“The Horror Stories of Robert E. Howard”, by Robert E. Howard, illustrated by Greg Staples

 

523 pages, Del Rey, ISBN-13: 978-0345490209

In the early oughts, Del Rey began producing the complete works of Robert E. Howard; The Horror Stories of Robert E. Howard, illustrated by Greg Staples, was the ninth volume to be published. The tales and more included in this latest volume of Howard’s work include: In the Forest of Villefere; A Song of the Werewolf Folk; Wolfshead; Up, John Kane!; Remembrance; The Dream Snake; Sea Curse; The Moor Ghost; Moon Mockery; The Little People; Dead Man’s Hate; The Tavern; Rattle of Bones; The Fear that Follows; The Spirit of Tom Molyneaux; Casonetto’s Last Song; The Touch of Death; Out of the Deep; A Legend of Faring Town; The Shadow of the Beast; Restless Waters; The Dead Slaver’s Tale; Dermod’s Bane; The Hills of the Dead; Dig Me No Grave; The Song of a Mad Minstrel; The Children of the Night; Musings; The Black Stone; The Thing on the Roof; The Dweller in Dark Valley; The Horror from the Mound; A Dull Sound as of Knocking; The People of the Dark; Delenda Est; The Cairn on the Headland; Worms of the Earth; The Symbol; The Valley of the Lost; The Hoofed Thing; The Noseless Horror; The Dwellers Under the Tombs; An Open Window; The House of Arabu; The Man on the Ground; Old Garfield’s Heart; Kelly the Conjure Man; Black Canaan; To a Woman; One Who Comes at Eventide; The Haunter of the Ring; Pigeons from Hell; The Dead Remember; The Fire of Asshurbanipal; Fragment; Which Will Scarcely Be Understood; Miscellanea; Golnar the Ape; Spectres in the Dark; The House; Untitled Fragment; and Appendices

It may (or may not) surprise you that Robert E. Howard was friends with Howard Phillips Lovecraft and that the two corresponded with and encouraged one another in their writings (indeed, Howard went so far as to incorporate Lovecraft’s Cthulhu mythos into some of his works). And so one shouldn’t be surprised that Howard also wrote some horror tales of his own. It must be said that Howard was never a writer of refinement and these – and all of his other stories, for that matter – are Pulp Fiction. This does not mean the writing is poor as Howard displays a knack for energetic and vivid storytelling with masterly painted scenery and characters who are powerful page presences, if rather two-dimensional. You’ll also see scads of Faulkner’s despised adjectives that populate plots that are not exactly complex. In other words: if you adore the atmospherics of Bram Stoker or the erudition of a M.R. James, Howard’s style may not be your cup of tea, old sport, but if you can bring yourself to look past such things then you’ll find chills and blood and darkness and fun. Howard may not cater to the literary gourmet in you, but if you find yourself craving a cheeseburger and fries, these meaty tales are sure to satisfy your appetite.

The power of Howard’s imagination is astounding, covering as it does a bewildering array of themes – from horror standards such as vampires and werewolves to sea monsters and Lovecraftian terrors – a wide range of subgenres – western, weird menace and historical fantasy – and of ages – from pre-Christian times, to the Roman Empire and (for him) contemporary settings. And now for the big fat elephant in the room: Some of Howard’s stories reflect obvious racial bias and contain overtly racist language. The argument has been made that Howard is, after all, a product of a different time or that he is merely depicting characters that use racist language (as in the included story Black Canaan) and so on. Whether you approve of such apologetics or not, the point is that, whatever the author’s ideology or intent, the words are there, on the page: they’re not nice to look at and aren’t going away. I, for one, did not feel uncomfortable seeing them repeated quite so often, but for some readers they may be reason enough to put down a book in disgust. Or not to be buy it at all. It is what it is, though, and forewarned is forearmed, so be advised that you are reading stories from a time that is, in many respects, quite alien to our own.

But what about these stories, anyway? Some are centered on sea life, such as Sea Curse, a brutal story of murder and revenge, and the gloomy Out of the Deep, describing the lethal deeds of a sea monster taking human shape. Solomon Kane makes an appearance in both Rattle of Bones, a dark, atmospheric piece set in a deserted tavern featuring a murderer, a thief and a vengeful skeleton, and in The Hills of the Dead, a graphic tale of voodoo and vampirism. A Lovecraftian atmosphere permeates The Black Stone, The Thing on the Roof and The Hoofed Thing, all powerful tales revolving around blaspheme cults, evil gods and alien creatures bringing death and terror into our world. Examples of Wild West horror are The Valley of the Lost, where ancient powers sleeping in a deserted cave return to reveal the forbidden secrets of the universe, The Horror from the Mound, a vampire story set in a desolate piece of land in west Texas, the vivid The Man on the Ground, depicting the final duel between two men fighting their perpetual feud, and Old Garfield’s Heart featuring a man who lives longer than a person should. The book includes some quite enjoyable pieces of historical horror set in pagan times in Worms of the Earth and The Cairn on the Headland, as well as private, modern horrors in The Spirit of Tom Molyneaux, the breathtaking account of a violent boxing match decided by the intervention of a ghostly fighter, The Dweller in Dark Valley, where the personal hate between two twin brothers blends nicely with cosmic evil lurking in the depth of the Earth, and The Haunter of the Ring, a pulp fiction piece in which a woman tries to kill her husband under the influence of an evil spirit summoned by a former lover. Naturally, the thrilling Black Canaan, a terrifying voodoo tale, as is included Howard’s masterpiece, Pigeons from Hell, an unforgettable piece disclosing the terrible, unholy secrets hidden in a mansion in the South and providing an exciting mix of voodoo, vengeance and killing.

With all of the problematic language and subjects aside, The Horror Stories of Robert E. Howard is an entertaining read that takes one back to the heady days of pulp fiction where writers wrote what they damn well pleased and entertained the masses with their tales of derring-do, darkness and sheer bloody violence. Those were the days.

“The Beatles: The Biography”, by Bob Spitz

 

992 pages, Back Bay Books, ISBN-13: 978-0316013314

I have been listening to The Beatles my whole life, and some of my earliest recollections are of plugging in my parent’s Eight-Track compilations of their songs and jamming away to the music in our rented house on Haverhill in Detroit. This love of All Things Beatles has never left me, and when I started collecting their albums as a young adult I sought to learn more about them as musicians and people. And so I bought and read 100 Best Beatles Songs: A Passionate Fan’s Guide by Michael Lewis & Stephen J. Spignesi (reviewed on October 9^th, 2014) and Shout! The True Story of the Beatles by Philip Norman (reviewed on November 15^th, 2017) and then The Mammoth Book of the Beatles edited by Sean Egan (reviewed on July 19^th, 2019), and found, to my shock and horror, that John Paul George and Ringo were human after all, with flaws and foibles aplenty to go along with their talent and drive. While there is still a place deep in my psyche that views the Four Lads from Liverpool as later-day Four Musketeers, the truth is the truth, and one must look upon Lennon, McCartney, Harrison and Starkey (Starr) as they were, which is exactly what Bob Spitz does in the brilliant The Beatles: The Biography.

The Beatles all grew up in the United Kingdom after the end of World War II, a country that was still recovering from war and an industrial port town, Liverpool, that had seen better days and in which these “Scousers” all nurtured a long-standing inferiority complex as regards to England’s upper classes in general and towards London in particular. The British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC), the government owned radio station, effectively embargoed American rock music as being substandard to their refined tastes, forcing teenagers across the sceptred isle to tune into Radio Luxembourg (of all places) to hear the latest from the likes of Elvis Presley and the Everly Brothers while reveling in England’s youth pop music of the time, Skiffle (which you can read about in Roots, Radicals and Rockers: How Skiffle Changed the World by Billy Bragg, reviewed on July 5^th, 2018). Amongst the many millions of such teenagers were Richard Starkey (born July 7^th, 1940), John Winston Lennon (born October 9^th, 1940), James Paul McCartney (born June 18^th, 1942) and George Harrison (born February 25^th, 1943). Contemporaries all with similar tastes in (American) music, yet very different all the same.

While sharing much in terms in interests and backgrounds, each was also a person of their own. From the very beginning you really get the sense that Ringo was glad just to be part of it and was easily the most affable of the group, though certainly it is Ringo who makes the Beatles who they are; one might question if, without Ringo, there could have been “The Beatles”, Pete Best be damned. Though Ringo is hardly an innocent babe in the woods – particularly when drugs enter the picture – he seems the most authentic, the most down-to-earth and the most you’d like to have a pint with.

John is easily the most difficult man of the group, full of hidden rages and scuppered dreams. He is the original Beatle (hell, he is also the original Quarryman) but torn between fear, self-loathing, brilliant wit and multiple insecurities (oh, the insecurities). He is a deep thinker but often expresses his intellect by hurting the most vulnerable people who love and befriend him, as well as his entourage and friends. And his obsession with Yoko “Bane of the Universe” Ono is nothing less than pathetic, a mere infatuation that morphed into an emotional dependence that saw him eventually sideline every other relationship in his life for her.

Paul is just as talented and just as productive as John – the best songs either man ever wrote they wrote together, “nose-to-nose” in their words – but also a sexual rogue, the last of The Beatles to get married as he was loath to let the roving rock star persona go. He was also the lead egotist of the group who needed always to be out front but, to be fair, The Beatles needed a firm, guiding hand to keep them on track, even if only for a few weeks in the studio. And while John Lennon has always been thought of as a Working Class Hero, he was decidedly Middle Class; it was Paul who was Blue Collar, although his family life was so much more grounded.

George, as the youngest, is rather immature but vastly superior to his mates as an instrumentalist, if not as a songwriter. But as his writing talents mature and improve (but not to the level of his two overbearing mates, as George Martin would attest to) his torment in being the Third Beatle smolders throughout much of Beatlemania until it finally bursts like a boil. While trying to find contentment, he is the first to turn to drugs and then, when seeing the dark path that way leads, turns instead to Eastern mysticism while taking the others along for the ride, even if just for a short time, and at last finding some equilibrium in his life.

Then there is Brian Epstein, the manager. He is, as the story unfolds, the best and the worst thing to happen to the Beatles, as his moxie, coupled with The Beatles’ stage charisma (and not a little luck), landed the group’s contract with Britain's recording giant EMI and its American subsidiary, Capital. Again, for complex reasons, Epstein was able to control the group’s inner dynamics after it became internationally famous. But he was a dreadful business manager and was too often distracted by a dark and violent homosexual lifestyle, and he cost the group close to a billion dollars in lost revenue.

Of course there is George Martin, the only true Fifth Beatle, no matter whoever else may lay claim to that moniker. The record producer, arranger, composer, conductor, audio engineer and musician took the Fab Four to musical heights they would never have achieved on their own, what with his eye for talent and his ear for hits. Before working with The Beatles and other pop musicians, he produced comedy and novelty records in the early 1950s, working with the likes of Peter Sellers, Spike Milligan and Bernard Cribbins, among others. It is impossible to imagine The Beatles being as successful as they were without Martin’s guiding hand.

The story of The Beatles is enduring because it is compelling, with brilliant talents and strong personalities first cooperating and then fighting to create something memorable and lasting. The Beatles spins the tale of the Fab Four like no other book on them ever has and, possibly, ever will. While George and Ringo (and Brian and George) cannot be left out of the equation that equals The Beatles, the relationship between John and Paul is at the centerpiece of the story, and Spitz is masterful in describing the twelve year relationship of the two. They became like brothers (though in the mold of Esau and Jacob, perhaps?), and though much has been written of their composing mastery, Spitz documents just how prolific and spontaneous they actually were and why George Martin focused so much time and attention on them, to the possible detriment of everyone else (sorry George). What is equally surprising is how they composed during periods of terrible strains in their relationships, personal and professional and with the ultimate goal always in sight but, once Lennon and McCartney could no longer be reconciled and at last drifted their separate ways, only then did The Beatles dissolve. Damnit.

“Twilight of the Gods: A Journey to the End of Classic Rock”, by Steven Hyden

 

320 pages, Dey Street Books, ISBN-13: 978-0062657138

In Twilight of the Gods: A Journey to the End of Classic Rock, Steven Hyden explores “the end of classic rock” which he defines as beginning with the release of The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and ending with Nine Inch Nails’ The Fragile. Throughout he discusses the importance of the live show to classic rock and “life on the road” while exploring artists and bands he adores and throwing shade at those he doesn’t. All of which is expected and quite well done (I particularly liked when he wrote about the “Midwestern” music his Mom loved and “Dad Rock”; both rather patronizingly but also respectful, if you can imagine). Still, I never felt it added up to more than just a fun approach to music criticism, which is all well and good but rather, I dunno, lacking.

I found that reading Twilight of the Gods was rather like having a very long conversation with a friend with similar cultural touchstones who is super into Classic Rock: when the conversation was about those bands I love (or have heard of, at least), I enjoyed the book more, was more engaged in the conversation. However, when the talk turned to artists I was less familiar with (or never heard of, like Phish) it was like having a dude drone on in my ear about a killer track that changed his life; that’s all well and good, mate, but could we steer the conversation back to how Moving Pictures by Rush is the greatest progressive rock album EVER? Anyway, as much as I might not want to hear about these other bands, by and large I enjoyed the conversation with a man who has obviously devoted his life to the music that affected and moved him like no other.

Of course, knowing the political leanings of most classic rock artists – “Imagine no possessions/I wonder if you can”; no, I wonder if YOU can, you bleeding-heart millionaire – you just KNOW a rock journalist from Minnesota might also identify with those leanings. And of course he does, but not to the point of preaching. Usually. What I initially appreciated about Hyden was his very likeable, regular guy demeanor, one who loves beer almost as much as classic rock music and the musicians that made it. I appreciated his sparing us politics and just delivering a great read – until he didn’t. Don’t like disco? Well, then, Sir, you are a racist sexist bigoted homophobe who kills puppies. Plus: Trump = BAD. The obligatory snarkiness toward Trump, his voters and Republicans in general was tedious and unimaginative, and spoilt some parts of the book for me.

Hyden also makes sure to lament his white privilege, along with the lack of diversity in classic rock. But is it possible that undefined cultural norms drive more whites to rock and more blacks to rap (or before that blues, funk or Motown)? The art world seems best served through evolution rather than forced moral calls for diversity. He then doubles down to posit that the lack of diversity in rock actually makes it reactionary. As if Neil Young, John Lennon, Joni Mitchell et al pounded the pavement for Richard Nixon back in the day. Aside from Ted Nugent and maybe Alice Cooper, can anyone name a rocker who is not thoroughly Progressive? Indeed, it is the seeming uniformity of (leftist) opinion in music that makes so much of it seem fake and tired, as if everyone in school is just aping what the popular kids are saying so they can fit in.

Alright, alright, alright, enough negativity. Hyden’s central thesis is that music of any stripe is mostly a proxy for the listener’s own life: “When a rock star dies, what people are mourning is their own mortality”, he writes, and it’s a damn good point. With the passing of a Rock God, a little bit of the world dies – a world inside of us, for the music these people made is the soundtrack to our very lives. You can say the same of any other genre, too – whether it’s a pop star, a movie star, a popular author, or what have you – for these larger-than-life personalities affect people far outside their families or personal circles. Like so many things, music is about subjective taste, OUR taste, which is why MY music is so much better than YOURS. A never-ending argument, until the subject of that argument kicks off.

“MJ: The Genius of Michael Jackson”, by Steve Knopper

 

Scribner, 448 pages, ISBN-13: 978-1476730387

I owe Michael Jackson an apology. I thought that he was guilty of molesting all of those boys way back when but, after having read Steve Knopper’s MJ: The Genius of Michael Jackson, I have flip-flopped and decided that those boys (or, more likely, the parents of those boys) saw an opportunity to make a shit-ton of money off of a flawed and vulnerable boy-man and ran with it. This is not to say that Jackson was blameless in his own persecution – inviting a score of underage boys over for “sleepovers” is not a regular activity for a well-adjusted and normal man – but he was not the twisted pedophile that opposition lawyers and the hostile press made him out to be. So, then…ahem…Sorry, Mike.

Despite Jackson’s tremendous worldwide success, his final years were painful and, ultimately it seems, lonely. As Knopper reveals, the singer never fully recovered from a 1984 accident that burned his scalp while he was filming a Pepsi commercial, and the constant skin bleaching and reconstructive surgeries turned his charismatic physical features ghostly. While much of Jackson’s life will always be a mystery – Just how could his voice sound almost adult just before puberty? What drove his self-destructive compulsions? What was it with all of those boys anyway? – Knopper’s book, perhaps, comes as close to some possible answers as we are likely to get, short of an undiscovered autobiography from the man.

Beginning in Jackson’s hometown of Gary, Indiana, in the tiny house he shared with his parents and eight siblings, Knopper adds a broader view of this distressed city. Gambling, prostitution and political opportunism coexisted along with the numerous blues clubs and lounges where a determined Joe Jackson brought his young sons to sing. Bigger stages and initial recording dates in Chicago followed, and while it’s widely known that Joe Jackson’s resolve degenerated into abuse, Knopper emphasizes a few images that say more than overloaded details (whenever the boys became “too wiggly”, the producers would point to a sign in the studio that read “Call Papa Joe”; they never even had to pick up the phone).

MJ stands above a crowded field. In 2010, a year after Jackson’s death, the “Journal of Pan African Studies” published a list of academic articles about him; musicologists, sociologists and law professors all drew on his life and work for their own discourses. But Knopper, who also writes for the Chicago Tribune, distills hundreds of original interviews to illuminate Jackson’s complexities. He also offers new understandings of his diligent creative process. Digging into Jackson’s hugely influential records, kinetic stage persona and occasionally brilliant investments, Knopper ties all of these elements together for this lively and definitive biography of a cultural phenomenon who was, at heart, nothing more than a lonely little boy.

“Nightingales: The Extraordinary Upbringing and Curious Life of Miss Florence Nightingale”, by Gillian Gill

 

Random House, 592 pages, ISBN-13: 978-0345451880

For a time, Florence Nightingale was the most famous woman in the world. While nowadays we know her as some kind of secular saint and the inexhaustible advocate for solder’s well-being, the reality is (naturally) quite more complicated, as we learn in Nightingales: The Extraordinary Upbringing and Curious Life of Miss Florence Nightingale by Gillian Gill. In an utterly beguiling narrative that reads like the best Victorian fiction, Gill tells the story of this richly complex woman and her adoring, wealthy and cultivated father, a mother whose conventional façade concealed a surprisingly unfettered intelligence and a sister whose life took such a different course one can only wonder that two so different women were really sisters.

By kinship or friendship, Florence found herself connected to the cream of Victorian England’s intellectual aristocracy, and though the Nightingales moved in a world of ease and privilege, they themselves came from solidly middle-class stock with deep traditions of hard work, natural curiosity and moral clarity – so it should have come as no surprise to William Edward and Fanny Nightingale when Florence showed an early passion for helping others (combined with a precocious bent for power). From childhood on, Florence showed a penchant for getting her way by hook or by crook, and we read as one person after another find themselves quite unable to stop her from getting what she wanted, a talent that would come in handy in adult life.

Nobody in the Nightingale family had ever considered nursing as a viable profession, but upon turning seventeen – when young ladies of her social class and standing were expected to be seeking a husband – Florence believed that God himself had revealed her life’s vocation. By the time she turned twenty-eight she had already rejected two eligible suitors and lost none of her resolve; leading hospitals, rather than nursing, was her true aim, and she never lost sight of that goal. With the outbreak of the Crimean War, her opportunity to do just that landed in her lap and, using those aforementioned connections and contacts, saw her desires transformed into reality at last and seized her place in history.

Gill manages to study Florence’s life in full, as well as her family and ancestors who influenced her and shaped her to become the woman she was. It is the tale of the development of nursing and medical care (and the lack thereof at the time; nursing was an amateur hobby at best when Nightingale came upon the scene). She experienced first-hand the poor condition of the soldiers in the field and saw the difference that could be made through sanitation and cleanliness. She had many pitfalls and obstacles to overcome but, through diplomacy and hands-on example, she indeed overcame them. And all during the Victorian Era, when a woman’s place in the world was seen as best served as wife and mother and little else.

Cold, passionate and unswervingly committed to her vocation, Florence Nightingale was one of the most significant reformers in the history of medicine. Gill does honor to her subject while providing a vivid and compellingly readable account of the family whose loyal support was crucial to her achievement. While it’s hard to like Florence Nightingale, it’s impossible not to admire her.