Not A Review: Thoughts on “The Glass Hotel”
The novel — the latest from the incomparable Emily St. John Mandel (Station Eleven) — is brilliant. Like broken glass, it is refracted, jagged, illuminating, haunting and brilliant. Through the shards, a clear vision is seen. It is a book that I desperately wish I’d written. In fact, it’s a book not dissimilar from my most recent novel. My novel also plays with time and has a tendency to obsess over light and rain. Mandel’s prose is effortless. Her characters are full people, like-able and enviable in one moment and reprehensible and face-punchable the next. I love every single one of them. Walter, especially. I could absolutely read an entire book about Walter and his beloved solitary.
The more I write, the more joy I find in reading great work. And Mandel’s work is always great. I cannot recommend the books highly enough. Swing by your favorite local independent bookseller and grab a copy.
Not A Review: Pearl Jam’s Gigaton
photo credit: Joseph Clark, follow me on instagram @joebodieclark
A good friend recently said to me, “I used to put every album post No Code into my top 3 for at least a brief window, so we'll see where [Gigaton] lands, ultimately. But I'm confident it's a keeper.”
This is fascinating to me. Because my experience has been almost the opposite.
Peal Jam entered my life in a real way in early 1993. Ten (1991) had been out for over a year before I listened to it. Of course, I knew the hits: Alive, Even Flow, and Jeremy; each played ad infinitum on MTV and alternative rock radio. But I was too busy with Nirvana to bother with Pearl Jam. Until my best friend brought over Ten — on cassette, by the way — and insisted that I sit and listen to it. Which I did and promptly fell in love. Black, Oceans, Release, these were the songs that hooked me.
Their follow-up, Vs (1993), dropped less than a year later. I didn’t rush right out and buy it because I was worried the band only had one great record in them. I’d been burned before and wanted to hear the record before I bought it. In case it sucked. That same friend who made me listen to Ten bought Vs the day it dropped and let me borrow it a few days later. I listened from start to finish and immediately played it again. I still thought Ten was the all around superior record (Ten has zero subpar songs while Vs has a few that never quite clicked with me), but the day I heard Vs was the day Pearl Jam became my favorite band. Two monster albums, back to back — each an album that I could rank among my all-time favorite albums. In my too-young life, I’d yet to hear anything quite like it.
Vitalogy (1994) was probably the most difficult record for me to connect with. There are a lot of factors for that. For deep, personal reasons, that have nothing to do with the band on the music, I kept Vitalogy at arms length for a long time. I didn’t give it a fair shake because of what was going on in my life when I first heard it. The album conjured too many negative memories and emotions. Not until their fifth album, Yield, came out in 1998 did I finally give Vitalogy the love and attention it deserved — and a large part of that is because of my first impression of Yield — but we’ll get to that.
Up to the release of their fourth album, only one of Pearl Jam’s albums held the “best of the catalog” title. That was Ten. As good as Vs was and as good as Vitalogy would grow to be (it’s now second favorite Pearl Jam album and my third all-time favorite album by any artist), nothing compared to the genius of Ten.
No Code (1996) blew me away but it was also strange and hard to hold. As much as I loved its fresh directions (from the previous 3 records) it was inconceivable to imagine ranking the record above any of the previous three. Again, the highs were career-defining. To this day, “In My Tree” is still my all-time favorite song. And really the opening run from “Sometimes” through “Off He Goes” remains the strongest run of consecutive songs in the entire Pearl Jam catalog. If No Code was an E.P. comprised of just those six songs, it would be my favorite Pearl Jam release. However, “Habit” really kills the momentum of the record and the entire second half is too uneven to recapture enough of the magic from the first half to elevate the experience to the top tier. No Code is a gorgeous, if uneven and at times frustrating masterpiece. I record worthy of Pearl Jam’s legacy, but not near their best. The sum of its parts is greater than its whole.
Yield (1998) was also an interesting record, full of energy that felt fresh and earned, but I also felt done with it after one listen. I bought it the day it came out and listened, front to back, as was my tradition with new PJ albums. But when it was over I thought, "Cool. . . now what? NEXT." I didn't need to listen to it again immediately. This was the first time I'd had that reaction to a Pearl Jam record. Great as many the songs were, Yield was easily my least favorite Pearl Jam album at first listen. It was the new record and it only made me want to listen to the old records — this is where I was gifted the opportunity to properly revisit Vitalogy and discover how blisteringly brilliant and powerful that record is. This may be the best thing about Yield.
I didn't even listen to Binaural (2000) all the way through. I bought the album the morning it dropped — as I’d done with No Code and on — then I listened to the first three songs, turned it off and went about my day. Later I listened to the rest of it. And there were clear stand-outs. Some "best song in the catalog" potential but the album felt like a mess, ultimately. The flow was all wrong and there seemed to be too much fat to trim away. I spent much more time with it when it was brand new than I had with Yield but I still knew it was my least favorite Pearl Jam album. It has since moved up a bit for me, but it’s still mid-tier Pearl Jam despite having several songs that I consider among the best the band ever recorded (Sleight of Hand, Insignificance, Nothing As It Seems, Rival). Hardcore fans know that the Binaural sessions produced some of the bands best work, however, much of it was left off the record. Which is unfortunate. There’s probably a version of the record to be cobbled together from, including the session’s best outtakes, that would be top-tier Pearl Jam.
Until Riot Act came out in 2002, Ten was *the only* Pearl Jam album that I thought wasn't the "worst" Pearl Jam album after living with it for a week or more. Riot Act gave me that old feeling again. From the jump I was certain that it was a masterpiece. I wasn't sure it would ever take that top spot for me (which is where it now sits, comfortably, just barely ahead of Vitalogy) but I knew it was top shelf stuff, at least. Riot Act was top-3 Pearl Jam from first listen. I knew it had #1 potential from the very beginning. Unlike, my friend, this was really the first time I had that feeling — seven albums and eleven years into their impressive career!
Pearl Jam (2006) was a lovely record. The effort put in is obvious. But it’s a record I have enjoy through it's flaws (the biggest of which is the production). Probably, I was still riding Riot Act's high. Let me be clear, I never thought it was Pearl Jam's worst album (that still belonged to Binaural at the time). But I also never considered it their best. I knew it was never going to crack my top three. Unfortunately, unlike Yield, Binaural ,and No Code, Pearl Jam's self-titled record has only fallen in my estimation. It's still a good album that I can enjoy because there are some really good songs on it. But it isn't now, nor was it ever going to be their best record.
Backspacer (2009) felt like a disappointment, a bit like Binaural but to an even greater degree. Unlike, Binaural I was able to listen to it all the way through for the first time in one sitting. However, also unlike Binaural, there were no songs with “best of the catalog” potential. I tried to like Backspacer. I listened to it over and over and over, trying to mine what I could from it, almost willing away the feeling that the band that I loved most had just flat failed. Every previous record, even Binaural (which took the longest for me to fully embrace and identify with), had something special about it. Had one or two profound pieces that I couldn't shake. Backspacer was the first time I was bummed out by a Pearl Jam album. I tried to fight that. I think I succeeded. I found things to love -- but even those things sometimes feel insignificant because of the way the larger community derides them (looking at you Amongst the Waves). It's hard to feel any sense of connection and/or community around that record. And that sucks. Community, for better or worse, is always something I've found in Pearl Jam's music.
Lightning Bolt (2013) was a tremendous leap up from Backspacer. That one felt like that mythical and long-touted "get right" record that fans (and even the band at times) always talked about. More than Yield, more than S/T, Lightning Bolt felt like an actual attempt at a "return to form." I totally get why that doesn't mesh with others, why the album doesn't click for a good portion of the fan-base. But it worked on me. Still, even with all the good vibes and excitement I felt, even after washing the taste of Backspacer out of my mouth, never did I think LB was anything resembling Pearl Jam's best album. Not after one listen, not after 100.
But Gigaton. . .
For the first time since Riot Act, Pearl Jam may have dropped a top-tier record. It's far too early to be sure. The album was released in late May of 2020. I’m still learning the record, still hearing new things within. But this is the first one in a long, long time that feels like it's making a case for the top of the pile. I don't think it'll ever break my top 3 (Riot Act, Vitalogy, and Ten, respectively). But it *could*. That's the thing with this album: it doesn't seem absurd to think it might end up being one of their best.
What a great feeling. It really is something I never thought I'd feel again from a Pearl Jam record. I never once thought "they lost it." Or anything like that. I never bought into the cynical creative bankruptcy talk. The post-Riot Act-money-grab blah blah blah. But I thought they’d finally aged past me. We were no longer on the same path. And I was okay with that. But to find that our divergent paths have merged again, that I get to walk in step beside them for a little while longer... it just makes my heart soar.
etched into Side D of my vinyl copy of Gigaton
sketchbook #1
Lenny
A train pulls away from the station, full. The racket, the mind-mushing clack and bang of the machine’s bulk as it chugs along, rattles the bones and brains of the bodies on-board. Some feel it in their teeth, some in their chests, some in their groins. All onboard have unique and specific expectations. Each interprets the clang, boom and steam differently. Good omen or bad, good news or bad, good feelings or bad, none of them look each other in the eye. Everyone gazes out into the world whizzing by.
It isn’t long before the scenery blurs in wet streaks of green and brown and blue. A boy no older than nine is asleep against the cool window glass. A girl with Sennheiser headphones mouths words no one else can hear. Every once in a while the sun shoots through in fat rays, blinding those looking out. Shoulders and arms and East facing sides overheat.
#
Dirt in his eyes, under his fingernails, smeared in sticky lines on his forehead and down his cheek. Filthy and satisfied, a day’s work truly done, Lenny limped to his truck. In the cab he popped a twenty-four ounce can of Coors and pulled heavy from the bright aluminum. When he licked his lips the metal taste lingering there comforted him all the way down. Another fat gulp and Lenny fired the ignition. The engine roared and the truck shook and Lenny laughed; not because anything was especially funny.
Dust showed his path home. Anyone who didn’t see the clouds the truck’s wide tires kicked up certainly heard the music (chunky guitars, bombastic drums, wailing fiddle) blaring from that rusted Ford’s cab. Lenny always drove with the windows down. It was his version of freedom. People who were out and about at that particular time of day were used to the sight and spectacle of ole Len rattling home. Don’t stand too close to the road unless you want a mouth full of gravel, son.
Darlene waved from the relative comfort of her front porch. She never knew if Lenny saw as he sped past each day, but she always waved, regardless. Rituals mattered. Besides, Lenny deserved some small kindness. She owed him and a wave was the least she could do to by way of repayment. For the record, Lenny never asked for more.
At home, Lenny stepped from his truck, throwing his empty cans into the side yard and standing with his mouth agape on his weathered porch. Why the ever living fuck was his front door open? Goddamnit.
Lenny fished his rifle from the lockbox in the bed of his pickup. He made sure there was something painful in the chamber, then lumbered back toward his front door. A fat glob of saliva smacked on the stepping stones lining the way toward that ominous open door. Here we go, he thought, and cocked his gun.
A couch turned on its back. Papers scattered. The television on, flashing static through a cracked screen. Blood on the basement stairs. A fat bubbling water stain on the ceiling above the kitchen table, rust colored rings spreading from the bulge. Dishes shattered. Lenny was staring at the brown drip from the faucet when he felt the bullet strike his neck.
#
Lenny didn’t show up for work the next day. Arthur would have been livid if only he could overcome the overwhelming confusion. In fifteen years Lenny hadn’t missed a single shift. Something was wrong and Arthur knew it. Lenny’s phone rang and rang and rang. On the sixth failed attempt, Arthur slammed the phone down so hard that the screen cracked.
#
John Michael finished his whisky. Again, he asked Carla to meet him at his trailer after her shift. But, again, Carla declined. She didn’t even pour him one for the road. This wasn’t the good ole days. She was tired of his relentless advances. Visions of New Orleans danced across her eyelids. When she opened her eyes again it was darker and John Michael was gone. His stool wasn’t even warm. Carla smiled and she swore she heard a slow saxophone. One secret shot of the good stuff wouldn’t hurt.
When little Suzy Santer came flying into the bar, screaming bloody murder, Carla regretted that shot. She cursed beneath her breath and tried to focus on the little girl’s frantic wailing.
#
Red and blue lights filled Lenny’s yard, flashed against his aluminum siding like fireworks. Carla parked on the road and walked up as far as she could before Deputy Appleton shoved his stiff arm into her chest.
“Is Lenny really… Davy, please.?”
The deputy considered his next words with great care. He spit between his feet, then looked Carla in the eye and said, “Yep. ‘fraid he is, Carla. So sorry...”
Carla nodded but she didn’t cry -- and if that fact surprised Deputy Appleton, then it shocked the holy hell out of Carla Davenport.
#
4AM.
Carla found herself wide awake and full of whisky. The heat was stifling. No air moved through the open windows. Her thighs stuck to the vinyl sofa and sweat stained her tank top. Her nose was buried in the photo album on her lap. Tears never threatened and that worried Carla. If she couldn’t cry for Lenny, she wouldn’t cry for anyone... more whisky.
#
The funeral was modest, mostly friends and co-workers. Arthur was ashamed and stood in the back. He still felt embarrassed and guilty about his childish reaction to Lenny’s absence, even though no one else witnessed it. But then, that’s Arthur.
Lenny’s father died when he was just fourteen. But Lenny’s mother was still alive. She lived three counties over and though she was notified of her son’s untimely end, she’d decided not to attend the service. Her son hadn’t spoken to her in many years and she’d long ago grown accustomed to the idea that he was long gone. Torment, at this stage, felt redundant. Fair enough.
One strange person, dressed in red, not black, stood in the back, six feet to Arthur’s right, motionless and speechless. No one recognized the stranger and no one approached. Months later Carla would wonder if that person had been Lenny’s killer and she’d kick herself for not approaching, for not even trying.
The SketchBook Series
From time to time, I’m going to post snippets of things that I’m working on. They will be unfinished and largely unedited pieces that don’t have a home — orphans. Maybe one day a piece I’m working on will adopt these little ones. Or maybe not. Maybe they’ll remain sketches.
Just as a painter or a sculptor sketches out ideas, so do writers. I find the only way to avoid Writer’s Block is to keep writing — keep sketching.