{"id":153717,"date":"2021-07-30T15:39:16","date_gmt":"2021-07-30T19:39:16","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=153717"},"modified":"2021-07-30T15:39:16","modified_gmt":"2021-07-30T19:39:16","slug":"staff-picks-melancholia-music-and-meaning","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/30\/staff-picks-melancholia-music-and-meaning\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Melancholia, Music, and Meaning"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Cynthia Cruz. Photo: Steven Page. Courtesy of Cruz.<\/p><\/div>\n

America: land of the free, home of the brave. A country, as our cultural mythos would have it, sans the social restrictions of the Old World. A country, thanks to the competitive fervor of meritocratic capitalism, without class. But we know this isn\u2019t true: the idea of the United States as a land of the Protestant work ethic and the righteously rich is a fantasy, one especially relevant in the world of the arts. As the poet Cynthia Cruz painstakingly illustrates in her new book The Melancholia of Class: A Manifesto for the Working Class<\/em><\/a>, an expansion of her 2019 essay of the same name<\/a>, the working class is more often than not shut out of the arts in the contemporary U.S., reliant as this world is on low wages, credentialism, and social networking. In chapters that combine her own personal experiences as a working-class writer and the work of many American and international writers, artists, musicians, and filmmakers\u2014including Clarice Lispector, Barbara Loden, James Baldwin, the Jam, Cat Power, and more\u2014Cruz explores the \u201cmelancholia\u201d that results when a working-class artist abandons their origins and is subsumed into the middle and upper classes. In a world that denies their very existence, she argues, the working-class artist is a ghost: \u201cneither dead nor alive, the working class exists between worlds.\u201d Drawing on theoretical frameworks from Mark Fisher and Freud, as well as some good old-fashioned proletarian internationalism, Cruz makes a convincing argument as to how the working class can best resist assimilation and instead continue to make provocative, formally experimental work that transcends the borders of both class and country. \u2014Rhian Sasseen\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

While much of the world turns its attention to Tokyo for one of the most ill-advised sporting events in recent memory, I\u2019ve been spending my time in a different iteration of Japan\u2019s capital: the lovingly crafted, densely packed world of Yakuza 0<\/em><\/a>. I\u2019ve played only a few chapters of the game so far, but much of it takes place in Kamurocho, a light fictionalization of the Tokyo nightlife district Kabukich\u014d. The year is 1988, the Japanese economy is booming, and Kazuma Kiryu, a low-ranking member of the Tojo Clan crime family, has just been framed for murder. As Kiryu, the player works to clear his name, dredging deeper and deeper into the city\u2019s muck of criminal activity. The main story is one of the most thrilling crime dramas I\u2019ve encountered, which is all the more surprising given that a good portion of it revolves around a real estate dispute. But where Yakuza 0\u00a0<\/em>shines most is in the downtime between plot beats, when Kiryu is free to roam the neighborhood and encounter the strange characters who populate its streets. An earnest back-alley mushroom merchant struggles to understand why his customers think he sells drugs. A dominatrix fails to grasp the authority needed to perform her job well. An enormous man named Mr. Shakedown proclaims his ambitions of standing \u201cat the apex of ALL organisms.\u201d In each and every situation, the comically straitlaced Kiryu does his best to help. Yakuza 0<\/em> is something wholly unique: a perfect blend of intricately plotted prestige drama and slapstick, thoroughly bonkers comedy, all of it undergirded by some of the best writing in modern video games. \u2014Brian Ransom<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Camille Roy. Photo courtesy of Nightboat Books.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is Honey Mine<\/em><\/a>?\u201d asks Eric Sneathen, coeditor of the short story collection by Camille Roy, in an interview<\/a> with the author. \u201cTruly, I\u2019m not sure I\u2019ve read a book like this one before.\u201d I\u2019m not sure I\u2019ve read a book like this, either. The stories in Honey Mine<\/em>, which loosely follows the coming-of-age arc of a young lesbian and \u201cexplores what it takes to survive as a young sex and gender outlaw in the heart of America,\u201d are utterly unpredictable. The various plots continually catch me off guard, but even from sentence to sentence, I can never tell what\u2019s coming\u2014Roy\u2019s true staying power lies in the line. Coeditor Lauren Levin calls this phenomenon \u201cthe Camille sentence\u201d: \u201cLike pornography or delight, I know it when I see it. It\u2019s often deceptively clear, but its translucency glows with obscure depths. The Camille sentence has a touch of the aphoristic, the gnomic: it prefers the suggestive to the interpretable. It\u2019s wise and brash. Mordantly witty, it never outstays its welcome. Instead, it snaps shut on its moment, then stays open in the mind.\u201d The Camille sentence is, in short, provocative\u2014not necessarily in content but in the sense that the reader is poked and prodded to go somewhere they would not have otherwise gone. I find myself particularly taken with Roy\u2019s highly self-aware and mind-bending meditations on writing. Take this short excerpt from the first story of the collection, \u201cAgatha Letters\u201d: \u201cThis paragraph, for instance. I think it\u2019s a dwelling place for a sort of ghost, one who whines, craves visitors, is erotically frustrated. Into the eternal present (which is eternal because it never arrived in the first place), the hapless reader stumbles, turns around in confusion, then crashes through the rear exit. Reading is a kind of crashing through meaning\u2014as the ghost is my witness.\u201d Reading Honey Mine<\/em>, I am constantly crashing through meaning and emerging on the other side\u2014as the author-specter Camille Roy is my witness. \u2014Mira Braneck<\/strong><\/p>\n

Over the past few days I\u2019ve been pulled into Venita Blackburn\u2019s How to Wrestle a Girl<\/em><\/a>. Blackburn\u2019s voice is so nimble, toggling cooly between narrators and forms; she is a writer obviously in control of her craft and playing with its limitations. Blackburn can also be quietly vicious, breaking your heart with such a clean blade of controlled style that you don\u2019t realize it\u2019s happened until you\u2019ve reached the end. \u2014Lauren Kane<\/strong><\/p>\n

Streamed pandemic concerts in which my favorite artists launch their new albums from remote locations, even\u2014perhaps especially\u2014if they\u2019re well filmed, simply aren\u2019t the same thing as live music, not by a long shot. I miss the heat in the room, the bass rumbling through the floor, the tall guy standing in front of me who took the place of the other tall guy who was standing in front of me until he went to get a beer. Live music, like friendship, is best experienced outside the confines of a tiny digital box. The closest I\u2019ve come to seeing live music in a year and a half is watching the amazing new documentary Summer of Soul<\/em><\/a>, directed by Questlove, that jack-of-all-musical-trades. The film brings to light extraordinary footage, captured with multiple cameras in still-brilliant color, of the 1969 Harlem Cultural Festival, a several-weekend concert series produced the same summer as Woodstock. The festival was filmed with the intention of broadcasting the result, but according to Summer of Soul<\/em>, nobody wanted to air it, so the reels stayed hidden in a basement until now. The documentary is utterly immersive; this is as close as you\u2019re going to get to attending live performances by Nina Simone, Sly and the Family Stone, Mahalia Jackson, Gladys Knight and the Pips, a nineteen-year-old Stevie Wonder, and many others. All of the performers are visibly energized by playing before an overwhelmingly Black audience at a time when the U.S. was a powder keg of racial tension\u2014you can feel that they feel they are doing something important<\/em>. And beyond enjoying the music, I felt that, as a viewer, I was doing something important, too, by bearing witness to this document of an event that took place during a moment when music was a balm and essential community-building force. The 1969 Harlem Cultural Festival should be just as legendary as the other music festival that took place that summer. \u2014Craig Morgan Teicher<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Sly Stone performs at the Harlem Cultural Festival in 1969, featured in the documentary Summer of Soul<\/em>. Photo courtesy of Searchlight Pictures. \u00a9 2021 20th Century Studios. All rights reserved.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 considers the plight of the working-class artist, reads Camille Roy, and watches \u2018Summer of Soul.\u2019<\/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-153717","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-featured"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Melancholia, Music, and Meaning by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"July 30, 2021 \u2013 This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 considers the plight of the working-class artist, reads Camille Roy, and watches \u2018Summer of Soul.\u2019\" \/>\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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