{"id":164550,"date":"2023-06-09T10:30:04","date_gmt":"2023-06-09T14:30:04","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=164550"},"modified":"2023-06-08T16:09:47","modified_gmt":"2023-06-08T20:09:47","slug":"james-lasdun-jessica-laser-leopoldine-core-recommend","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/06\/09\/james-lasdun-jessica-laser-leopoldine-core-recommend\/","title":{"rendered":"James Lasdun, Jessica Laser, and Leopoldine Core Recommend"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

Joxemai, CC BY-SA 4.0<\/a>, via Wikimedia Commons.<\/p><\/div>\n

Julian Maclaren-Ross\u2019s 1947 novel, <\/span>Of Love and Hunger<\/span><\/i>, is a defiantly unedifying English comedy about a vacuum-cleaner salesman trying to keep his chin up in the gloom of prewar Brighton. Its not-quite-forgotten (if never-exactly-acclaimed) author has been on my radar ever since I learned that he was the model for the bohemian novelist character X. Trapnel in Anthony Powell\u2019s A <\/em><\/span>Dance to the Music of Time<\/span><\/i>. That monumental <\/span>roman-fleuve<\/span> of English life happened to be a significant inspiration for a project of my own\u2014a novel about the seventies London I grew up in, an excerpt of which appears<\/a> in the new Summer issue of the <\/span>Review<\/span><\/i>\u2014so when I found myself trying to think of a book that one of my middle-aged characters might have read in her youth, the Maclaren-Ross novel sprang to mind, and I finally read it. As it turned out, I don\u2019t think my character, a tortured soul who tends to find everything \u201cghastly,\u201d would have enjoyed it. She would have found the seedy boarding houses and tearooms and pubs that comprise its setting \u201cghastly\u201d; she\u2018d have found the petty swindling and debt-dodging antics of the protagonist and his fellow salesmen \u201cghastly,\u201d and she\u2019d have found his unapologetic romance with the wife of an absent colleague \u201ctoo ghastly for words.\u201d But I couldn\u2019t get enough of it. There\u2019s nothing obviously brilliant about the writing or plotting, both of which tend toward the studiedly humdrum. (\u201cTwo more cars passed, then a bus.\u201d) But somehow its little throwaway visions of fleeting bliss snatched from abiding squalor got under my skin. I haven\u2019t enjoyed a novel so much in ages.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2014James Lasdun, author of \u201cHelen<\/a>\u201d <\/b><\/p>\n

\n

I asked my musician friend JJ Weihl why so many analog demos sound like they were recorded at the bottom of the sea. She told me that if they\u2019re recorded on a cassette there\u2019s \u201cfar less frequency range\u2014everything sounds warm and muffly.\u201d She described something she experiences sometimes called demo-itis, when she gets so attached to the demo that it\u2019s hard to recreate it later: \u201cchasing the blurry undefined feeling,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

Recently, I\u2019ve been listening to old demo tapes by the Cure on repeat. I like hearing the rough and sometimes fragile beginnings of their songs. A demo feels more like it\u2019s breathing\u2014it\u2019s not fixed. It has been through fewer hands and there\u2019s something enthralling about that. The song is still thinking. The demo for \u201cSix Different Ways<\/a>\u201d sounds underwater but the essence is there\u2014maybe even more than in the finished song. There is a thinness, a wobbliness, and a directness to the recording\u2014a distinctly temporary quality\u2014not perfection\u2014not in tune always. More the act of making a root.<\/p>\n

My dog likes this<\/a> instrumental demo of \u201cPictures of You\u201d; he falls into a deep relaxed sleep whenever I play it. Robert Smith\u2019s voice is there even when it\u2019s not. Every performance of that song seems to have its own persuasive life force. Maybe more than one can be the<\/i> one.<\/p>\n

\u2014Leopoldine Core, author of \u201c<\/b>Ex-Stewardess<\/b><\/a>\u201d<\/b><\/p>\n

\u201cMy buckle makes impressions \/ on the inside of her thigh,\u201d begins a Tyler Childers love song in which no one\u2019s pants come off. \u201cIf I\u2019d known she was religious \/ then I wouldn\u2019t have came stoned,\u201d he continues, and who wouldn\u2019t forgive his honest mistake? He\u2019s clearly hell-bound (\u201cworking on a building out of hand-hewn brimstone,\u201d he sings in \u201cI Swear (to God)\u201d), until another song has him wondering whether God might let \u201cfree will \/ boys mope around in purgatory,\u201d a place he describes as \u201ca middle ground I think might work for me.\u201d \u201cBorn Again,\u201d which he has called \u201ca redneck commentary on reincarnation,\u201d repeats the phrase \u201conce I was\u201d (\u201ca dying breed,\u201d \u201ca broken heart\u201d), until it becomes simply: \u201conce I was \/ and you were too.\u201d It\u2019s as though the clause thought it needed an object to become a full sentence, before realizing, in its journey toward enlightenment, that it was already complete.<\/p>\n

In high school on the South Side of Chicago, I would say things like \u201cI\u2019ll listen to any music, just not country,\u201d as if country were the only sure marker of bad taste, probably because of an unnamed association I had made, or that had been made for me, between the genre and white ignorance, unexamined patriotism (it is called \u201ccountry,\u201d after all), guns, Christianity, and the confederacy. In adulthood, I covered my burgeoning love for country music with the safer, cooler, more presentable term Americana<\/em>. Until I fell for Childers, I didn\u2019t see that term as a euphemism.<\/p>\n

\u201cAs a man who identifies as a country music singer,\u201d Childers said in his acceptance speech for the 2018 Americana Music Honors and Awards\u2019s Emerging Artist of the Year, \u201cI feel Americana ain\u2019t no part of nothing and is a distraction from the issues that we\u2019re facing on a bigger level as country music singers.\u201d In 2020, he released Long Violent History<\/i>, an album of old-time fiddle music accompanied by a six-minute YouTube statement in which he speaks directly to his \u201crural white listeners.\u201d He asks them to \u201cstop being so taken aback by Black Lives Matter: if we didn\u2019t need to be reminded, there would be justice for Breonna Taylor,\u201d and to \u201cstart looking for ways to preserve our heritage outside of lazily defending a flag with history steeped in racism and treason.\u201d His most recent record, Can I Take My Hounds to Heaven?<\/i>, does some of that heritage-preserving. It is a triune gospel album that plays the same eight songs three different ways\u2014an acknowledgment of tradition, and that things change.<\/p>\n

\u2014Jessica Laser, author of \u201c<\/b>Kings<\/b><\/a>\u201d<\/b><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

On a novel about a vacuum-cleaner salesman, demo tapes, and the music of Tyler Childers.<\/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":[68386],"tags":[15177,19216,68683,67827,68676,68684,883,19566,68685],"class_list":["post-164550","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-the-reviews-review","tag-americana","tag-country-music","tag-demos","tag-featured","tag-issue-244","tag-julian-maclaren-ross","tag-staff-picks","tag-the-cure","tag-tyler-childers"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nJames Lasdun, Jessica Laser, and Leopoldine Core Recommend by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"June 9, 2023 \u2013 On a novel about a vacuum-cleaner salesman, demo tapes, and the music of Tyler Childers.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, 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