2019s debut novel, The Appointment<\/em><\/a>. Audacious<\/em>, along with hilarious<\/em> and unsettling<\/em>\u2014but unsettling in the best kind of way. The Appointment<\/em> is a book about shame, of both the national and psychosexual varieties, and takes the form of a monologue from a young German woman in London to her Jewish doctor. Volckmer is quick to deflate contemporary Germany\u2019s image of itself as a country that has dealt with its past, and she\u2019s prone to lines that are as provocative as they are funny (\u201cIt\u2019s possible that he also thought I was Austrian; Germans don\u2019t usually bother with basements\u2014they are happy to torture people on the first floor, they\u2019re not that discreet\u201d). This is a smart, unruly novel, one that dares to ask unexpected questions about the meaning of nation, gender, sexuality, and history. \u2014Rhian Sasseen<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

100 gecs. Photo courtesy of Big Beat Records.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

The first installment<\/a> of Bijan Stephen\u2019s column for The Believer <\/em>concerns a year spent immersed in the worlds of video games: \u201cEmbodiment in games acts as a surrogate for travel: I go somewhere else, somewhere that doesn\u2019t necessarily intersect with the physical plane we inhabit.\u201d In the early months of the pandemic, I often relied on music\u2014specifically, the act of obsessive listening\u2014to achieve a similar effect. I would lock myself inside musical fugue states, the anxious minutes melting into hours of Neil Young, mornings marked by nothing more than the same three Charli XCX songs, and whole afternoons ticked away in the comfortable quiet of Brian Eno\u2019s Ambient 1: Music for Airports<\/em>. But more than anything else, I listened to 100 gecs, a duo perhaps best defined by their defiance of easy categorization. They make music that sounds like Crazy Frog executing a flawless breakdance routine within the confines of the Large Hadron Collider. On their 2019 debut album, 1000 gecs<\/em><\/a>, 100 gecs split the atom of the past twenty years of popular music, leapfrogging from metalcore to dubstep, pop punk to hyperpop, ska to trap and back again. I may not have left my apartment much this year, but each dizzying trip through 1000 gecs<\/em> jolted me out of my quarantine-induced stupor, leading me out of the physical world and into an imaginary space of ever-shifting dimensions and non-Euclidean geometry\u2014towering walls of 808s, trees filled with digitized chirps, and everywhere the heavy gauze of autotune like a summer rain. Listening to 100 gecs can feel like literally surfing the endless expanse of the internet, gliding across the surfaces of depths both knowable and not, stumbling upon motifs and memes entirely divorced from context but constituting a landscape in and of themselves. In a stale, dark year, I find their omnivorousness\u2014their appetite for adventure, their commitment to cultivating and then thriving within a galaxy of one\u2019s own, as we all happen to be doing at this very moment\u2014absolutely inspiring. \u2014Brian Ransom<\/strong><\/p>\n

Because I\u2019m simply obsessed with their work, I have to talk about the orchestral album that Supergiant Games has released in celebration of their ten-year anniversary. As you might have guessed thanks to my incessant praise for Supergiant, I have not stopped listening to their in-house composer Darren Korb\u2019s divine work since the studio posted the entire album to YouTube<\/a>\u2014as they kindly do with all their music. Taking center stage are the mythical bardic ballads of Pyre<\/em> and the \u201cold-world electronic post-rock<\/a>\u201d of Transistor<\/em>, which pair unexpectedly well despite their disparate genres. It\u2019s no mystery that this is not just because of Korb\u2019s brilliance as a musician but also Ashley Barrett\u2019s inimitable voice work and Austin Wintory\u2019s inspired conducting. To top it all off, the album was recorded at Abbey Road Studios. If you\u2019re still uncertain about the legitimacy of music made for video games, please give a listen to \u201cPaper Boats<\/a>\u201d or \u201cThe Vagrant Song<\/a>\u201d; there\u2019s a quality of belonging to a different world that these songs not only magnify but celebrate in a way that is utterly unique. \u2014Carlos Zayas-Pons<\/strong><\/p>\n

Charles Mingus was one of jazz\u2019s most distinctive composers, writing musical odysseys in carefully plotted forms that leave plenty of space for dense collective improvisation. Charles Mingus @ Bremen 1964 & 1975<\/a><\/em>, a new four-CD set (if you still go in for that sort of thing\u2014you know, a thing<\/em>), allows for the delicious and speculative pleasure of charting the course of a major artist\u2019s development; it combines two live recordings made by Germany\u2019s Radio Bremen a decade apart. The first is from 1964, at the apex of Mingus\u2019s golden period; the other is from 1975, when his late music was at its fullest flowering. The 1964 band was one of Mingus\u2019s best, featuring Eric Dolphy, Jaki Byard, and Johnny Coles, among others. Like Frank Zappa, my vote for his closest musical cousin, Mingus\u2019s real instrument was not the bass but the band. His 1964 group races through what would become Mingus\u2019s best-known music\u2014including \u201cFables of Faubus\u201d and \u201cParkeriana\u201d\u2014with all the abandon it demands. By the time of the 1975 concert, Mingus had largely left that wonderful controlled chaos behind in favor of the more polished, choreographed, and grandiose master class on jazz history that is his late music (as well as a reprise of \u201cFaubus\u201d). This is also, perhaps, some of Mingus\u2019s most nakedly emotional and confessional music, if one wants to hear it that way. There\u2019s a lot of live Mingus out there, but I\u2019d wager no fan will regret adding this set to their shelf. \u2014Craig Morgan Teicher<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Charles Mingus, 1976. Photo: Tom Marcello Webster. CC BY-SA 2.0 (https:\/\/creativecommons.org\/licenses\/by-sa\/2.0), via Wikimedia Commons.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 listens to 100 gecs, reads Katharina Volckmer, and lingers on bygone days of being very young in New York.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[438],"tags":[67827],"class_list":["post-149454","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-featured"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Mingus, Monologues, and Memes by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 listens to 100 gecs, reads Katharina Volckmer, and lingers on bygone days of being very young in New York.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" 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