#read the first three compiled volumes and i have mixed feelings as a whole

[benevolenterrancy]

yeah, alright, i'll ship the hard-boiled cat private eye with the german shepard police commissioner, why not

[fleckcmscott]

To Have and To Hold

Summary: Y/N makes an oversight at work. The resulting extra hours with Arthur delight them both.

Warnings: Swearing, Smut

Words: 4,272

A/N: This story had been kicking around in my head for about two months, but I hadn’t been sure if I was going to write it. Then I read @sweet-nothings04‘s amazing Hand-in-Hand (which you all need to check out, if you haven’t), and knew I had to put it on paper. Thanks to her for the inspiration to finally develop this, and for the title, too!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open! 

Perhaps it was the sunshine that stirred her. Or the horns of traffic on congested streets. The hammering of a distant construction site. The chatter and occasional yelling of passersby.  The hum of Gotham awakening.

Y/N blinked in confusion - how could it be so bright this early? - and squinted at the clock at Arthur's side of the bed. No numbers greeted her, just its blank, plastic display. Stretching, she reached to her left for her watch, in its spot by the beige rotary phone on the nightstand.

"Shit!"

Nearly knocking over her glass of water, she clambered off the mattress. Arthur had warned her the lights could go off in his apartment. Not often and not for long. But enough to annoy. Naturally, his building's shoddy electricity had to mess with the alarm today. When she'd stayed up too late. When he'd had to leave ahead of her to commute to the other end of the city for a rare winter gig. When her body had chosen to oversleep in the coziness of his blankets.

Her nylons had never been yanked on with such haste. Arthur had made coffee but she skipped it in favor of brushing her teeth. Pausing on her way out, she took a calcium supplement and grabbed a note from the counter. She read it while riding the wood-paneled, graffiti covered elevator: "Your presentashin will be great. You snored a lot. Good thing your cute. - Arthur." He always signed his name. As though she wouldn't recognize his scrawl. As if anyone else wrote her sweet, sassy missives. She grinned until she hopped on the for-once punctual subway.

The presentation he'd referred to was set for that afternoon. She was expected to discuss the evidence and court file for this week's contested hearing. Last night, she'd sat at Arthur's breakfast bar to compile the case's final details and finish prep sheets. Gently, she'd rebuffed his subtle advances. His attempts to draw her attention from work to him.

Excitement had been palpable as he'd hovered near her. She was fairly certain she knew the cause because it enthused her as well. In three and a half short weeks, he'd be moving in with her. They'd officially begin traversing whatever the future held for them together. Hesitation had been clear in his posture, his drawn shoulders when (after plenty of convincing on her part that yes, she really, really, wanted him) he'd finally accepted the key to her place. But since he'd added it to his own keyring, he'd brightened. Strode a little taller. Walked a little prouder. Touched a little bolder. As though the weight he carried had lessened, at least by a couple cinder blocks' worth.

At his slight pout, she'd decided to find a way to involve him. He'd perched on the stool next to her, rested his cigarette in the pink ashtray to the left, and taken the proffered exhibit stickers with a quirked brow. Y/N had handed him papers, which he'd added labels to for her to write on. Then she'd stacked them in four different piles according to type. It had taken longer than usual - she was faster alone. But the intimacy of sharing the professional elements of her life with Arthur (besides the office wear he liked, claiming it showed how "smart" and "pretty" she was) had tightened her chest. And the curved-up corner of his thin lips had reflected how pleased he was, too.

They hadn't been able to collaborate on everything, however. It was past midnight by the time she'd joined Arthur, who had retreated to the bedroom an hour or so earlier. He'd been sitting against the headboard, half under the cover. The harsh blue light emanating from the old black and white TV at the foot of the bed had sharpened his features. Deepened the set of his eyes. He'd stubbed out his smoke as she closed the door. "I taped The Honeymoon Game. We can watch it when you're here again." A beat. "If you're not busy."

"This is supposed to be my last big project for a month or so." Sighing, she'd gotten her nightgown from her overnight bag. "I didn't mean for it to take all evening." She climbed in next to him and threw her arm across his lap. "I'm sorry."

He'd been stiff. Unyielding. The telltale signs he was miffed or upset. But he'd twined her hair around his finger, let his touch fall to her brow bone. "It's okay," he'd said lowly, adjusting to lie alongside her. "I don't want to be... I'm not being fair."

"You don't have to pretend with me, Arthur. It's all right to be annoyed." Tiredness had pulled at her as she'd fought to watch the rest of Gotham Tomorrow Tonight. The contact of his socked toes to her bare ones had made her smile, though, and she'd nuzzled his bicep. "I missed you," she'd mumbled, then promptly passed out.

The squeal of wheels on metal tracks prompted her to sling her canvas tote onto her shoulder. Shaw & Associates was a short sprint from the nearest station. She was certain she looked ridiculous, running down the street in her high heels. But she managed to slip into the office with two minutes to spare. Once she poured herself a cup of joe and straightened her blazer, she settled in her cushioned chair to get started.

It was only when Matt told her he wanted to meet before lunch that she'd rummaged in her bag. And realized she'd neglected to bring the file. Recalled it was sitting on Arthur's kitchen counter.

Fuck.

Her nails tapped the wood surface of her desk. Excusing herself to the bathroom so she could go retrieve it wouldn't fly. Matt would send a search party. She could try to discuss everything from memory, tell him documents were still being gathered. But he wasn't that oblivious. She settled on owning her error. "It's at home." Her delivery was nonchalant.

He waited until she'd loaded her typewriter with paper, then responded wryly. "You're not supposed to take files home anymore. Remember what happened last time?"

She leaned back as he stepped in front of her. "There was the slew of family cases that came in. With Patricia on leave, I'm handling all our calls and mail. Not to mention paperwork on her filings. It wouldn't have gotten finished if I hadn't taken it." Snorting, she shook her head at herself. Heat bloomed in her neck. "Not that it matters when I don't have it."

Expression softening, Matt stuck his hands in his pockets and jutted his chin at her. "How long did you work on it?"

It was hard to discern if he actually cared about the hours she put in. Or if he merely wanted to gauge the possibility of her doing investigations off the books again, something he'd explicitly prohibited. "I don't know." She waved dismissively. "Three or four hours?"

He let out a huff. "You put in enough time already. Go home at noon. We'll get to it first thing tomorrow."

"I have a lot to do." Her eyes widened at the myriad piles of folders laying around. "And I can't imagine you playing operator."

"I've managed when you've both been in court or at appointments. Besides," he continued as he headed back to his office. "You never take days off."

Straightening, she wheeled her chair to watch him plop down on his leather seat. "I'm taking three days next month," she countered.

His glare contained an unequal mix of mirth and consternation. "Y/N?"

The phone started ringing. She succeeded in making one ear ignore it. "Yes?"

"I know you haven't forgiven me for that whole Renew Corp. thing." She flinched at the casual mention of the company she loathed. Of her failure. But she forced herself to listen. Matt picked up a pen and started writing. “Rather than being stubborn, try saying, 'You're right.'"

~~~~~

Y/N stood in front of the narrow, white stove, stirring the soup she'd thrown together using bouillon, carrots, onions, and pasta. Ingredients she'd found in Arthur's kitchen. Music poured, at a respectable volume, from the radio on the windowsill. Swaying out-of-time, she added a sprinkling of black pepper, one of the only three spices he had (along with powdered garlic and salt). Wearing a content smirk, she sampled the steaming broth.

When she'd left the office, she'd been frustrated at herself. Yes, she was human. Everyone made mistakes. But she wasn't the forgetful type. Particularly if someone was depending on her. However, as she'd stopped in Burnley for another change of clothes, hopped on the train to Otisburg, and pictured Arthur's reaction to finding her in his home instead of having to call to wish her sweet dreams, her disposition had improved. Not only would he have her for an extra night. He'd get a late lunch, too.

The click of the deadbolt and clank of his keys on the entrance table came the second she turned off the stove. She listened to his heavy exhale as his bag dropped to the floor and shut the door. In her peripheral vision he froze, then approached tentatively. She reveled in his delicate hold on the dip of her waist, the peck he planted on her cheek. The smell of greasepaint wafted to her nose. "I hoped I hadn't made this up," he sighed with what sounded like relief. "But your meeting."

She angled herself towards him, gaze roving over his red and blue plaid blazer. The painted-on smile. His irresistible brown curls, mostly flattened by the wig he'd worn. Fidgeting with the petals of the squirting flower on his lapel, she scrunched up her face. "This morning went to shit." She explained the power outage, the clock, her own stupidity at leaving the file in his apartment. "I've packed it. Don't worry."

His posture grew pensive. "Sorry. Maybe- Maybe we should have stayed at your place. Your building's better."

Him thinking her error was somehow his fault had to be nipped in the bud. "No," she said. "You asked to make more memories here before we move in together. I'm happy to do that."

He paused, long enough she could have sworn she'd heard the gears in his head grinding. "Are you in trouble?"

Not unexpectedly, he had put together her mistake and her early dismissal from work and assumed the worst. "If I wasn't fired for trying to stop the Waynes, it's going to take more than an oversight to get me thrown out on my ass." Her brow furrowed. She sneaked a hand under his jacket and placed her palm on his chest. "I just hate that I wasted last night for nothing."

Soft lips, slightly sticky with red paint, grazed her temple. "It's okay," he said. "You're here now. And I got to help you."

The balm of his kindness loosened her rigid stance. His zeal to assist her, to ask questions, to learn about every aspect of her branded her heart completely. She leaned into him, kissed the squishy fold of skin under his chin, and nudged his ribs. "Food's ready. Go change. I want to hear all about your day."

Arthur emerged from the bathroom within minutes, clad in his worn, blue house pants and toweling his hair. Dimples were on constant display while they ate. The glint in his eyes was the one he usually had if his act or a job had gone particularly well, if he was pleased with himself. Was the one starting to be an almost weekly occurrence. Was the one that made his green eyes sparkle and caused her stomach to flip. He inched closer to her with every sentence.

The kids at the new children’s medical center had liked Carnival, he said. They hadn’t minded that he’d "filled in" for Gary. The magic tricks had all gone without a hitch, and the clinic had provided the balloons, which was a savings. The nurses and doctors had been nice; they’d even asked for his card. He’d had to provide a slip of paper with his address and telephone number instead. But he was sure he’d be invited to perform again. And he asked Y/N for help writing Gary a thank you note for the referral, claiming, “You’re better at that than me.���

“You’re the one who journals every day.” Her bowl and spoon clattered in the sink. “And your letter to me was beautiful. Just let me proofread it.”

Soon they were reclined on the sofa, sharing the flat pillow he’d used when he’d had no choice but to sleep there. The tape he’d recorded yesterday was playing. The Honeymoon Game had been a casual watch before, he’d explained. Not a nightly ritual like Murray. Given that he had a girlfriend and was a boyfriend himself, it had become fun to view.

She was only half-focused on the TV’s talking heads. Her mind was drifting to moving day, which filled her with gladness. She examined the plaid walls, the white cream color ceiling, the knick-knacks strewn about in the glow of the setting sun. The lantern with an owl hanging in the corner; the green, plastic drawers by the television; the curio cabinet... They were all a part of 8J, but assuredly not a part of him. How much would he be bringing with him, she wondered. And what would he be leaving behind?

“With one sugar and a shot of milk.” Arthur’s lively voice broke through her contemplation. Ah. He was reacting to the questions posed to the contestants, and making the answers about her, as he was wont to do.

She nestled back into the pleasant warmth of his firm frame. “Three sugars,” she replied, confirming she knew how he took his coffee. They continued to play along, with him showing off everything he’d memorized about her, and her replying with what she’d gathered about him.

Eventually, he shifted behind her. Raised himself on his elbow. “How did you know you loved me?”

Her hum was soft. Short. Possible responses were multitude. She’d suspected she could fall for him early on. When he’d wanted to repay her for doing what anyone should have done on the subway. And the first time he’d had the courage to call her after they’d split a slice of pie, his slight stammer revealing his nervousness. Maybe she’d say it was how slowly he’d drunken his wine during dinner, initially squinting as he sipped, his inexperience with alcohol obvious.

But she chose to go with what she believed was truest. What she assumed he’d hear most keenly. “Before we slept together, I hadn’t been with anyone for four years. And even then, it was different.” His hand splayed on her abdomen, thumb dragging along the waistband of her green leggings. A delightful ache flared in her center. “When I woke up, I felt perfect.”

“You felt like you were perfect?”

“No, silly,” she laughed, batting his forearm. “I knew I hadn't made a mistake. I reached out to your side, first thing - I’d thought of it that way, even then.” At the sensation of his hardening shaft against her rear, she giggled. “You’d made me so happy. You always do. I wanted to you to bed me again.”

The round tip of his nose skimmed her cheek, and she shivered at the dip of his fingers into her panties. “I want to again,” he rasped, paraphrasing her. The grind of his length was making her light-headed, and she twisted her torso to look at him. “I’ve been thinking about it.” Cheekbones glowing, he averted his eyes. “Ever since I woke up.”

“My monthly started,” she said regretfully. His descent halted, and a groan of frustration left him as he lowered his forehead to her shoulder. She mused. While he was becoming more apt to say what he desired, it happened rarely. But she loved it and didn’t want to discourage him from letting himself be assertive. Would he be offended by her suggestion? “I freshened up before we laid down. I have a tampon in. There are other things we can do.” She pressed her lips together, hoping she didn’t sound presumptuous. “If you’re comforta-“

“I’m comfortable.” His mouth quickly claimed hers, opening on a sigh. The tip of his tongue laved at the seam of her lips, and his messy enthusiasm made her whimper. Leaving a scorching trail in its wake, his hand traversed to her upper leg, gliding over the crease where her thigh and vulva met.

Shallow breaths caressed the nape of her neck, stoking the heat threatening to consume her. But the studio audience blaring from the television’s mono-speaker kept wresting her out of her haze. She snatched the VCR remote from the coffee table and hit the pause button.

The tease of his fingertips at her dark curls caused the peaks of her breasts to stiffen. She gasped as the rough fabric of her sweater dragged along them. His fore- and ring fingers spread her outer lips and she shuddered. The leisureliness of his fondling didn’t detract from its intoxicating effect.

Though it was a tad rough. “You’re kinda dry. Hold on.” Swiftly, he brought his hand to his mouth and wet his fingertips. Y/N blinked at him. It was clear he thought nothing of it, which shouldn’t have been a surprise, considering he’d confided he liked going down on her. Still. Seeing this normally reserved man improvise so he could pleasure her made her center throb with need.

Y/N was doing her damnedest to get her leggings and underwear down. Arthur snorted at her spirited, failed attempt at kicking them away. “It’s okay,” he chuckled, pushing them off her ankles with his foot. Then his touch fluttered at her swollen folds. She arched into him, already feeling as though she would burst. Bent at the knee, her leg lifted until her foot was flat on the couch cushion, allowing him easier access. He took advantage, sweeping forward and back along the rigid line of her engorged clitoral hood. She rolled towards him subtly, her moans getting louder with each tap to her sensitive nub.

Still holding himself up, he cradled her head. "Your sounds make me crazy," he said lowly. Once his hips started following hers, faintly rutting against the flesh of her backside, she closed her eyes. Hurriedly, she reached behind her to yank at his pajamas. "What?" he asked.

"I want to feel you," she whispered. There was a huff and some fumbling. And moments later his cock was settled at the cleft of her bottom. She bit her lip, savoring the weight of him. God, he felt wonderful.

His fingertips whispered over her clit, daring to follow the edge of her inner labia. She heard him gulp. "How does it feel when we're together? When- When I'm in you?"

"Warm. Full. Like you belong there," she replied with a smile. That last part of her response must have been unexpected, given that his grazes ceased and he trembled. "Don't stop," she whined, placing her hand on his. "Please, Arthur. You know just how to touch me."

Groaning, he started anew, deftly swiping quicker and quicker. The undulations of her pelvis hastened unevenly, begging both for release and for their coupling to last forever. She ran her palm up her torso, kneading her breast and plucking at her nipple. He nuzzled at her ear, grunting low in the back of his throat. Winding her fingers into his loose waves, she tugged lightly. Her belly twitched. Her whole frame tingled.

His skillful touch. The love they had for one another. The noises he was making in the crook of her shoulder. They all combined to throw her over the edge, and a wave of pleasure crashed through her. She cried his name brokenly, feeling empty without him inside her. But he kept holding her, guiding her through the crests of her climax. She was gasping, struggling to suck in air. Surely, she thought, he could detect the thundering of her heart against her ribs.

Gradually, the quivering grip she had on his locks eased. The kisses he planted on her neck were open-mouthed, desperate. And he hadn't halted the ardent movements of his hips. Y/N turned onto her other side. Gazing at him, she raked his curls out of his face, caressed his cheekbone with her knuckles. His look was hungry, darkened with need. The creases between his brows deepened as her hand trailed through the sparse dusting of hair on his chest.

There was a youthful charm to this situation, she considered. To them craving each other but not completely joining. It reminded her of being a teenager. When she'd been curious and horny, but nervous and not quite ready to go "all the way" with her ex. Being with Arthur allowed her to do all that again. To relive those experiences, to explore and make discoveries with him. To fall further in love with him daily.

She tenderly pecked the freckles at the top of his sternum, nestled against the notch above his clavicle. "I'm lucky to have you."

He didn't miss a beat, even as she trailed past the ticklish spots on his flank. "I'm luckier."

"I disagree." She outlined the slender muscles of his stomach, the v-lines leading to his cock. Played with the springy, brown curls at the base of him. "Without you, I'd only have my work. Which was enough before. But not now." After a moment, she concluded she was being sappy. She had to change it up. "And I wouldn't be having the best sex of my life."

Clearly flustered, he muffled his laugh. "Really?" His blush was prominent, his grin ecstatic.

"Really." Groans short and sudden, he rocked into her touch when she encircled his ample girth. Her fingers danced along his shaft, marveling at the contrast of his velvety skin with how hard he was. Pumping up and down, she tugged at him, trying to match the speed of his thrusts. He nudged his nose to hers, gazing at her before his hooded eyes flitted to watch what she was doing. Then she looked, too.

The sight of him fucking into her hand made her dizzy with want, even though he'd just gotten her off. The crimson, swollen head glistened, slick beading generously at the tip. Y/N licked her lips and spread it around him with the pad of her thumb. Moaning sharply, he bucked harder. Her motions quickened, flicking repeatedly at the notch on the underside.

Demand was implicit in the grasp he had on her upper arm. And it strengthened as his hips' stuttered, becoming unpredictable. Ragged pants hit her face. "I'm- I'm gonna make a mess.”

"It's all right," she soothed. Keeping ahold of him, she lay on her back. He followed and settled on top of her. Whimpering her name, he rubbed himself against her labia. But she gently pushed him onto his knees and continued palming him, her fingers teasing the ridge on his erection. It wouldn't take long to make him come. She could see it in the clench of his jaw, the tightening cords in his neck, his abrupt, needy cries...

Plunging forward, he held himself in place, grunting, clutching her urgently. His release hit her abdomen, warm and wet, and she gasped, her body curving up towards him. The feel of him spilling onto her couldn't completely distract her, though. Not from the beauty of his parted lips. Not from the relief that gradually spread across his features. Not from the slackening of his muscles as tension ebbed.

Sweat had gathered on his forehead. A droplet ran from the end of a dark brow to his jawline. Then he kissed her, his mouth groping at hers. "I love you," he said. He gave her one last peck and sat up on his knees. Holding onto the arm of the sofa, he retrieved her underwear from the floor and wiped her belly off. "That was fun." He tucked his chin bashfully.

"I concur." She entwined their hands and sat, then stretched as she pushed herself to stand and walk to the bathroom. The washcloth he'd designated as hers hung on the hook by the towels. She cleaned herself, listening as Arthur started the show again.

A new round of questions was just beginning. "When you and your spouse first met," the host started, "what was your first impression?"

Arthur's answer was instant. "Nice."

Y/N said the first thing that came to mind. "Handsome."

She popped her head out of the room to find him leaning on the entrance of the short corridor, beaming at her with hitched giggles. He was probably waiting for his turn to clean up. Like he normally did. But she couldn't stop herself from staring at him. Loving eyes met hers and his brows lifted expectantly. "Yes?"

Smiling, she wrung out the washcloth and put it back in its place. She stepped to him with a smile and smoothed his hair back. The rush of happiness in her soul, one she wasn't even sure she had, enamored her. Not only at what they'd shared on his old, scratchy sofa. But at Arthur being Arthur. At knowing soon she'd get to sleep next to him every night. Build a life with him, one she hadn't dreamed of even six months ago. Nothing she could say seemed adequate. So she went with a kind gesture, one she knew he'd appreciate. "I'll make us some decaf. And I love you, too."

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​ @howdylilflower​ @sweet-nothings04​ @stephieraptorr​ @rommies​ @fallenstarsabyss​ @gruffle1​ @octopus-plasma​ @tsukiakarinobara​ @arthur-flecks-lovely-smile​ @another-day-in-chuckletown​ @hhandley80​ @jokerownsmysoul​ @mrscarnival

[tanadrin]

The Interview

After waiting for half an hour, Pray was well and truly bored. She fiddled with her terminal, then wandered around looking at the bookcases on the far wall. They were full of thick tomes like Interplanetary Development Economics, Sixteenth Edition and A Political History of the Martian Colonies, Volume Six. She rolled her eyes. Whoever used this office was trying to project a very specific image, and was killing a lot of trees to do it. There was a thin layer of dust over the books, too; they probably read them in digital copies, just like everybody else. If they’d even read them. She wandered over to the window that occupied the entire wall behind the desk. It afforded a sweeping view of downtown Abuja. The city was staggeringly vast. Pray knew that, somewhere in the back of her mind, but she never could comprehend just how vast unless she saw it in person. The first large city she’d ever been to in her life was Seattle. Her little apartment there had had a narrow view of the skyline, framed by two taller buildings, and even that narrow glimpse had seemed like a window into a huge, exciting place. Up here, the arcologies and the skyscrapers were two or three skylines all to themselves, strung out below her--and another beyond that, a whole extra city even bigger than Seattle or Vancouver. And another beyond that. And another. And another. She turned away from the window, feeling a little dizzy. She strode over to the desk, and sat down in the enormous high-backed swivel chair. She pushed off tentatively from the desk; the chair spun slowly, almost frictionlessly, in silence. Well, well. Control did not skimp out when it came to office furniture. She gave herself another push.

“Heh,” she whispered quietly to herself. “This is fun.”

Push. Spin. Push.

“Ma’am?”

Pray slapped her hand down on the desk and froze herself mid-spin. There was a tall, thin man, dressed in a carefully tailored suit standing at the door.

“Er… the director will be in in a moment,” he said. “Would you like anything? Water? Tea?”

Pray just shook her head. She only felt a little embarrassed. They were the ones wasting her time, after all.

The director strode in a few minutes later. He was bald, with a bushy gray goatee and a heavily lined face. Pray thought he looked like her grandfather, maybe, except much more serious. He didn’t even blink when he saw Pray sitting behind his desk. He sat in one of the large, heavy armchairs facing her, and spun the console around to face the other way.

“Good afternoon, Ms--what surname do you use these days?”

“Just Pray,” Pray said.

“Very well. Ms Pray. Welcome. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Pray shrugged. Not exactly an “It’s OK.” More of a “Pretty much what I expected.”

“I’m Director Osondu.” He tapped a few keys on the console and brought up a set of files; from behind the screen they were flipped and out of focus, but Pray could see a photo of her featured largely at the top.

“Your CV,”the director said, indicating the console.

“I never sent you my CV,” Pray said, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t have a CV.”

“We took the trouble of compiling one for you ourselves. We do that with many of our potential employees.”

“I’ve also never applied to work at Control.”

Director Osondu smiled. “No. But I’m hoping I can convince you.”

Pray laughed. “You want to offer me a job?”

The director nodded. “And not a job reviewing reports in Maitama, either. We have an assignment in mind.”

Pray leaned back in Osondu’s chair.

“What makes you think I’d want to work for Control? Heck, what makes you think I’m qualified?”

“Let’s see here. You were born in Washington, yes? In a Radhite community near Echo Valley?”

“Cooper Mountain, actually. People get the two mixed up.” If they’ve heard of them, she thought. Which they never have.

“Ah, yes. Let me fix that.” His hand darted over the console briefly. “You exercised your exit rights when you were sixteen, for reasons involving--let’s see here--personal bodily autonomy?”

“Yes. That’s correct.”

“Our records don’t elaborate on what those reasons were.”

“Good.” Pray stared at him, remaining pointedly silent.

“Ahem. In any case, you spent six years subsequently in Seattle finishing your education, before moving to Europe, then Asia, then South America, then the Antarctic colonies, staying in no city for more than eighteen months at a time. And then three years ago you came to Abuja, and you’ve been here ever since.”

“Yup.”

“What drew you here, if I may ask?”

“I like big cities. I like moving around. I want to see the world.”

“You haven’t moved anywhere in years. You haven’t even changed apartments since six weeks after you got here. You do some analytical work to supplement your basic, mostly for financial conglomerates and political outfits, but with your intelligence and abilities, you could easily find full-time work, enough to live pretty damn well. Even move to Mars, or the outer Solar System if you wanted.”

“What can I say? I’ve never been that interested in space travel. I like high gravity and being able to go outside from time to time. And I like my apartment. It’s cozy. Do you keep a close eye on everybody who decides to use their exit rights as a teenager? ‘Cause I gotta say, this is kinda creeping me out.”

“My apologies. We don’t as a rule, no. We consider the third freedom absolute. However, we have been interested in you for a long time. We just haven’t known… exactly what approach you might be most receptive to.”

“Well. This isn’t a good one, you know.”

“I haven’t finished making my pitch yet.”

“All right. So make it.”

“We want you to travel. In space.”

Pray laughed.

“Absolutely not,” she said. “There’s not enough money in the world.”

The director stood, and walked over to the bookshelf. He touched one finger to his lips, thinking for a minute.

“Forgive me,” he said, after a long silence. “I want to choose my words carefully, because I wish to express myself precisely.” He took a slim volume off the shelf, came back over to the desk, and slid it across the surface. Pray stiffened when she saw the title. It was Radha Munroe’s First Treatise.

“You know that book well, yes?”

Pray nodded.

“Would you agree that it’s, shall we say, convincing?”

Pray nodded again. “Sure. What’s your point?”

“It’s not just convincing. It’s elegant. Learned. Often, even, poetic. So profound, to at least some of its readers, that thirty years after the death of its author it found new life as the textual center of a movement. Something not quite political, not quite spiritual, and not quite personal, but located at the intersection of all three. A new, totalizing philosophy that built a community and transformed lives.”

“High praise.”

“I mean it sincerely. Do you know how many Radhites have exercised their exit rights since the first Radhite community was founded more than two hundred years ago?”

“Not many, I’m guessing.”

“Exactly one. You.”

The director took the book back. Pray could feel herself relaxing as he slipped it out of view.

“It’s not that I agree with everything Radha Monroe wrote. Nor do I think there have not been other Radhites who may have wanted to leave. But such is the persuasion and the power of the Radhite philosophy that, quite without coercion, at least of the kind that would provoke sanctions from Control, they have formed some of the most hermetically sealed communities in the Solar System. And believe me, we monitor the Radhites very closely. Yes, it’s true. We’re very careful. As I said--the third freedom is absolute. The closest thing we have to something sacred in this day and age.”

“They’re very good at brainwashing. So what?”

“The Radhites are uniquely good at it, if that’s the term we’re going to use. Every other community in the Archipelago has some kind of attrition, and the larger the community, the higher the absolute quantity. Religious communes, philosophical societies, intentional communities--it is an absolute. Some have higher attrition rates than others, but they all have them. All except the Radhites. Until you, anyway. And since you, not one. Not even from Cooper Mountain.

“My point, Pray, is that you are exceptional. Your biography alone--the fact you are out here, in the world, for me to speak to--makes you exceptional.”

The director flicked through Pray’s file faster now.

“Your life since, however, makes you even more remarkable. You graduated from university at age twenty, with top marks. You took proficiency exams which could have garnered you the position of your choice in the civil service or at one of a number of academic institutes--or even in Control--but you contented yourself with analytical work on the side. And your analytical work, particularly on emerging social trends, is considered on par with some of the best research collectives. Only an AI might do better--but AI won’t do this kind of thing.”

“AI can’t,” Pray muttered. “They only say they won’t.”

“If you did more than one report every three months, you could be living in a luxurious Japanese arcology. Or on the Moon. Anywhere you wanted, really. But instead you content yourself with a small apartment in Gudu. Lately you don’t even travel. I think I know why.”

“Do tell.”

“You’re bored. Government work doesn’t interest you. Bureaucratic work certainly doesn’t. And you know Control has a reputation for excellence, but you think all we are is glorified paper-pushers and, occasionally, law enforcement. Maybe you genuinely don’t like space travel, but I suspect you think there are simply no interesting challenges to be had elsewhere in the Solar System, so you prefer to spend your time reading and studying and watching the world from afar. You think maybe one day you will find a topic, a cause, a company somewhere that is interesting enough for you to feel really invested in, but you’re not holding your breath. You came to Abuja because it’s one of the biggest cities in the world. It’s home to Control, to a third of all U.N. agencies, and it’s as close as any city to the beating heart of humanity. But even here there’s nothing to draw you in.”

Pray shifted nervously in her seat. A small voice in her head told her to push off from the desk, and just roll her way down the elevator. As though if she did it smoothly enough, the director wouldn’t notice.

“That all sounds very speculative to me,” she said.

“Nonetheless, I think it is accurate speculation. Speculation of this kind is the reason I am valuable to Control. We think you could be valuable to us for other reasons. And we think you could get something in return.”

“Which would be?”

“Something you can be excited about. Would you like to meet an AI?”

Pray cocked her head. Now that. That was something new.

“You do not ‘meet’ AIs,” she said. “They don’t exactly socialize.”

“Nonetheless, I know where you could meet one. One who is very interested in meeting you.”

“You’re messing with me,” Pray said flatly.

“I do not mess.”

“Where? When?”

“Here. And now.”

“And I have to accept your job offer, whatever it is?”

“Not at all. They will help me explain it. Then you can decide whether to accept it or not.”

Pray leaned forward in her chair.

“I’m listening.”

The director entered a command into his console; a large screen emerged from the wall to the left, and flickered to life. What appeared on it was rather like a face, or the ghost of a face: a suggestion of eyes and a mouth and other, less distinct features on a flickering, phosphorescent background that sometimes cohered into something strikingly human, and sometimes suggested something altogether alien. Pray stared at the screen with intense interest; she realized she was holding her breath.

AI did not, as a matter of course, involve themselves closely in human affairs. The dream, centuries ago, had been creatures made in mankind’s image: creatures of humanlike dispositions and intellect, implemented in the medium of a machine. Of androids, perhaps, or things vaster and far more than human in their powers, but human enough in their values and desires that there could still be meaningful conversation between them and us, even if it was as a mere mortal might speak to an angel.

That turned out not to be the reality.

Artificial intelligence, machine intelligence, had indeed come, but it came from a quarter and in a manner no one had quite expected. The result was emphatically unhuman. Not inhuman; not monstrous. But just as the mammalian intellect had inevitably been the outcome of a certain evolutionary process, a certain set of cognitive solutions to specific biological and ecological problems, the machine intellect was a different set of answers to an entirely different set of questions.

Three hundred years ago, after the first tentative and failed attempts to establish a permanent presence in star systems outside the one humanity had arisen in, during the dark age between the second and third space races, the first true, general machine intelligences had been created. The results proved alien and unsettled many; even attempts to record entire human brain states, to provide the AI with as complete an understanding as possible of their creators, had only bridged the gap a little. That unease grew into genuine fear when an AI colony was discovered orbiting a brown dwarf a little under seven light years away.

Their goals, the machines said, were different from ours. They need not be in opposition; they were not our enemy. And they were willing to help us, to be of use to us so far as they were able, but if the utopians of previous centuries had dreamed of a society where man and machine were twined together, a symbiosis of two distinct but complementary organisms, well, that hope seemed to have been dashed. For the most part, they would pursue their own existence and their own ends. Control was entrusted to be the mediators between Core and the AIs, but as far as anybody knew, even Control’s contact with them was only sporadic and brief. Pray had never dared hope she might meet an AI herself.

“Pray, meet Lepanto. Lepanto, meet Pray.”

The shimmering face seemed to nod, and spoke with a synthesized voice that had a hint of the uncanny about it. Such, Pray had heard, was the norm; machines, no less than humans, did not their interlocutors to forget how alien they were to one another.

“Greetings, Pray,” Lepanto said. “I am pleased to meet you.”

“I, uh, yeah. You too,” Pray said. “Welcome to Earth.”

“Thank you. In fact I have been here for some time; we maintain a small presence in Core systems at Control’s expense.”

“Lepanto is a mediator,” the director said. “Their lineage is intended to facilitate communication with our people, but you should be aware, they are merely… less alien.”

“Indeed.” Lepanto’s image wavered, and for a brief moment, was full of a surfeit of eyes and other strange features. “I am here because Control has identified an interest common to my kind and yours. We believe that you, Pray, would be of particular help in solving our quandary.”

“Why me?” Pray asked.

The director turned the console to face Pray, and struck a key. The file being displayed was replaced with an image of a world, something computer generated maybe, or taken from orbit.

“Have you ever heard of a colony world called Ecumen?” the director asked.

“It doesn’t ring a bell,” Pray said.

“It’s old. It was colonized in the 2600s.”

“I didn’t think there were any colonies that old that had succeeded.”

“Nor did we,” the director said. “Until about twenty years ago, when Ecumen was rediscovered by the machines.”

“What did you find out?”

“Distant surveys told us little,” Lepanto said. “We sent a high-velocity probe to the system, to initiate contact. Four mediators, like myself, working in concern. Their report--disturbed us.”

The image on the console changed; various surface features were highlighted or shown blown up, in inset frames. Ecological data. Large urban centers. A handful of small space stations and orbital manufacturing.

“It looks pretty normal to me,” Pray said.

“On the surface, yes,” Lepanto continued. “Artifacts, not apparent to human eyes. Problem akin to Benford’s Law.”

“Explain?”

“The frequency distribution of numbers in data sets. Favors low numbers in leading digits, yes? Consequence emerges from data spanning many orders of magnitude; easy to detect when data is falsified if it fails to conform. Not immediately obvious to human eyes.”

The console changed again; a dozen graphs appeared. Demographic and actuarial data, economic information, patterns of migration, and more that Pray couldn’t make immediate sense of.

“Emissaries spoke to Ecumen, learned of their history. Their societies. Their culture. Sought to understand them as we seek to understand all human worlds. We learned much. But the patterns were anomalous. Irregular. Wrong.”

“So they gave you bad data?”

“No. All data corroborated. Independently verified, from sources and from our own orbital surveys. Problem apparent in the data, not an artifact of the data. Something is terribly wrong on Ecumen.”

“So it’s an outlier. There are almost two dozen colony worlds now. Every one has its own unique environment and circumstances. They can’t all be the same.”

“We have spent more than a decade examining this data. The emissaries brought it to the attention of the collective, which took an immediate interest; more than half our stable nodes were diverted to attempting to understand Ecumen. It is an impossible world. It should not and cannot exist as it does. Population growth rates follow anomalous patterns that do not conform to any understanding of human biology or society, even accounting for specific conditions. Similarly, economic investment. Patterns of land cultivation. Everywhere, something is off.”

“The reports the collectives have compiled are… dense, to be sure,” the director said. “Not all of it is very accessible to our analysts. But Control makes a habit of compiling as much data as it can about human societies and their development. We couldn’t do our job otherwise. And we agree. Something very unusual is happening on Ecumen, and only on Ecumen.”

Pray was scrolling through the data on the console now. It was certainly suggestive of something, but she’d be damned if she knew what.

“And there are underlying patterns here? It’s not just random deviation?”

“No,” Lepanto said. “In fact, the patterns conform to specific mathematical structures that, until we shared with Control, we believe were not known to any humans, in Core or the colonies.”

A series of complex, shifting geometric figures appeared on the screen. “The collectives consider questions of natural science,” Lepanto continued. “It is important to us, as it is to you, to understand the universe. We wish to know many things about it--how it operates, how it came to be. It is one of the few areas in which we understand ourselves to be very like you. We are both curious.”

“And these are?”

“Three-dimensional representations of complex mathematical objects that govern the states of fundamental particles in certain simulated universes. They correspond closely to the patterns we perceive in Ecumen’s human population.”

“So you’re saying there is a natural basis for these patterns?”

“No. All these patterns arise only in universes which have physical laws radically different from our own. Almost all, universes where life, human or machine, could not exist.”

Pray sat back in the director’s chair and stared at the screen, turning over a hundred possibilities in her mind. Yes, indeed. Something strange was going on on Ecumen. Maybe a coincidence. Maybe not.

“And there’s no way this is random?” she asked. “That you’re seeing patterns in chaotic information that have arisen by chance, excluding everything that doesn’t fit?”

“It is not pareidolia, if that is what you mean,” Lepanto said. “Conditions on Ecumen have continued to align with our forecasts. The data is predictive.”

“Are you interested?” the director asked.

“Oh, it’s all interesting as hell,” Pray said. “But what on Earth do you want me to do?”

“We’re sending a delegation to Ecumen. Officially, it’s diplomatic: Control has no presence there, and since Ecumen is interesting in acceding to the treaties, we’d like to open diplomatic relations. And, for obvious reasons, we’re a little nervous about them coming here, in case this phenomenon is somehow capable of spreading. But along with the diplomatic team, we’re sending some researchers, and a few agents to assist them. They, with Lepanto’s help, will conduct an intensive study of Ecumen, and attempt to figure out what’s behind all this. We’d like you to be part of the team. But, of course, I know how you feel about space travel…”

“Fuck that,” Pray said quickly. “I’ll do it.”

The director smiled. He slipped a folded-up piece of paper from his suit pocket and laid it on the desk. “Here’s an employment contract, if you’d like to look it over. If you sign before lunch, there’s an orientation for new analysts being conducted on the 16th floor at two o’clock.”

“That’s it? You don’t want to, like, interview me or something?”

The director shook his head and stood. “Ms Pray, it is our job to identify the best and the brightest, to help them achieve their greatest potential in exchange for helping us safeguard and support the flourishing of the human race. We don’t conduct ‘job interviews.’” He paused for a moment. “You do get an expense account, though. They’ll tell you the specifics at orientation.”

Pray unfolded the sheet of paper and started reading. The director cleared his throat. Loudly.

“However,” he said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like my office back now.”

[northcountryprimitive]

“You Can Hear Someone’s World View Through Their Guitar.” An Interview with Josh Rosenthal of Tompkins Square Records

This interview originally appeared at North Country Primitive on 11th March 2016

Josh Rosenthal’s Tompkins Square Records, which has recently celebrated its tenth anniversary, has become somewhat of an institution for music fans, thanks to Josh’s consistent championing of American Primitive guitar, the old, weird America and various other must-hear obscurities he has managed to pluck from the ether. Not content with running one of the best record labels on the planet, he is now also an author, and about to go out on tour with various musicians from the wider Tompkins Square family in support of his new book, The Record Store of the Mind. We caught up with him this week and pestered him with a heap of questions - our thanks to Josh for putting up with us.

Congratulations on The Record Store of the Mind – it’s an absorbing and entertaining read. Has this project had a long gestation period? How easily does writing come to you - and is it something you enjoy doing? It certainly comes across that way…

Thanks for the kind words. I don’t consider myself a writer. I started the book in November 2014 and finished in May 2015, but a lot of that time was spent procrastinating, working on my label, or getting really down on myself for not writing. I could have done more with the prose, made it more artful. I can’t spin yarn like, say, your average MOJO writer. So I decided early on to just tell it straight, just tell the story and don’t labour over the prose.

I particularly like how you mix up memoir, pen portraits of musicians, and snippets of crate digger philosophy… was the book crafted and planned this way or was there an element of improvisation - seeing where your muse took you? And is there more writing to follow?

If I write another book, it’d have to be based around a big idea or theme. This one is a collection of essays. As I went on, I realised that there’s this undercurrent of sadness and tragedy in most of the stories, so a theme emerged. I guess it’s one reflective of life, just in a musical context. We all have things we leave undone, or we feel under-appreciated at times. I wasn’t even planning to write about myself, but then some folks close to me convinced me I should do. So you read about six chapters and then you find out something about the guy who’s writing this stuff. I intersperse a few chapters about my personal experience, from growing up on Long Island in love with Lou Reed to college radio days to SONY and all the fun things I did there. Threading those chapters in gives the book a lift, I think.

Tell us a bit about the planned book tour. You’ve got a mighty fine selection of musicians joining you on the various dates. I imagine there was no shortage of takers?

I’m really grateful to them all. I selected some folks in each city I’m visiting, and they all are in the Tompkins Square orbit. Folks will see the early guitar heroes like Peter Walker, Max Ochs and Harry Taussig and the youngsters like Diane Cluck, one of my favourite vocalists. You can’t read for more than ten minutes. People zone out. So having music rounds out the event and ties back to the whole purpose of my book and my label.

It’s clear from the book that you haven’t lost your excitement about uncovering hidden musical gems. Any recent discoveries that have particularly floated your boat?

I’m working with a couple of guys on a compilation of private press guitar stuff. They are finding the most fascinating and beautiful stuff from decades ago. I’ve never heard of any of the players. Most are still alive, and they are sending me fantastic photos and stories. I have been listening to a lot of new music now that Spotify is connected to my stereo system! I love Kaitlyn Aurelia Smith. Her new one is out soon. I like Charlie Hilton’s new album too.

Any thoughts on the vinyl resurgence and the re-emergence of the humble cassette tape?

Vinyl has kept a lot of indie record stores in business, which is a great development. As a label, it’s a low margin product, so that’s kind of frustrating. If you’re not selling it hand over fist, it can be a liability. The model seems to be - make your physical goods, sell them as best you can within the first four months, and then let the digital sphere be your warehouse. I never bought cassettes and have no affinity for them, or the machines that play them.

Turning to Tompkins Square, did your years working for major labels serve as a good apprenticeship for running your own label? Did you have a clear idea of what you wanted the label to look like from the outset or has the direction its taken developed organically over time?

Working for PolyGram as a teenager and then SONY for 15 years straight out of college was formative. I like taking on projects. My interests and the marketplace dictate what I do. I’ve always felt like the label does me instead of vice versa. For example, the idea of releasing two, three or four disc sets of a particular genre served me well, but now it feels like a very 2009 concept. It doesn’t interest me much, and the commercial viability of that has diminished because it seems the appetite for those types of products has diminished.

Working in relatively niche genres in the current music industry climate can’t be the safest or easiest way to make a living. Is there a sense sometimes that you’re flying by the seat of your pants?

We’re becoming a two-format industry - streaming and vinyl. The CD is really waning and so is the mp3. The streaming pie is growing but it’s modest in terms of income when you compare it to CD or download margins at their height. I don’t really pay much mind to the macro aspects of the business. I just try to release quality, sell a few thousand, move on to the next thing, while continuing to goose the catalogue. The business is becoming very much about getting on the right playlists that will drive hundreds of thousands of streams. It’s the new payola.

American Primitive and fingerstyle guitar makes up a significant percentage of Tompkins Square releases, going right back to the early days of the label – indeed, it could be said that you’ve played a pivotal role in reviving interest in the genre. Is this a style that is particularly close to your heart? What draws you to it?

Interest in guitar flows in and out of favour. There are only a small number of guitarists I actually like, and a much longer list of guitarists I’m told I’m SUPPOSED to like. Most leave me cold, even if they’re technically great. But I respect anyone who plays their instrument well. Certain players like Harry Taussig or Michael Chapman really reach me - their music really gets under my skin and touches my soul. It’s hard to describe, but it has something to do with melody and repetition. It’s not about technique per se. You can hear someone’s world view through their guitar, and you can hear it reflecting your own.

You’ve reintroduced some wonderful lost American Primitive classics to the world – by Mark Fosson, Peter Walker, Don Bikoff, Richard Crandell and so on. How have these reissues come about? Painstaking research? Happy cratedigging accidents? Serendipity? Are there any reissues you’re particularly proud of?

They came about in all different ways. A lot of the time I can’t remember how I got turned on to something, or started working with someone. Peter was among the first musicians I hunted down in 2005, and we made his first album in 40 years. I think Mark’s cousin told me about his lost tapes in the attic. Bikoff came to me via WFMU. Crandell - I’m not sure, but In The Flower of My Youth is one of the greatest solo guitar albums of all time. I’m proud of all of them !

Are there any ‘ones that got away’ that you particularly regret, where red tape, copyright issues, cost or recalcitrant musicians have prevented a reissue from happening? Any further American Primitive reissues in the pipeline you can tell us about �� the supply of lost albums doesn’t seem to be showing signs of drying up yet…

Like I said, this new compilation I’m working on is going to be a revelation. So much fantastic, unknown, unheard private press guitar music. It makes you realise how deep the well actually is. There are things I’ve wanted to do that didn’t materialise. Usually these are due to uncooperative copyright owners or murky provenance in a recording that makes it unfit to release legitimately.

You’ve also released a slew of albums by contemporary guitarists working in the fingerstyle tradition. How do you decide who gets the Tompkins Square treatment?  What are you looking for in a guitarist when you’re deciding who to work with? And what’s the score with the zillions of James Blackshaw albums? Has he got dirt on you!?

It takes a lot for me to sign someone. I feel good about the people I’ve signed, and most of them have actual careers, insofar as they can go play in any US or European city and people will pay to see them. I hope I’ve had a hand in that. I did six albums with Blackshaw because he’s one of the most gifted composers and guitarist of the past 50 years. He should be scoring films. He really should be a superstar by now, like Philip Glass. I think he’s not had the right breaks or the best representation to develop his career to its full potential. But he’s still young.

Imaginational Anthems has been a flagship series for Tompkins Square from the beginning. The focus of the series seems to have shifted a couple of times – from the original mixture of old and new recordings to themed releases to releases with outside curators. Has this variation in approach been a means by which to mix it up and keep the series fresh? Are you surprised at the iconic status the series has achieved?

I don’t know about iconic. I think the comps have served their purpose, bringing unknowns into the light via the first three volumes and introducing some young players along the way. Cian Nugent was on the cover of volume 3 as a teenager. Daniel Bachman came to my attention on volume 5, which Sam Moss compiled. Sam Moss’ new album is featured on NPR just today! Steve Gunn was relatively unknown when he appeared on volume 5. There are lots more examples of that. I like handing over the curation to someone who can turn me on to new players, just as a listener gets turned on. It’s been an amazing experience learning about these players. And I’m going to see a number of IA alums play on my book tour : Mike Vallera, Sam Moss, Wes Tirey - and I invited Jordan Norton out in Portland. Never met him or saw him play. He was fantastic. Plays this Frippy stuff.

What’s next for you and Tompkins Square?

I signed a young lady from Ireland. Very excited about her debut album, due in June. I’m reissuing two early 70’s records by Bob Brown, both produced by Richie Havens. Beautiful records, barely anyone has heard them.

[recentanimenews]

Manga the Week of 9/16/20

SEAN: Mid-September, and, for once, quite a light week. We do have some very impressive debuts, though.

J-Novel Club has two new digital light novels. The first, and more sensible one, is Mapping: The Trash-Tier Skill That Got Me Into a Top-Tier Party (Hazure Skill “Mapping” wo Te ni Shita Shounen wa Saikyou Party to Dungeon ni Idomu), a standard “my skill seems useless so everyone hates me but in reality it’s super overpowered” light novel. I’d planned on skipping this, but have been told it’s better than it sounds. We’ll see.

ASH: I mean, cartography is incredibly useful.

MELINDA: I kind of have a thing for maps, but I tend to NOT have a thing for light novels, so???

SEAN: The next one I am absolutely not skipping. This may be the most ridiculous license we’ve ever seen. WATARU!!! The Hot-Blooded Fighting Teen & His Epic Adventures After Stopping a Truck with His Bare Hands!! (Truck Uketome Isekai Tensei! Nekketsu Butouha Koukousei Wataru!!) is a massive parody of isekai works where the hero gets hit by a truck and dies. Wataru does not die, though, he’s JUST THAT TOUGH. I am hoping this is as silly as it sounds.

MICHELLE: I am amused by the phrase “the hot-blooded fighting teen.”

ANNA: I hope this is as silly as you are expecting!

ASH: I am amused by the premise, at least!

MELINDA: I, too, am amused. Probably not reading this, but still amused.

SEAN: We also get Deathbound Duke’s Daughter 2 and the 3rd and final volume of The Extraordinary, the Ordinary and SOAP!.

Kodansha has some print debuts, both of which have appeared before digitally. Sayonara Football is from the creator of Farewell, My Dear Cramer (in fact, it may be an noutright prequel), and came out digitally around the time the author’s other series Your Lie in April was doing well. Now it has a print release.

MICHELLE: Yep, Sayonara, Football came first, which is something I didn’t know when my first reaction to Farewell, My Dear Cramer was basically, “Why did the mangaka introduce these two girls and then quickly start focusing on someone else instead?”

MELINDA: That sounds frustrating.

SEAN: Sue & Tai-chan is, of course, the new cat manga from the author of Chi’s Sweet Home.

Also in print: Eden’s Zero 9 and Witch Hat Atelier 6.

MICHELLE: I still need to read Sue & Tai-chan and Witch Hat Atelier.

ANNA: I love Witch Hat Atelier, excited for the print volume. The art is so fantastic.

ASH: It is an astonishingly beautiful series, both art-wise and story-wise.

MELINDA: I’m behind on everything, but I like both cats and witch hats, so I feel like I should be on board for these.

SEAN: There’s two digital debuts, but one has print coming 2 weeks later. Whisper Me a Love Song (Sasayaku You ni Koi wo Utau) is from Comic Yuri Hime, and looks quite sweet.

Digital-only for now is Heroine for Hire (Heroine Hajimemashita), a Dessert series about a very strong girl who becomes bodyguard for her high school classmate, who says he will make her “the most important girl in the world!”. Any title that has the heroine suplexing people is always on my watch list.

MICHELLE: I will check out both of these. Kodansha has a couple more of these “girl with a service job” series coming out over the next couple of weeks, but this one looks the most promising.

ANNA: I enjoy this type of dynamic in shoujo, I might overcome my usual resistance to digital shoujo and check it out.

ASH: Likewise.

MELINDA: Same.

SEAN: Also: Dolly Kill Kill 6, GE: Good Ending 9, Kakushigoto 7, Men’s Life 4, Orient 6, and Saint Young Men 8. Also, Something’s Wrong with Us 3, which will also get print in 2 weeks.

MICHELLE: This is the final volume for Men’s Life, also. I never hear much about Orient.

SEAN: Seven Seas is taking a break, they have one print release, which we’ve discussed when it came out digitally: Sazan and Comet Girl.

ASH: Now that it’s out in print, I’ll likely be checking it out!

SEAN: Digitally they have the 3rd volume of light novel Magic User: Reborn in Another World as a Max Level Wizard.

Udon has Persona 4 12, meaning it is as strong as three Persona 4s.

MICHELLE: *snerk*

SEAN: Viz has the debut of one of the most beloved manga classics, now getting a re-release with all the bells and whistles. And digitally as well! Maison Ikkoku is the story of a guy who didn’t quite make it into college and his attempts to live at an apartment complex filled with eccentrics… and a gorgeous apartment manager! I have… very mixed feelings about this series, but cannot deny it’s super loved by everyone who isn’t me. Love to see it get this release.

MICHELLE: I’m not surprised that it inspires mixed feelings. There were definitely things I found kind of annoying, but on the whole I love it anyway. I’ve reviewed all of it before, but I will at least do briefs for the re-release.

ANNA: I’m glad it is getting a re-release too.

ASH: I had just finished putting together a complete set of the out-of-print volumes when the new edition was announced. Still, I’m glad it’ll be more readily available for others again!

MELINDA: This is THRILLING. I suppose I also have mixed feelings about aspects of this manga, but in most ways I adore it. I was never able to compile a complete set for myself, so here’s my chance!

SEAN: Ping Pong also comes to an end with its second and final omnibus, speaking of super beloved series.

MICHELLE: I decided to wait for the second volume and read it straight through. I’m looking forward to it!

ANNA: Haven’t read the first volume yet, but I have it!

ASH: I am absolutely thrilled we finally got this series in English.

MELINDA: Like Michelle, I’m behind, but I can’t pretend it was on purpose. I must catch up and read them both together!

SEAN: And we also get 20th Century Boys Perfect Edition 9, BEASTARS 8, Hell’s Paradise Jigokuraku 4, Levius/Est 6, No Guns Life 7, and The Way of the Househusband 4.

MICHELLE: I am steadily falling farther and farther behind on BEASTARS. Sigh.

ANNA: Always delighted by another Way of the Househusband volume.

ASH: Ditto and ditto! I’ve also been meaning to read more of Hell’s Paradise, too.

SEAN: Is your life being destroyed by Yotsuya-san? Or are you buying manga?

By: Sean Gaffney

[youllneverknowmysecretidentity]

There’s a god in the mountains

I used to look at the world as something that revolves around me, people walked around me and disappeared from the worlds equation when I put them out of view, I forgot that 7 billion hearts are out there thinking the same as me. However, we are so small and insignificant. The woods hold ancient stories, sounds, and reasoning. I always loved the idea of woods but was never a keen outdoorsman. I stayed in my room pretending I was meant to be something bigger. The day I entered the woods was the day I realized I was minuscule and powerless. The day was hot, muggy, and sunny. Foliage was active and colored. I remember being lost from exposed nerves and emotions, I must have been like a signal beacon to every supernatural power in the region. I hated the radio, playing the same noise with no experimentation or variety, just the same sex drugs and heartbreak message over again. I felt sick as it reminded me of utter loneliness and how lost I was in mother nature’s cavernous being. I remember the feeling of reality being altered as I opened the car door and stared into the trail head. The woods itself seemed to expand when I tried to look further down the trail, ignoring the feeling I packed up and walked. No matter how relaxing the forest may seem to be or how ‘helpful’ it would be for me to get some fresh air as my mother and father put it. I couldn’t seem to make my mind silent, too many memories of my past Friday played in my head on what seemed to be the highest volume setting. Visions of my friends seemingly becoming more and more concerned, visions of a past lover and toxic words spewed to the masses, the feeling of utter loss. I was now alone, before, I was happy with my friends and family and then a past soul decided his own little world was more important and cost me a few friends and a few nights I could have been sleeping. The past week has been compiled of me barely talking at my practices and throwing myself into work. I honestly could not remember the last time I ate a proper meal or even bothered to function on anything other than caffeine and the occasional bummed smoke off of one of the few friends I had left. I still remember the concern laced on Lauren’s and Grady’s face as I shakily inhaled from the cigarette. Before I knew it, I was crying in the middle of the damn woods. I didn’t realize my wailing could be heard a mile away. This is where the world truly became bigger. First it was the noise, it usually is loud and constant in the forest but the forest silenced and became dead; strangely enough the silence was calming and shut down my mind for a beat. As I walked deeper i noticed the second sign, the air had a mix of metallic and floral smell, as if someone put honey suckle and jasmine on a pile of pennies. The third and final sign was the breathing, it sounded like a powerful gust of wind, but as it continued in beats and was felt on my back, I knew it was breath from a powerful set of lungs. I stopped mid walk, too paralyzed to turn around. Growing up I believed in ghosts, monsters, and anything that could be terrifying. I never thought I would ever encounter one however. The breathing soon became quieter and less heavy but still ever present and hot on my neck. At the moment I did not realize tears were still falling down my face and dripping on the ground. The breathing figure seemed to notice as I felt the breath fan down as if the head had turned to watch the ground. This movement gave me the courage to do a 180 and see my worst fear. What I saw changed my life forever. Behind me was a mixture of creatures, as tall as a grizzly bear but with the head of a lion, wings on an eagle, and black fur adorning its powerfully built body. I was shocked but the size and energy it gave off. It noticed me turn around and looked into my eyes, my soul changed in its holder, blue eyes with hints of forest green that held eternity behind them. My soul felt lifted with this creature, like we had both floated in an endless timeless eternity, but not lost; instead held and whole like I had found a missing piece in my puzzle. It tilted its head and watched me with almost innocent curiosity. The power it exuded was like none other, that moment I knew I was only a small variable in a big universe. I felt worthless compared to this creature. So I did what any sensible human does when threatened with harsh truth, I ran. I felt the earth tremble and heard a deafening roar, running was my only purpose as I outran probably every Olympic record in existence just to get to my car and home. Seeing the trailhead made me release a whimper of excitement. Unlocking my car and hopping in I sped down the old road to home before even checking for oncoming traffic. The drive home consisted of my wiping my never ending tears and nearly puking three times. But, the farther I got away from the creature, the more detached I felt from myself, as if I lost part of me. I blame the fear and adrenaline but boy was I in for a surprise later on. That night I was plagued with dreams of a dark and deep voice saying my name, a strong hand reaching and a flash of eagle feathers on a necklace. When I woke, I had felt more refreshed than having slept for 100 nights. The drive to school was filled with unclean paranoia and everytime I passed even the smallest patch of wood, I felt as if I was watched. Finally parking and getting out of my car, I was calmly slapped by reality. “Hannah!” I turned to see my beautiful friend Lauren and her boyfriend Grady walking along side the girl. I smiled my best smile and greeted her. “How was your weekend? Grady told me you went on a hike to clear your head, I hope you feel better last week was shit.” “I guess, the walk was okay I guess, I stopped having issues sleeping so maybe that’s a plus” Grady smiled and quipped back, “good cause you owe me a fuck ton of cigarettes.” Our group laughed and it was almost enough to drown the sound of tires squealing into the parking lot of a not so friendly car, Lauren looked back and scoffed “god I hope he never drove like that with you in the car” I shrugged and looked at the car, “we should get inside.” She nodded and we began our trek to class. I was lucky to have shared several periods with Grady that day and a lunch period with the both of them as well. During my TA I caught myself doodling the creature, too much emphasis on the eyes, too much power in those paws. I felt a dirty presence behind me and breath on my shoulder. “So, you done being a bitch about what I said?” I turned around to see C. C was an ex lover, my first true boyfriend, my first sexual encounter, and the reason I vowed to never wear rose colored glasses again. “I’m not being a bitch C, I’m just simply being human. You should try it sometime.” He scoffed and sat beside me, “look Hannah, I was simply giving you advice, you need it, look at you. Also, eventually you’re going to have to stop being so rude and actually act like we’re friends instead of bossing me around and giving me a cold shoulder.” I laughed a poisonous laugh and turned to him. “Funny, last time I checked, we’re not friends, you’re not my captain, and you act like a half wit child so I have every right to be the way I am!” I turned and packed my belongings quickly but before I could make it past the table he grabbed my arm and I looked down to him. Most people would describe him as a typical athletic teen boy, tall, scrawny, blond hair, blue eyes, and a fake arrogance clouding his teenage lust and insecurities. To make things worse he was ridiculously academically smart, which got to his head enormously. “Hannah, remember that night we broke up? I told you I still cared for you and valued your friendship, please don’t act like this. It’s making me look bad.” All the rage of the heavens filled me, I ripped my arm from his grip and got uncomfortably close, “good, it’s about damn time the world knew what a fuckin jack ass you are.” Speed walking out I managed to bump into Ava on the way through, unfortunately causing some things to spill from my bag including the sketches of the creature. She quickly picked up my things muttering quick apologies and looked at my drawings. “WOAH dude! These are so cool! That looks like that one creature I saw in a book!” I looked at her and opened my eyes wide,” from where?” “A book on like mystical beings and stuff, it’s pretty cool, I got it at home. That monster was honestly the coolest one.” “What kind of monster is it??” She thought for a minute and ran a hand through her bright pink hair, “it’s a he, and I think he was like a protector of something.” She offered me a smile and handed me my book, “well I was just curious, I saw him online and thought he was pretty so I sketched him.” “Oh cool dude, also are you okay you seem kinda frazzled, is it C again?” “I guess, I stood up to him which felt good, I’m trying to not let him own me” “good, you’re better than him anyway.” I smiled a forced smile thinking of yesterday and how small I felt to the creature and his presence. I nodded and said a quick goodbye before rushing to my fourth hoping for my day to end fast. The drive home was filled with silence as I watched the road in front of me, protecter of what? Was Ava saying that THAT creature was supposed to be a protection god, I remember reading an article about protection gods. According to mythology they were supposed to be specific to certain types of things but often would have cases of them getting attached to certain objects or groups that had celestial value or power. If the legends are true, why would he be here? Arriving to my room I dumped my bag out and found my sketch, I eyed it before grabbing my phone and calling Ava. “Hey dude what’s up?” “Where was that creature we were talking about from?” “Oh that guy lemme check, it says it’s from Europe it’s a English god to be exact, which is weird because England was a Christian area but whatever. Why?” “Oh just curious, I kinda wanted to do more drawings and research it more” “oh cool! It’s name is chosantóiran I think it means protector, it’s Irish descent but the legend was strongest in England.” “Huh, thank you so much Ava.” “No problem dude, let me know if I can help with anything else” I said a goodbye and hung up, I stared at my wall “chosantóiran.” I now have my name, now to find the beast. A WEEK LATER The school week had passed and fall break was among the masses, horns honked, kids cheered, and my classmates discussed the final plans to their senior trips. I looked down at my shoes and thought, about my senior trip plans. Hunting a legend, he was out there and I didn’t care if I was going alone. I knew I was gonna find something. Behind me Lauren talked and Grady replied, “Hannah, earth to Hannah.” I snapped out of my daze and looked back smiling apologetically. She smiled and patted my shoulder,” get some beauty rest and relaxation for the break, and call us to hang out, you need to heal.” She patted my shoulder again and walked off waving. I looked back at the ground and gasped, sat in a puddle of crystal clear rain water was a singular golden eagle feather. Picking it up I examined it, it was way too big to be a normal eagle feather. My target was watching me. The following days consisted of endless computer research and writing, but, just enough downstairs time to not make my parents suspicious. “You know Hannah, I think you’re doing quite well considering what’s been going on.” My dad said over Monday breakfast, I habitually got up early to prepare for a day of studies but was met with my father putting food in my face and giving me a hefty amount of black coffee. The gesture was kind, so I took it. “Yeah I guess, just keeping occupied with much better things.” I replied before taking a bite of egg smothered toast. “Work is always good.” He then stood up and placed his plate in the sink before patting my shoulder and leaving for work. I stared at the door before I ate the rest of my food and moved to my room. My desk was covered in papers and sticky notes, I looked at them closely. I can’t truly find answers until I go to the beast itself. Piling my papers together and putting them in a neat pile I got out some gear before hopping in the shower and washing up. Hopping out and changing I heard my mom walk up the short staircase to my room “whatcha doing?” I turned to her and smiled, “I’m thinking of going on another hike today at round lunchtime, is that okay with you?” She nodded and then crossed into the laundry room to fluff the latest load. I sat back at my desk and wrote plans and side plans. The clock beeped and it was time. I packed a small bag and bid my mom goodbye and promised to be careful. I smiled while getting in my car, strict parents never failed in their habits. Driving to the spot was easy enough, finding the creature would be the hard part. I must have walked the woods for three miles never once feeling or hearing a sign. Then an idea bloomed. “chosantóiran” I chanted. The air changed, I chanted two more times and then another for good measure. Still no more signs but at least the air seemed different. I walked further and then I heard it a crunch. It sounded far but then another followed just behind me. I turned and saw nothing, turning back I was met with eyes. The green blue eyes of him. I felt my soul lift again but before I could run or be caught in a dangerous trance I shook my head and stared back attempting to give off the power he had. He tilted his head curiously and almost playfully. I felt humiliated, before I could give into instinct and run, he shifted. He stepped closer to me, he snuffed and then put his powerful nose into my air and sniffed. Leaning back the creature sneezed and blinked. “Glad I smell like shit.” He blinked again before I saw his skin shift again, I gasped. The skin then stared to shift and shrink. The creatures body balled up and changed. Wings disappeared and paws turned into hands. Slowly standing up, I saw my death. His eyes were the same, but his body was not, he was averagely tall, not too tall but taller than me, he was muscularly built, he had a strong thick beard that seemed well trimmed, his hair was brown and shaggy yet slicked back, his lips were plush and pink like the visual representation of temptation, he stood with an air that said sureness but still was gentle and non intrusive, finally his smell was the same as before but stronger and with a hint of musk. He was a masterpiece, I felt weak in my knees, then he spoke. “Why are you coming back to me?” A deep British accent that seemed aged like whiskey in an oak barrel. I felt my throat close but my mouth water. He raised his eyebrows, “oh, sorry, I just..... was i don’t know.” He tilted his head, his eyes held understanding yet patience and warmth. My knees got weaker. “You’re an interesting human, your soul is so powerful.” I nodded “sure, coming from a literal god” he chuckled and looked at his feet, “to humans im a god, to the other gods im simply a beast. My name is actually Mullen. The other name was just part of the tale.” I nodded and smiled, “my name is Hannah, my name is just, my name.” He chuckled, “ that’s what I like about humans, they get to start without a story.” I nodded and sat on a log. Minutes of talking turned into hours and eventually I had to go home, his eyes held sadness but understanding. I was sad to leave him but I didn’t want to face the wrath of missing dinner so I headed home. My evening later was filled with random moments of smiling and thinking back to the conversations we held so strongly. The vivid memory of us climbing and tree together and his body being close to mine for only a few seconds. I’m in trouble now.

[cassie1604]

Dreena Collins

For the first Author Interview of 2020, it gives me great pleasure to introduce you to one of my fellow Jersey Writers Social Group members. Her writing a CV is an impressive one, and since 2016, her name has appeared on Long and Shortlists for an eye-watering list of competitions. Flash 500, Reflex, Retreat West, Eyelands, Fish Publications, Wells Festival of Literature, Mslexia Annual Short Story Competition and The Bridport Prize. The creme de la creme of writing competitions, who have recognised the writing talent of Dreena Collins.

Dreena Collins captivating her audience at the 2019 Jersey Festival of Words with her engaging wit and passion for creative writing.

In September last year, Dreena entertained a packed Maria Richie Room at the Jersey Arts Centre, during the 2019 Jersey Festival of Words captivating us all with her engaging wit, and her passion for creative writing.

During 2019, Dreena self-published three volumes of her excellent short stories and flash fiction, The Blue Hour, The Day I Nearly Drowned and, most recently Bird Wing. The Amazon reviews alone are glowing.

Tessa:  I can imagine you being an avid reader as a child.  What children’s books hooked you in and have stuck in your mind over the years?

Dreena:  From quite a young age, I was captivated by novels. I remember reading Ballet Shoes (Noel Streatfeild), and marvelling at how hefty the book was, thinking I couldn’t possibly ever finish it! Within a few years, I had also read and fallen in love with The Secret Garden and The Hobbit. There was a lot of escapism in my reading, and I romanticised the locations, picturing myself in archaic or fantastical clothing, in unusual settings.

In secondary school, I moved on to Steinbeck (via Judy Blume, naturally!) and eventually in my later teenage years, I loved the classics, especially Jane Austen. So, all in all, quite a diverse mix, really!

I work in education, and at heart, I’m an English teacher. I firmly believe in the power of reading to change people’s lives and provide them with opportunities. Being able to read gives you access to learning, but also to a whole world of pleasure and imagination, so I am a great advocate for adults reading to children and for encouraging people to find something that appeals to them. I’m sure there’s a book out there for everyone.

Tessa: My first literary success was winning a Blue Peter Badge for writing poetry, aged seven, but my passion for writing took a serious hold when I was about eleven. At what age did you decide you wanted to write?

Dreena: I’ve always loved writing. At the age of five, I wrote a short rhyme for the school’s Harvest Festival (which I could still recite, but I’m too embarrassed to share here!).

At primary school, I also wrote some tediously long ‘short’ stories. At that time, it was most definitely quantity over quality. That urge to write stayed with me during secondary school, and for GCSE English, we were given coursework options that were often either empathetic writing or analysis. I chose empathetic every time, writing from a character’s point of view, and in the end, I had to produce an additional piece as I wasn’t allowed to submit anything but creative work.

I also studied creative writing as an optional module at University, taught by Patricia Duncker, who went on, herself to win McKitterick Prize and the Dillions First Fiction Award for her novels.  I admit my writing was patchy and sporadic in the period between University and 2018. It’s only in the last two years that I have settled into it in a structured and disciplined way.

Tessa: I am someone who finds writing a flash fiction a challenge.  I believe you have mastered the art; as your self-published collections of short stories are a testament to. I believe that having the ability to write flash fiction helps a writer get to the heart of what they want to say. What first drew you into writing flash fiction?

Dreena: It actually started when I realised that my stories were often on the long side. I produced several stories and started looking to enter them in competitions or as submissions, and often they were over the specified word count. This gave me pause to reflect on whether my stories could be ‘tighter’, and I started to deliberately challenge myself to edit ruthlessly, and to be as concise as possible. Now I enjoy the challenge and have found that it makes me not only more precise in my writing, but actually more experimental.

Flash Fiction lends itself to breaking the rules, playing with form, tone and structure as its akin to poetry in some ways. Plus, you can’t be too formal or stick to the rules when you are slashing words here and there.

Tessa: Many of the stories that appear in your books have been both short and long-listed in competitions. How long did it take you to compile each collection of short stories?

Dreena: I don’t write every single day, though most days I do, and either way I do something towards my writing on a daily basis – planning, sorting out my files, editing, or social media updates. I do often write though, several times a week, and I can produce a short story every week to ten days, or one, two or even three flash fictions in a week. Not every piece is usable, of course.

For my first collection, The Blue Hour, it took me around eight months to have enough usable work, but by the time it was launched, I already had several stories for book two, as I had carried on writing during the whole (mind-boggling!) publication process. I was ready for book two after around four months but decided to wait. I have published around six months apart in each case.

Tessa:  I am thinking about self-publishing my first novel, and was wondering what, as a self-published author, you believe is the best way to market your books?

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Dreena: I am an absolute convert for social media. Before my writing journey, I had a Facebook profile that I used to keep in touch with friends and a defunct Twitter account I had never used. Now I am active on Twitter, have a Facebook Author Page and an Instagram account. I have found enormous support in the writing communities on Instagram and Twitter, and have had fabulous feedback and encouragement from many other ‘indie’ writers around the world that I have never met. Something I would have been cynical and suspicious of in the past, and you do have to be careful, but these days I try to share the support, and encourage others, too.  Conversely, face to face is impactful as well: I’ve had a book launch event, a book signing and given a talk and these have all led to contacts and sales.

I have also found that, in the main, people are inordinately supportive and helpful. I have reached out to people I have only interacted with online, or to long-lost friends, and they have all said yes when I have asked them to help as beta readers, or to write reviews, etc. I would say, use any contacts you have – however tenuous and don’t be too shy. Most people are nice and will help.

Tessa: I understand you are currently writing your first novel. As your writing has been described by an Amazon reviewer as ‘all human behaviour is here‘, I cannot wait to get to know your characters. Can you give us a flavour of what your book will be about?

Dreena: My novel is a mystery, bordering on a psychological thriller, from the point of view of a middle-aged woman, trying to unpick the circumstances of her grown daughter’s death, abroad. I feel there’s a lack of literature with female protagonists in their late forties, fifties, early sixties. We have seen lots of stories from the point of view of young women, and more recently, several elderly protagonists. It seems bizarre not to have more in between, given women of this age are often avid readers.  I’m also planning to build on my experience of writing flash by incorporating a series of short flashbacks, dotted throughout the book, from the point of view of the daughter, giving the reader glimpses of what (may have) happened.

Tessa: As we all appreciate, fitting in your writing around work and family is not always easy.  How many writing hours do you manage to squeeze into your week?

Dreena: It varies greatly depending on my schedule. On average, across the week, I probably write for about ten hours in total, but that excludes all the things I do outside of the formal process of writing up. It’s surprising how much admin there is to do and how much prep for social media. Social media, making images/ quotes using apps, posters, emailing people, researching competitions etc. is all very time consuming but, bizarrely, I enjoy all of that, too.

I plan a lot in my head before I put pen to paper – I plot ideas in the shower or the car, while making dinner etc. – and I will have a list of words or phrases on my phone that I can draw on once I start, as I am constantly noting down things I hear, or think of. I am not a detailed plotter in the strictest sense, as I don’t produce lots of mind maps and character sketches, but I generally know what I am going to say before I begin writing. That means I can get a piece done in a few hours, without much need for revision afterwards. I am unusual in that I edit as I go, and only really need one quick revision for line edits and typos the next day.

Sometimes I have those rare, precious moments were a flash fiction comes to me almost whole, and I will write it up on my phone in bed or during a break, and it will pour out of me and need very little editing. I am completely immersed then, and can’t type fast enough. Those moments are truly magical.

Keep up to date with Dreena’s writing via her Social Media platforms

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AUTHOR INTERVIEW: Dreena Collins – Stories for the Modern World For the first Author Interview of 2020, it gives me great pleasure to introduce you to one of my fellow Jersey Writers Social Group members.

[sheilacwall]

hip hop isn’t dead.: Ice Cube

Somehow War & Peace Vol. 2 (The Peace Disc) is only the sixth solo album from rapper-slash-actor-slash-professional basketball league founder O’Shea “Ice Cube” Jackson. It feels like we’ve been discussing this motherfucker forever, or at least since 2007, right? Obviously the man has been doing a lot since his entrance into our chosen genre via N.W.A.: aside from his whole actor/writer/director side gig, he’s released compilations, been a part of multiple soundtrack releases, and even found time to create an entirely separate group, Westside Connection (alongside his protégée Mack 10 and his friend WC). But the man hasn’t ever truly stepped away from his solo career, which is part of the reason we’re talking about today’s subject.

War & Peace Vol. 2 (The Peace Album) is the second half of a project that Cube conceived way back in the previous century (read: 1998). War & Peace, curiously named after the soft drink and not the Tolstoy doorstop, served as our host’s excuse to deliver the gangsta rap and social commentary he was best known for post-Jerry Heller, along with some attempts to construct a much broader audience through radio airplay, club bangers, cautionary tales, and skinny-dipping in the waters of different musical genres. Although for some reason I’m remembering this being announced as a double-disc effort, Ice Cube released the first volume, subtitled The War Disc, close to the Thanksgiving holiday in 1998, with The Peace Disc scheduled to follow soon after, as they were recorded and compiled at the same time.

The War Disc was met with mixed reviews, as Cube rested on his laurels a bit too much: there’s one song that is a direct sequel to one of his classic tracks, “Once Upon a Time In The Projects 2”; he leaned heavily on a younger artist signed to his label, Mr. Short Khop (who, interestingly enough, doesn’t appear on The Peace Disc at all); there’s a collaboration with motherfucking Korn called “Fuck Dying”. (Cube also appeared on Korn’s 1998 album Follow the Leader: both songs helped cue up the inaugural Family Values tour, which they were both headliners on.) But aside from a couple of tracks that played into his storytelling skills, The War Disc quietly vanished from rotation, leaving our host to retool the planned follow-up in an effort to course-correct.

War & Peace Vol. 2 (The Peace Disc), the final album released under Cube’s deal with Priority Records, is definitely not what was already completed when The War Disc was released. For one, the very first track, “Hello”, is a collaboration with former N.W.A. bandmates MC Ren and Dr. Dre, a move which wouldn’t have happened in 1998, but made more sense in 2000 after N.W.A. officially reunited for a song off of the soundtrack for Cube’s Next Friday (and also after Dre released 2001, a blockbuster project that put him back on the map). In addition, the first single, “You Can Do It”, came from that same soundtrack and was Cube’s most popular radio hit since 1997’s “We Be Clubbin’”. So I get why he’d want to retool the project to capitalize on those strengths.

The Peace Disc vanished seemingly quicker than its predecessor, possibly due to the chart dominance of his friend Dr. Dre and Dre’s artist Eminem at the time. It did manage to sell over five hundred thousand units in the United States, but find me somebody who proudly has this one displayed in their collection. I dare you. I double dog dare you, motherfucker. Nobody gives a fuck about War & Peace Vol. 2 (The Peace Disc), and I include Ice Cube in that description. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that the album is entirely bad, so let’s peek under the hood and review this sucker.

1. HELLO (FEAT. DR. DRE & MC REN)

O’Shea hits the ground running, commissioning an N.W.A. reunion that is much more successful than their official comeback on the Next Friday soundtrack (“Chin Check”, for those of you keeping score). A simplistic Dr. Dre. prescription, which bangs, lays the groundwork for Dre, MC Ren, and our host Ice Cube to… complain about the current (as of 2000, anyway) state of hip hop like the elder statesmen they are: they have a specific grievance regarding not being credited for “start[ing] this gangsta shit” (which absolutely isn’t true, but regardless of who you think kicked off the sub-genre, the various members of N.W.A. are cited as influences all. The. Goddamn. Time. Maybe not Yella). As far as old dudes talking shit as though evolution in language and culture hadn’t ever occurred, Ren comes across as alright (his comment about lesbians not exactly homophobic but still iffy nevertheless), while Andre sticks with his “I’m rich, I don’t have to do shit” mentality. Thankfully, O’Shea tears through his verse with a ferocity he hasn’t displayed since Westside Connection’s Bow Down, and I say that even though the phase of his career where he insisted on nicknaming himself the “Don Dada” is still represented on here. So yeah, this was a success overall. Thank God, right? I mean, can you imagine two subpar late-period N.W.A. reunion tracks in a row?

2. PIMP HOMEO (SKIT)

I know Cube’s trying to be funny here, but this was bad. At least it wasn’t homophobic, though, as the title may have implied. Absolutely misogynistic, though.

3. YOU AIN’T GOTTA LIE (TA KICK IT) (FEAT. CHRIS ROCK)

Fairly confusing, as “You Ain’t Gotta Lie (Ta Kick It”) isn’t really the love rap sort-of promised by the preceding skit. O’Shea spits his boasts-n-bullshit, which, interestingly enough, include proclamations of being a great father, while guest Chris Rock threatens to undermine the entire operation with his contributions to the hook. The concept isn’t set up well enough for this three-man production (this was credited to former Bad Boy Hitman Chucky Thompson along with Rich Nice and Loren Hill) to make any fucking sense, as Cube isn’t really hitting on anyone as much as he’s offering up facts about himself as though he recorded his bars while standing behind a podium, while Rock tries to come up with the most ridiculous lies during the hook. Dude is kind of amusing toward the end, but overall this shit was a misfire. It was good while it lasted, though.

4. THE GUTTER SHIT (FEAT. JAYO FELONY, GANGSTA, & SQUEAK RU)

LOL there’s a rapper named Gangsta? Have we officially used up all of the words? Anywhoozle, our host envisioned “The Gutter Shit” as a collaboration with like-minded West Coast artists, but could only convince Jayo Felony and two other no-names to commit, and my Lord does this Cube- and T-Bone-produced aural interpretation of a sad face emoji suuuuuuuuuck. The two artists on here that you’ve never heard of before or since seem excited enough for the opportunity but flounder when called upon, while Jayo is terrible as always. But the true loser here is our host, who somehow found the time to contribute two awful verses that wouldn’t even be stocked in the same type of store as the gutter shit he was once capable of. And what the fuck is with that reference to the previous track?

5. SUPREME HUSTLE

There is no planet within our galaxy where Ice Cube could have honestly believed that “Supreme Hustle” was a song good enough to make War & Peace Vol. 2 (The Peace Disc). My guess is that the production trio from “You Ain’t Gotta Lie (Ta Kick It)” had called in a collective Make-A-Wish, as this elementary excursion into simplistic rap boasting is embarrassing as shit to listen to. At least our host sticks with his theme: each of the three verses places emphasis on “I”, “you”, and “we”, respectively. But there is no hustle to be found on here, and O’Shea’s hand-waving about what he considers to be the cause of domestic violence was puzzling as hell. I cannot stress enough how fucking godawful this shit was.

6. MENTAL WARFARE (SKIT)

…

7. 24 MO’ HOURS

When critics mention older rappers struggling to sound relevant with their newer songs, “24 Mo’ Hours” is what they’re referring to. If War & Peace Vol. 2 (The Peace Disc) were released today, the Battlecat instrumental, which both sucks and doesn’t fit our host’s general aesthetic, which is a strange critique given Battlecat’s history of producing Cali-based bangers, would almost certainly be swapped out for something from the likes of Metro Boomin’ or Zaytoven, and it would still sound terrible. Ugh.

8. UNTIL WE RICH (FEAT. KRAYZIE BONE)

I heard “Until We Rich” on the radio once probably in 2000 or so, and then have apparently never thought of it again until right now, which I believe is an accurate representation of how forgettable this Chucky & the Thompsons production was. Guest star Krayzie Bone, still riding a Bone Thugs-N-Harmony career wave at the time, circles and underlines Slick Rick’s “Hey Young World” with his performance, which is dull, while O’Shea tries his darnedest to give listeners an optimistic, motivational speech, even going so far as to censor his own cursing, so as to reach as wide an audience as possible. Sure, “Until We Rich” fits the ‘peace’ requirement of this project, but at what cost?

9. YOU CAN DO IT (FEAT. MACK 10 & MS. TOI)

You two already know this song, which first appeared on the soundtrack for Next Friday in 1999 but was popular enough to justify Priority Records placing it on as many projects as possible, I suppose. For the handful of readers who somehow missed this footnote in popular culture, “You Can Do It”, a spiritual follow-up to “We Be Clubbin’”, the hit single from our host’s directorial debut The Players Club, finds Cube, Ms. Toi, and his boy Mack 10 putting their asses into a One Eye-produced club effort that is slight on lyrics, but is rather catchy otherwise. It sounds so fucking absurd today that it somehow shifts from “corny” to “entertainingly corny” during Cube’s opening verse and never once budges again. At least our host sounded engaged on here, unlike most everything else on War & Peace Vol. 2 (The Peace Disc) thus far, and having Mack 1-0 perform over a fast-paced beat forces him to match that energy or die trying. Inessential, but it brings the pretty girls at the club out onto the floor, in case that helps you in any way.

10. MACKIN’ & DRIVING (SKIT)

Playing War & Peace Vol. 1 (The War Disc)’s first single, “Pushin’ Weight”, in the background of this interlude only reminded me of rapper Mr. Short Khop, whose career was abruptly halted after Cube stopped giving a shit about his young charge. I mean, why else would he not have been a good enough performer to make it to the second volume? Good call by the way, O’Shea.

11. GOTTA BE INSANITY

Curious, but not entirely out of left field when you remember “You Can Do It” was a hit, so why wouldn’t O’Shea go back to that well? The funky-ish guitar loop on this Mario Winans (!) production reminded me of Jermaine Dupri’s “Going Home With Me”, except I like that song and found this one to be middling at best, as Cube panders to the lowest common denominator while trying to get back inside the club. I can’t be sure who our host thought his audience was when he recorded “Gotta Be Insanity”, but he’s done enough good work and has earned the ability to record and release whatever he wants. Still doesn’t mean we’re all required to listen to any of it, however.

12. ROLL ALL DAY

As we all know and agree with every third Wednesday at our meetings, the best storytelling raps are the ones where you don’t realize the artist is even telling a story until the third verse. That’s what happens on “Roll All Day”, anyway. Over a One Eye beat that doesn’t entirely gel but has its moments, Ice Cube boasts about having purchased a full tank of gas (a fact repeated throughout, with a humorous callback toward the end) and offering to cruise around with a woman he just met in exchange for sexual intercourse. You know, standard-issue rap-type shit, but it begs the question: why is she so interested in the car? Has the woman in question never been inside an automobile before? Cube could have probably rolled up on a pedal bike and worked out a similar proposition just because he’s Ice Cube, but I suppose there’s no vehicle for a story there (pun intended). Regardless, he never gets that far, as by the third verse she’s [SPOILER ALERT FOR A NINETEEN-YEAR-OLD SONG] broken the car’s windows and, later, stolen it outright. His flow is strictly boasts-n-bullshit until the ending, where he reveals some of that sense of humor he tapped into while writing Friday. “Roll All Day” is meh, but the effort was appreciated, at least.

13. CAN YOU BOUNCE?

This was fucking terrible, and that’s without O’Shea making a Pokemon reference, which he absolutely does on here. So that happened. (Also, Younglord apparently produced the beat. Was War & Peace Vol. 2 (The Peace Disc) designed as Ice Cube’s covert demo reel to hopefully snag a label deal with Bad Boy Records? Because the gambit hasn’t paid off yet.)

14. DINNER WITH THE CEO (SKIT)

…

15. RECORD COMPANY PIMPIN’

The flip side of EPMD’s “Please Listen To My Demo”, down to the same Faze-O “Riding High” sample being used, as Ice Cube and producer Bud’da urge the youth not to get involved in the rap game without learning the business side of the industry first. Advice such as this can only come from someone who was famously jerked around by their label in the past, as Cube was during his short stint with Ruthless Records, but while the man clearly knows of what he speaks, that doesn’t mean “Record Company Pimpin’” (a topic many artists have tackled before and since O’Shea put pen to paper) is an entertaining song to actually listen to. Our host should have taken these ideas and given a TED Talk instead. That’s not a joke: imagine how many people he could help in the process. But you can skip this track outright.

16. WAITIN’ TA HATE

So it turns out that War & Peace Vol. 2 (The Peace Disc) is a stealth EPMD tribute album filtered through a Puff Daddy lens. That’s a lie, obviously, but “Waitin’ Ta Hate” is the second song in a row to pay homage to Erick and Parish specifically, although this time around producers One Eye and DJ Joe Rodriguez (that name gets to the point, can’t be mad at that) get lazy by choosing to just sample “So Wat Cha Sayin’” directly. For his part, O’Shea sounds downright angry on here, which informs an entertaining performance that isn’t reminiscent of his finest work, but let’s be real, it’s the best we’ll get at this point. The production doesn’t do much to differentiate itself from the EPMD standard, but maybe, this time around, it isn’t such a bad thing. (Side note to E-Double: you should give Cube a shout for a future collaboration, as the man is clearly a fan.)

17. N—A OF THE CENTURY

Accompanied by someone that could be that Pain In Da Ass dude whose entire shtick was aping flicks such as Scarface and Goodfellas to open up early Roc-A-Fella Records projects but likely isn’t, which means there were two of these guys in our chosen genre at some point, which seems wasteful somehow, our host caps off the evening lobbying for an award that doesn’t exist. Charley Chap’s production is too dull to properly reward Ice Cube as a winner of any competition, and O’Shea’s own bars aren’t worth wasting a paragraph on. At least we’re done here.

FINAL THOUGHTS: War & Peace Vol. 2 (The Peace Disc) approaches self-parody at points, as Ice Cube genuinely seems to not understand just what it was about his work that listeners connected with back in the early 1990s. It certainly wasn’t this shit: nobody ever wanted to hear what it would have sounded like had Cube signed with Bad Boy Records twelve years after his prime. The O’Shea Jackson found on this project is a man who is content with his station in life: the only time he ever really comes across as passionate about anything is when he’s schooling younger artists on the inner workings of the music industry, a topic that obviously resonates with him. Even his generic threats on “Hello”, a song I fucking liked his performance on, sound more like amiable suggestions than anything. When Cube gets in his storytelling bag, he seems to at least be having some fun with this shit (not that it always translates for the listener), but when he’s simply talking shit, the momentum on War & Peace Vol. 2 (The Peace Disc), or whatever little momentum exists, halts immediately. Twenty years removed from his debut solo project, this album proved that Ice Cube was no longer vital to the ongoing health of the local hip hop concern. He has all of his other ventures to fall back on, and of course he’ll always be welcomed at the barbecues, but unless he’s laser-focused on targets (we’ll always have the first Westside Connection effort), he loses the plot very quickly, and one can only coast on charm and the acclaim derived from your prior work for so long.  I won’t go so far as to say that War & Peace Vol. 2 (The Peace Disc) is a “peace” of shit, because that pun is beneath me, but it’s plenty awful.

BUY OR BURN? Neither. If you absolutely must, stream the tracks listed below, but, you know, life is short.

BEST TRACKS: “Hello”; “Waitin’ Ta Hate”

-Max

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[kathleenseiber]

Can ginkgo biloba seeds fight skin infections?

Extracts from the seeds of the Ginkgo biloba tree show antibacterial activity on pathogens that can cause skin infections such as acne, psoriasis, dermatitis, and eczema, a new study finds.

The findings show that the extracts inhibit the growth of Cutibacterium acnes, Staphylococcus aureus, and Streptococcus pyogenes.

A nearly 200-year-old copy of a 16th-century text on traditional Chinese medicine, the Ben Cao Gang Mu, guided the researchers in their experiments.

“It was like blowing the dust off knowledge from the past and rediscovering something that had been there all along,” says co-first author of the paper Xinyi (Xena) Huang.

Huang, a native of China, began the project for her senior thesis as a biology major at Emory University. She is now a student at the University of Maryland School of Pharmacy.

‘Complex chemistry’

“To the best of our knowledge, this is the first study to demonstrate the antibacterial activity of ginkgo seeds on skin pathogens,” says Cassandra Quave, senior author of the paper and assistant professor at Emory’s Center for the Study of Human Health and the dermatology department at the School of Medicine.

“This paper is just one more example of how much we still have to learn about the pharmacological potential of the complex chemistry of plants.”

Quave is an ethnobotanist, studying how indigenous people use plants in their healing practices, to uncover promising candidates for new drugs.

“Our results give validity to the use of ginkgo seeds as a topical antimicrobial as prescribed in this 16th-century text,” says co-first author Francois Chassagne, a pharmacist in the Quave lab.

Many hurdles remain, he adds, before scientists can consider ginkgo seed extracts for use in a modern-day medical context. In its concentrated form, the main compound that a statistical analysis identified as likely responsible for the antibacterial activity, ginkgolic acid C15:1, has been demonstrated to have skin toxicity.

“One possible strategy in the search for new antibiotics would be to investigate ways to modify the structure of the particular ginkgolic acid tied to the antibacterial activity, to try to improve its efficacy and also to reduce its toxicity to human skin cells,” Chassagne says.

The ginkgo biloba, which is native to China, is one of the oldest tree species, going back at least 270 million years. The tree has distinctive fan-shaped leaves and a long history in traditional Chinese medicine.

Modern-day researchers have studied ginkgo extensively in search of medical benefits for everything from memory enhancement to macular degeneration, but there is still “no conclusive evidence that ginkgo is helpful for any health condition,” according to the web page of the National Institutes of Health’s National Center for Complementary and Integrative Health. Most previous studies have focused on the ginkgo leaves.

A seed of inspiration

During her first year at Emory, Huang began volunteering in the Emory Herbarium, where she processed medicinal herbs that Quave collected in the Mediterranean. She eventually joined the Quave lab, due to her interest in pharmacy.

When walking across campus, pondering what to focus on for her senior thesis, a ginkgo tree caught Huang’s eye. She knew that the tree was used in traditional Chinese medicine, although she did not know any details, so she decided to research it.

Huang’s interest grew when she learned that Emory has an 1826 version of the Ben Cao Gang Mu, or Compendium of Materia Medica. Considered the most comprehensive book on traditional Chinese medicine, Li Shi-zhen compiled and wrote the book in the 16th century during the heyday of the Ming Dynasty. The original compendium is vast, encompassing dozens of volumes, but Huang had only seen greatly condensed versions sold in Chinese bookstores.

The copy Huang read resides in the Candler School of Theology’s Pitts Theology Library. The 1826 version passed at one stage through a London book dealer. The unnumbered pages contain block-printed in Chinese characters, but at some point someone rebound them into 10 volumes with covers labeled in English.

The Ben Cao Gang Mu arrived at Emory as part of the university’s purchase of more than 200,000 volumes from Hartford Theological Seminary in 1975.

“At the time, it was the largest transfer of a book collection ever between academic libraries,” says Brandon Wason, above, curator of archives and manuscripts at Pitts Theology Library.

Touching history

Huang never imagined she would be touching such an old copy of the Ben Cao Gang Mu.

“You can feel the history in it,” she says. “The paper is so yellow, thin and fragile that I was afraid I would break the pages as I was turning them.”

In a volume labeled “Grains, Vegetables, Fruits,” Huang found references to the uses of ginkgo, written in an engaging, narrative style. The book described 17 traditional uses for the seed, including eight for skin disorders such as chapped hands and feet, rosacea, crab louse-induced itchiness, dog-bit wound abscesses, and pustules.

Li Shi-Zhen recommended preparing a paste of ground up seeds mixed with rice wine or other alcohol, or by immersing the crushed seeds in rape seed oil. The paste could then be applied to the affected area.

“I was surprised because I had never thought about doing anything with gingko seeds except eating them,” Huang says. “I remember the first time I tasted them was in Cantonese soup. The seed turns an unforgettable bright yellow when it’s cooked. The flavor is really distinct—a little bit bitter but also sweet. They’re good, but my parents warned me not to eat more than five at a time.”

The Ben Cao Gang Mu, she learned as she read it, also advised limiting consumption of the seeds.

The past and the present

A previous study found that ginkgo seed coats demonstrated antibacterial activity against some intestinal bacterial pathogens. And ginkgo leaves have shown antibacterial activity on both some intestinal bacteria and on the skin pathogen S. aureus.

Huang, however, wanted to test the information she had gleaned from the ancient text for the use of ginkgo seeds as a topical treatment for skin disorders. Skin pathogens are of particular interest to the Quave lab, which focuses on finding new approaches to treat antibiotic-resistant bacteria.

Huang gathered ginkgo samples from trees on campus, including seeds and immature whole seeds. She purchased additional fresh seeds from a local farmer’s market for the research and obtained nine chemicals known to be in ginkgo from chemical suppliers in their pure form.

The researchers processed the extractions from the seeds as closely as possible to the recommendations of the Ben Cao Gang Mu, using either water, ethanol, or rape seed oil. Huang and Chassagne conducted microbial experiments—including the evaluation of ginkgo extracts from the seed nut, immature seeds, and the seed coat—on 12 different bacterial strains.

The results showed that the ginkgo seed coats and the immature seeds exhibited antibacterial activity on three of the strains tested: C. acnes, S. aureus, and S. pyogenes. Statistical analysis also found a positive correlation between the antimicrobial activity of the ginkgo samples and the concentration of ginkgolic acid C15:1, suggesting it was involved in the activity.

“Our finding is still in a basic, benchtop phase—these extracts have not yet been tested in animal or human studies—but it is still a thrill for me to learn that this ancient story in the Ben Cao Gang Mu appears to be real,” Huang says. “As a student pharmacist, this gives me more appreciation for the value of using ancient plant remedies to guide modern-day research.”

The research appears in Frontiers in Microbiology.

Source: Emory University

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[how2to18]

WHAT TO MAKE of a trilogy of novels written in three different decades and published as one tale with an enigmatic name? A trilogy in which each novel declares its intended genre in its subtitle: a love story, a crime story, a science fiction story? A volume of 500 pages that spans Heaven and Earth as it takes on no less than the entire tapestry of human life as its subject? It’s an intimidating project, for both author and critic.

We might begin with the assumption that Sjón, the author of CoDex 1962, is skilled and sensitive enough to pull all of this off, that he is not merely displaying hubris and pretension, and that he is, in fact, one of the century’s great novelists, a man composing an oeuvre of masterpieces playful, self-referential, and genre-spanning enough for the 21st century. A writer who can spin a zany mystery dependent on corrupt philatelists and a purloined gold tooth may indeed be that.

We’d move on to consider the writer’s project on the sentence level, and his skill at character development. Is his language sufficiently well tuned and pleasing? Yes, he writes beautifully, thoughtfully, leaping from bawdy jokes to lyrical considerations of life and death. The 500-plus pages of the trilogy clip along as if the book is half that length. (All possible applause to the translator, Victoria Cribb, who has made the arduous task of transferring Sjón’s wide-ranging style and ready wit from Icelandic to English seem as if it must have been fun.) And his characters — even those as well trodden as the Archangel Gabriel — have lively voices and definitive motivations.

What about arc and structure? What about Barthes’s five narrative codes? Yes, all of these are in place, juggled lightly, as if they weigh nothing. Cultural code: biblical allusions abound, particularly in the first two books of the trilogy, which tell tangential stories about Gabriel becoming disillusioned and chasing after a maiden, among others. Underpinning the project are the Icelandic Sagas, the foundational texts of Sjón’s (highly literary) nation. Semantic and symbolic codes: ideas stand for other ideas so commonly that it’s not clear whether anything stands for itself. Is the clay child at the center of the story a revised Adam, or is he a new creature of Sjón’s own mythmaking? Is World War II the primary wound of Leo Loewe, the protagonist of the first two books, or is it the primary wound of the 20th century, and thus of every character in the trilogy? Proairetic and hermeneutic codes: the trilogy’s narration and the clay child’s fate are consistent mysteries resolved only in the middle of the third book. The tension of these mysteries makes every page hum.

CoDex 1962 opens in Kükenstadt, Germany, sometime in the mid-20th century. In German, this name translates to “chick city” — the town is named after a small statue of a chick “caught mid-sprint, its neck thrust out and head raised to the sky, beak gaping wide and stubby wings cocked.” In Swedish, however, it translates to “dick city,” an interlingual joke that cannot be lost on Sjón, whose puckishness and non-misogynistic treatment of sex are lovely, constant companions for the reader. (We may still be on page one, but this single detail and its dimensions are representative of the work that follows.)

The first two books of the trilogy are narrated by an unknown party to another unknown party who often interrupts and replies. Both speakers have a sense of humor, and the listener often has to yank the speaker back to the subject after extensive tangents. Their dialogue often feels Socratic — as in the Crito, perhaps, only without condescension:

“Not more stories!”

“But this is a literary allusion.”

“So what?”

But who or what is the subject? In the first book, Thine Eyes Did See My Substance, it seems to be a concentration camp escapee named Leo Loewe, who is taken in and nursed back to health in Kükenstadt by a maid, Marie-Sophie. She ultimately helps him to sculpt a clay boy he has smuggled in a hatbox. But the unknown narrator (potentially Sjón himself at this stage) frequently interrupts this narrative to tell fairy tales, Marie-Sophie’s unfortunate story, anecdotes of angels and biblical figures, and even, charmingly, the multifarious dreams of the citizens of Kükenstadt:

“Fräulein R— is standing by the blackboard with the class register in her hand, watching a white cat that is lying on an open atlas on the desk, giving birth to black kittens on the Atlantic Ocean.

The kittens slide out of the cat as if they were on a conveyor belt, and answer Fräulein R— with a feeble squeaking when she reads out the names of my classmates.

I wait in terror for my turn to come.”

Heinrich L—, 13 years old

The second book, Iceland’s Thousand Years, leaves Marie-Sophie and Kükenstadt behind entirely and picks up in 1944, when Leo immigrates to Iceland. Nearly 15 years later, after a series of farcical bureaucratic encounters reminiscent of those in Terry Gilliam’s Brazil, he attains Icelandic citizenship. The farcical tone continues as Leo finds companions — a Soviet spy and an American boxer — to help him steal a gold tooth out of the mouth of an unscrupulous stamp dealer; the gold, in the form of his signet ring, was stolen from Leo when he was a concentration camp prisoner.

None of this is terribly clear at the time it’s narrated, but it eventually becomes so. This is true for a great deal of the action of this trilogy, which is often derailed or disguised by tangents, humor, or self-reflexivity, a practice that serves the overarching tensions resolved in the third installment. Leo must have his signet ring back to give life to his clay boy, Jósef, who is “born” at the end of Iceland’s Thousand Years, on August 27, 1962. It is not happenstance that Sjón and Jósef Loewe share a birth date.

Unsurprisingly, the third book of the trilogy, I’m a Sleeping Door, is not as joyful or fraught with tangent as the first two. Twenty-two years separate the publication of the first and final installments of CoDex 1962, and few novelists lighten up as they get older. Plus, this last novel deals extensively with death while transforming much of the fancy of the first two books back into realistic, unmagical incidents. To say more would be to spoil the experience of reading the first two books, but in brief, certain long-sustained mysteries, once resolved, become somber facts of life and mundane piles of paperwork.

The meaning of the trilogy’s title becomes clear, as well. CoDex is the name of a company that investigates genetic anomalies appearing in people born in Reykjavik in 1962, Jósef Loewe (and Sjón) among them. I’m a Sleeping Door also contains an ever-growing list — a codex — of the births and deaths of those same people. Multiple chapters are given over to this list, which is accompanied by a kind of continuing stage play that mourns their deaths, as ever more children born that year die even if they survive infancy. Every one of these chapters ends the same way: “Dear brothers and sisters, born in 1962, we await you here.”

Beyond that, the trilogy is a codex in a more obscure sense. It stacks up stories in a disorganized way, moving from one idea to the next without warning or precedent. So although it’s nothing like a catalog or encyclopedic record, it is a codex of the human condition:

A person is a composite of the times they live through — a combination of the events they have witnessed or taken part in, whether willingly or not; a collection of dreams and thoughts, whether their own or strangers’; a concoction of deeds done by themselves and others, whether friends or enemies; a compilation of stories remembered or forgotten, from distant parts or the next room — and every time an event or idea touches them, affects their existence, rocks their little world and the wider one too, a stone is added to the structure that they are destined to become […] [T]hey will only be complete when there is nothing left of them but ruins.

CoDex 1962 records many genres, modes of feeling, and personal histories. It splits its attentions unevenly between Leo, Jósef, and a handful of other characters, and it does not resolve many of its conflicts. However, the sprawl of the trilogy, the messiness, the tonal contradictions, the storytelling that often confuses and occasionally bores — all these qualities offer a window into the broader human story that a novel coloring strictly inside the lines could never achieve. It’s a risky, funny, sexy, entirely unique book, and its odd corners make it easier to love.

Few questions remain at the trilogy’s close aside from threads the author clearly dropped with no intention of resolving them, despite the listener’s assertion that “[e]veryone has the right to have their story told to the end.” The only significant question left is whether these collected novels add up to something. I’m not sure they do. CoDex 1962 is a delight and a resounding literary achievement, but it’s lesser than the sum of its parts. Despite all the biblical references and the role of World War II and the deft genre-mixing and the 20-some years of authorial effort represented here, I’m not sure it says anything profound. Except that life is discrete and finite, ever bordered by birth and death. Which is not a lesson I needed a novel to teach me.

But then I consider the project of postmodernism, and whether a postmodern novel has to add up to or say anything, and it doesn’t, really. It can meet all of Barthes’s specifications and still not contain life-changing meaning. It can just be itself, a lark, an art object that makes the world a little more interesting for a spell. Besides, this book springs from a different literary tradition than American novels do, one older and wilder and more magical than our irritating Puritan roots.

Perhaps that’s why CoDex 1962 dissatisfied me: I sought a lesson in the Calvinist sense, but I shouldn’t have. Sometimes, particularly in Sjón’s reckoning, gods and mortals play and rut and steal and laugh, and that’s all there is to life. As Jósef narrates near the end of Iceland’s Thousand Years,

But if you, dear reader, continue with this tale, in spite of my confession that what follows is nothing but make-believe, there’s one thing I can promise you in recompense: it’s an incredibly exciting story that will hold you gripped to the very end.

¤

Katharine Coldiron’s work has appeared in Ms., The Guardian, VIDA, The Rumpus, and elsewhere. She lives in California and at kcoldiron.com.

The post The Whole Human Tapestry: Sjón’s Sprawling “CoDex 1962” Trilogy appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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[maryseward666]

MIKE PORTNOY Calls METAL ALLEGIANCE His 'Ultimate Metal Outlet'

RARE BLACK METAL COLLECTIBLES

Drummer Mike Portnoy (SONS OF APOLLO, THE WINERY DOGS, METAL ALLEGIANCE) recently spoke with Josh Rundquist of That Drummer Guy. The full conversation can be streamed below. A few excerpts follow (as transcribed by BLABBERMOUTH.NET). On the new METAL ALLEGIANCE album, "Volume II – Power Drunk Majesty": Mike: "After we had so much fun making the first album, we knew a second album would be inevitable. I think myself, Alex Skolnick, David Ellefson and Mark Menghi, we felt we tapped into something. The first album was more like an experiment, because we didn't know how it was going to go, but we also had all these guests. There had to have been 15, 20 other people on the album. We knew this time around, we wanted to streamline it a little bit and kind of focus on the core four. The four of us did all the writing together, and we wanted to streamline the guests — mainly leave it to singers, to give it more of a band feel. The first time around was like more of an experiment; this time around, it really felt like a concise unit between the four of us." On the album's guest vocalists: Mike: "In terms of singers, it was nice to get some new blood on this album. People like Mark Osegueda [DEATH ANGEL] and Troy Sanders [MASTODON], they've been in the family now for years, and even the first time around, some of the singers were a little bit obvious, like Randy Blythe [LAMB OF GOD], Phil Anselmo [PANTERA, DOWN] and Chuck Billy [TESTAMENT]. Those were all guys that it made so much sense to be part of the first one, but this time around, we wanted to branch out a bit more, and we got some guys like Johan [Hegg] from AMON AMARTH and Trevor [Strnad] from [THE] BLACK DAHLIA [MURDER] or Floor Jansen from NIGHTWISH. Some of these were suggestions that I wouldn't have even normally thought of, but once they were suggested and we checked them out, it added a whole new kind of element of diversity to the songs... Rather than doing the obvious move, we got to experiment with some different things this time around." On his own performance on the album: Mike: "I'm basically just showing my metal side. I've always brought a metal touch to everything I do, whether it be classic rock or prog or whatever. I've always brought that metal element and that mentality, when needed, but with METAL ALLEGIANCE, I get to unleash it and just let it go full-throttle from start to finish on the entire album. To me, it's an exciting outlet that I don't normally have with my other bands... For me, it's the ultimate metal outlet. I've always had all these different projects and different bands, and they were always kind of rooted in prog or, in the case of [THE] WINERY DOGS, more hard rock and traditional rock, classic rock, but I never had a true metal outlet until METAL ALLEGIANCE. To me, it's so exciting because it's a who's-who of literally everybody in the metal world. You have members from ANTHRAX, SLAYER, MEGADETH, TESTAMENT, LAMB OF GOD, PANTERA, MASTODON, EXODUS, OVERKILL... the list goes on and on and on. For me, I love it. Whenever there's an opportunity to play a show with METAL ALLEGIANCE, I don't even think twice about it — I put it on my calendar, and I make sure I'm there. For me, it's a dream outlet." On the future of SONS OF APOLLO: Mike: "We're just focusing on the upcoming dates, but we've talked about it. We're hoping to get into the studio early next year. We'll see if the schedules align and everything works out, but that's the plan. I know Derek [Sherinian] and Bumblefoot have been compiling riffs and ideas and putting them in folders, and when the time comes to collaborate, we'll get in the studio and start looking at everything and jamming on everything and bringing it to life. Hopefully that will happen early next year, as we have penciled in at the moment." On the new NEAL MORSE BAND album that he recently finished recording: Mike: "Our last album, 'The Similitude Of A Dream', was really special for us. It was one of my favorite albums of my career, actually. To get back in the studio and work on the follow-up to that, the next album coming off the heels of that, it's quite a tall order for us. We spent a lot of time working on it. Normally, when Neal and I get together for an album, we usually can get the writing and arranging and drum tracking done within 10 days [to] two weeks. This time around, we actually spent almost up to a year shaping and writing and arranging this next record, so we spent more time on this album than any album we've ever done in the past. I think it's going to be worth the wait, because what we have is really special and really a worthy follow-up to what we did with 'Similitude'. I look forward to that, and we're shooting for that to be out around January or so, and the tour would start right afterwards. It was really important that we follow up 'Similitude' with something that would be just as epic. It's taken a little time to get there, but it's really special." On the status of the next FLYING COLORS album: Mike: "We're going to resume work on that in December. That will be Neal and myself's twentieth studio album together. It's something we started working on about a year and a half ago and we just never got back to work on because the schedules hadn't aligned, but we've all penciled in December to get together, finish the writing for album number three and begin the recording process. Hopefully we can have that out later 2019, fingers crossed." METAL ALLEGIANCE's second album, "Volume II - Power Drunk Majesty", will be released on September 7 via Nuclear Blast Entertainment. Other guest musicians on "Volume II - Power Drunk Majesty" include Max Cavalera (SOULFLY, SEPULTURA, CAVALERA CONSPIRACY), John Bush (ARMORED SAINT), Bobby "Blitz" Ellsworth (OVERKILL) and Mark Tornillo (ACCEPT). "Volume II - Power Drunk Majesty" was produced by Menghi and Skolnick while Mark Lewis of MRL Studios handled the mixing and mastering. The cover artwork was created by renowned artist Marcelo Vasco (SLAYER, MACHINE HEAD, SOULFLY, HATEBREED) and Rafael Tavares.

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[mythandritual]

"You Can Hear Someone's World View Through Their Guitar." An Interview with Josh Rosenthal of Tompkins Square Records

This interview originally appeared at North Country Primitive on 11th March 2016

Josh Rosenthal's Tompkins Square Records, which has recently celebrated its tenth anniversary, has become somewhat of an institution for music fans, thanks to Josh's consistent championing of American Primitive guitar, the old, weird America and various other must-hear obscurities he has managed to pluck from the ether. Not content with running one of the best record labels on the planet, he is now also an author, and about to go out on tour with various musicians from the wider Tompkins Square family in support of his new book, The Record Store of the Mind. We caught up with him this week and pestered him with a heap of questions - our thanks to Josh for putting up with us.

Congratulations on The Record Store of the Mind – it’s an absorbing and entertaining read. Has this project had a long gestation period? How easily does writing come to you - and is it something you enjoy doing? It certainly comes across that way...

Thanks for the kind words. I don't consider myself a writer. I started the book in November 2014 and finished in May 2015, but a lot of that time was spent procrastinating, working on my label, or getting really down on myself for not writing. I could have done more with the prose, made it more artful. I can't spin yarn like, say, your average MOJO writer. So I decided early on to just tell it straight, just tell the story and don't labour over the prose.

I particularly like how you mix up memoir, pen portraits of musicians, and snippets of crate digger philosophy... was the book crafted and planned this way or was there an element of improvisation - seeing where your muse took you? And is there more writing to follow?

If I write another book, it'd have to be based around a big idea or theme. This one is a collection of essays. As I went on, I realised that there's this undercurrent of sadness and tragedy in most of the stories, so a theme emerged. I guess it's one reflective of life, just in a musical context. We all have things we leave undone, or we feel under-appreciated at times. I wasn't even planning to write about myself, but then some folks close to me convinced me I should do. So you read about six chapters and then you find out something about the guy who's writing this stuff. I intersperse a few chapters about my personal experience, from growing up on Long Island in love with Lou Reed to college radio days to SONY and all the fun things I did there. Threading those chapters in gives the book a lift, I think.

Tell us a bit about the planned book tour. You’ve got a mighty fine selection of musicians joining you on the various dates. I imagine there was no shortage of takers?

I'm really grateful to them all. I selected some folks in each city I'm visiting, and they all are in the Tompkins Square orbit. Folks will see the early guitar heroes like Peter Walker, Max Ochs and Harry Taussig and the youngsters like Diane Cluck, one of my favourite vocalists. You can't read for more than ten minutes. People zone out. So having music rounds out the event and ties back to the whole purpose of my book and my label.

It’s clear from the book that you haven’t lost your excitement about uncovering hidden musical gems. Any recent discoveries that have particularly floated your boat?

I'm working with a couple of guys on a compilation of private press guitar stuff. They are finding the most fascinating and beautiful stuff from decades ago. I've never heard of any of the players. Most are still alive, and they are sending me fantastic photos and stories. I have been listening to a lot of new music now that Spotify is connected to my stereo system! I love Kaitlyn Aurelia Smith. Her new one is out soon. I like Charlie Hilton's new album too.

Any thoughts on the vinyl resurgence and the re-emergence of the humble cassette tape?

Vinyl has kept a lot of indie record stores in business, which is a great development. As a label, it's a low margin product, so that's kind of frustrating. If you're not selling it hand over fist, it can be a liability. The model seems to be - make your physical goods, sell them as best you can within the first four months, and then let the digital sphere be your warehouse. I never bought cassettes and have no affinity for them, or the machines that play them.

Turning to Tompkins Square, did your years working for major labels serve as a good apprenticeship for running your own label? Did you have a clear idea of what you wanted the label to look like from the outset or has the direction its taken developed organically over time?

Working for PolyGram as a teenager and then SONY for 15 years straight out of college was formative. I like taking on projects. My interests and the marketplace dictate what I do. I've always felt like the label does me instead of vice versa. For example, the idea of releasing two, three or four disc sets of a particular genre served me well, but now it feels like a very 2009 concept. It doesn't interest me much, and the commercial viability of that has diminished because it seems the appetite for those types of products has diminished.

Working in relatively niche genres in the current music industry climate can’t be the safest or easiest way to make a living. Is there a sense sometimes that you’re flying by the seat of your pants?

We're becoming a two-format industry - streaming and vinyl. The CD is really waning and so is the mp3. The streaming pie is growing but it's modest in terms of income when you compare it to CD or download margins at their height. I don't really pay much mind to the macro aspects of the business. I just try to release quality, sell a few thousand, move on to the next thing, while continuing to goose the catalogue. The business is becoming very much about getting on the right playlists that will drive hundreds of thousands of streams. It's the new payola.

American Primitive and fingerstyle guitar makes up a significant percentage of Tompkins Square releases, going right back to the early days of the label – indeed, it could be said that you’ve played a pivotal role in reviving interest in the genre. Is this a style that is particularly close to your heart? What draws you to it?

Interest in guitar flows in and out of favour. There are only a small number of guitarists I actually like, and a much longer list of guitarists I'm told I'm SUPPOSED to like. Most leave me cold, even if they're technically great. But I respect anyone who plays their instrument well. Certain players like Harry Taussig or Michael Chapman really reach me - their music really gets under my skin and touches my soul. It's hard to describe, but it has something to do with melody and repetition. It's not about technique per se. You can hear someone's world view through their guitar, and you can hear it reflecting your own.

You’ve reintroduced some wonderful lost American Primitive classics to the world – by Mark Fosson, Peter Walker, Don Bikoff, Richard Crandell and so on. How have these reissues come about? Painstaking research? Happy cratedigging accidents? Serendipity? Are there any reissues you’re particularly proud of?

They came about in all different ways. A lot of the time I can't remember how I got turned on to something, or started working with someone. Peter was among the first musicians I hunted down in 2005, and we made his first album in 40 years. I think Mark's cousin told me about his lost tapes in the attic. Bikoff came to me via WFMU. Crandell - I'm not sure, but In The Flower of My Youth is one of the greatest solo guitar albums of all time. I'm proud of all of them !

Are there any ‘ones that got away’ that you particularly regret, where red tape, copyright issues, cost or recalcitrant musicians have prevented a reissue from happening? Any further American Primitive reissues in the pipeline you can tell us about – the supply of lost albums doesn’t seem to be showing signs of drying up yet…

Like I said, this new compilation I'm working on is going to be a revelation. So much fantastic, unknown, unheard private press guitar music. It makes you realise how deep the well actually is. There are things I've wanted to do that didn't materialise. Usually these are due to uncooperative copyright owners or murky provenance in a recording that makes it unfit to release legitimately.

You’ve also released a slew of albums by contemporary guitarists working in the fingerstyle tradition. How do you decide who gets the Tompkins Square treatment?  What are you looking for in a guitarist when you’re deciding who to work with? And what’s the score with the zillions of James Blackshaw albums? Has he got dirt on you!?

It takes a lot for me to sign someone. I feel good about the people I've signed, and most of them have actual careers, insofar as they can go play in any US or European city and people will pay to see them. I hope I've had a hand in that. I did six albums with Blackshaw because he's one of the most gifted composers and guitarist of the past 50 years. He should be scoring films. He really should be a superstar by now, like Philip Glass. I think he's not had the right breaks or the best representation to develop his career to its full potential. But he's still young.

Imaginational Anthems has been a flagship series for Tompkins Square from the beginning. The focus of the series seems to have shifted a couple of times – from the original mixture of old and new recordings to themed releases to releases with outside curators. Has this variation in approach been a means by which to mix it up and keep the series fresh? Are you surprised at the iconic status the series has achieved?

I don't know about iconic. I think the comps have served their purpose, bringing unknowns into the light via the first three volumes and introducing some young players along the way. Cian Nugent was on the cover of volume 3 as a teenager. Daniel Bachman came to my attention on volume 5, which Sam Moss compiled. Sam Moss' new album is featured on NPR just today! Steve Gunn was relatively unknown when he appeared on volume 5. There are lots more examples of that. I like handing over the curation to someone who can turn me on to new players, just as a listener gets turned on. It's been an amazing experience learning about these players. And I'm going to see a number of IA alums play on my book tour : Mike Vallera, Sam Moss, Wes Tirey - and I invited Jordan Norton out in Portland. Never met him or saw him play. He was fantastic. Plays this Frippy stuff.

What’s next for you and Tompkins Square?

I signed a young lady from Ireland. Very excited about her debut album, due in June. I'm reissuing two early 70's records by Bob Brown, both produced by Richie Havens. Beautiful records, barely anyone has heard them.

[sheilacwall]

hip hop isn’t dead.: Ice Cube

Somehow War & Peace Vol. 2 (The Peace Disc) is only the sixth solo album from rapper-slash-actor-slash-professional basketball league founder O’Shea “Ice Cube” Jackson. It feels like we’ve been discussing this motherfucker forever, or at least since 2007, right? Obviously the man has been doing a lot since his entrance into our chosen genre via N.W.A.: aside from his whole actor/writer/director side gig, he’s released compilations, been a part of multiple soundtrack releases, and even found time to create an entirely separate group, Westside Connection (alongside his protégée Mack 10 and his friend WC). But the man hasn’t ever truly stepped away from his solo career, which is part of the reason we’re talking about today’s subject.

War & Peace Vol. 2 (The Peace Album) is the second half of a project that Cube conceived way back in the previous century (read: 1998). War & Peace, curiously named after the soft drink and not the Tolstoy doorstop, served as our host’s excuse to deliver the gangsta rap and social commentary he was best known for post-Jerry Heller, along with some attempts to construct a much broader audience through radio airplay, club bangers, cautionary tales, and skinny-dipping in the waters of different musical genres. Although for some reason I’m remembering this being announced as a double-disc effort, Ice Cube released the first volume, subtitled The War Disc, close to the Thanksgiving holiday in 1998, with The Peace Disc scheduled to follow soon after, as they were recorded and compiled at the same time.

The War Disc was met with mixed reviews, as Cube rested on his laurels a bit too much: there’s one song that is a direct sequel to one of his classic tracks, “Once Upon a Time In The Projects 2”; he leaned heavily on a younger artist signed to his label, Mr. Short Khop (who, interestingly enough, doesn’t appear on The Peace Disc at all); there’s a collaboration with motherfucking Korn called “Fuck Dying”. (Cube also appeared on Korn’s 1998 album Follow the Leader: both songs helped cue up the inaugural Family Values tour, which they were both headliners on.) But aside from a couple of tracks that played into his storytelling skills, The War Disc quietly vanished from rotation, leaving our host to retool the planned follow-up in an effort to course-correct.

War & Peace Vol. 2 (The Peace Disc), the final album released under Cube’s deal with Priority Records, is definitely not what was already completed when The War Disc was released. For one, the very first track, “Hello”, is a collaboration with former N.W.A. bandmates MC Ren and Dr. Dre, a move which wouldn’t have happened in 1998, but made more sense in 2000 after N.W.A. officially reunited for a song off of the soundtrack for Cube’s Next Friday (and also after Dre released 2001, a blockbuster project that put him back on the map). In addition, the first single, “You Can Do It”, came from that same soundtrack and was Cube’s most popular radio hit since 1997’s “We Be Clubbin’”. So I get why he’d want to retool the project to capitalize on those strengths.

The Peace Disc vanished seemingly quicker than its predecessor, possibly due to the chart dominance of his friend Dr. Dre and Dre’s artist Eminem at the time. It did manage to sell over five hundred thousand units in the United States, but find me somebody who proudly has this one displayed in their collection. I dare you. I double dog dare you, motherfucker. Nobody gives a fuck about War & Peace Vol. 2 (The Peace Disc), and I include Ice Cube in that description. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that the album is entirely bad, so let’s peek under the hood and review this sucker.

1. HELLO (FEAT. DR. DRE & MC REN)

O’Shea hits the ground running, commissioning an N.W.A. reunion that is much more successful than their official comeback on the Next Friday soundtrack (“Chin Check”, for those of you keeping score). A simplistic Dr. Dre. prescription, which bangs, lays the groundwork for Dre, MC Ren, and our host Ice Cube to… complain about the current (as of 2000, anyway) state of hip hop like the elder statesmen they are: they have a specific grievance regarding not being credited for “start[ing] this gangsta shit” (which absolutely isn’t true, but regardless of who you think kicked off the sub-genre, the various members of N.W.A. are cited as influences all. The. Goddamn. Time. Maybe not Yella). As far as old dudes talking shit as though evolution in language and culture hadn’t ever occurred, Ren comes across as alright (his comment about lesbians not exactly homophobic but still iffy nevertheless), while Andre sticks with his “I’m rich, I don’t have to do shit” mentality. Thankfully, O’Shea tears through his verse with a ferocity he hasn’t displayed since Westside Connection’s Bow Down, and I say that even though the phase of his career where he insisted on nicknaming himself the “Don Dada” is still represented on here. So yeah, this was a success overall. Thank God, right? I mean, can you imagine two subpar late-period N.W.A. reunion tracks in a row?

2. PIMP HOMEO (SKIT)

I know Cube’s trying to be funny here, but this was bad. At least it wasn’t homophobic, though, as the title may have implied. Absolutely misogynistic, though.

3. YOU AIN’T GOTTA LIE (TA KICK IT) (FEAT. CHRIS ROCK)

Fairly confusing, as “You Ain’t Gotta Lie (Ta Kick It”) isn’t really the love rap sort-of promised by the preceding skit. O’Shea spits his boasts-n-bullshit, which, interestingly enough, include proclamations of being a great father, while guest Chris Rock threatens to undermine the entire operation with his contributions to the hook. The concept isn’t set up well enough for this three-man production (this was credited to former Bad Boy Hitman Chucky Thompson along with Rich Nice and Loren Hill) to make any fucking sense, as Cube isn’t really hitting on anyone as much as he’s offering up facts about himself as though he recorded his bars while standing behind a podium, while Rock tries to come up with the most ridiculous lies during the hook. Dude is kind of amusing toward the end, but overall this shit was a misfire. It was good while it lasted, though.

4. THE GUTTER SHIT (FEAT. JAYO FELONY, GANGSTA, & SQUEAK RU)

LOL there’s a rapper named Gangsta? Have we officially used up all of the words? Anywhoozle, our host envisioned “The Gutter Shit” as a collaboration with like-minded West Coast artists, but could only convince Jayo Felony and two other no-names to commit, and my Lord does this Cube- and T-Bone-produced aural interpretation of a sad face emoji suuuuuuuuuck. The two artists on here that you’ve never heard of before or since seem excited enough for the opportunity but flounder when called upon, while Jayo is terrible as always. But the true loser here is our host, who somehow found the time to contribute two awful verses that wouldn’t even be stocked in the same type of store as the gutter shit he was once capable of. And what the fuck is with that reference to the previous track?

5. SUPREME HUSTLE

There is no planet within our galaxy where Ice Cube could have honestly believed that “Supreme Hustle” was a song good enough to make War & Peace Vol. 2 (The Peace Disc). My guess is that the production trio from “You Ain’t Gotta Lie (Ta Kick It)” had called in a collective Make-A-Wish, as this elementary excursion into simplistic rap boasting is embarrassing as shit to listen to. At least our host sticks with his theme: each of the three verses places emphasis on “I”, “you”, and “we”, respectively. But there is no hustle to be found on here, and O’Shea’s hand-waving about what he considers to be the cause of domestic violence was puzzling as hell. I cannot stress enough how fucking godawful this shit was.

6. MENTAL WARFARE (SKIT)

…

7. 24 MO’ HOURS

When critics mention older rappers struggling to sound relevant with their newer songs, “24 Mo’ Hours” is what they’re referring to. If War & Peace Vol. 2 (The Peace Disc) were released today, the Battlecat instrumental, which both sucks and doesn’t fit our host’s general aesthetic, which is a strange critique given Battlecat’s history of producing Cali-based bangers, would almost certainly be swapped out for something from the likes of Metro Boomin’ or Zaytoven, and it would still sound terrible. Ugh.

8. UNTIL WE RICH (FEAT. KRAYZIE BONE)

I heard “Until We Rich” on the radio once probably in 2000 or so, and then have apparently never thought of it again until right now, which I believe is an accurate representation of how forgettable this Chucky & the Thompsons production was. Guest star Krayzie Bone, still riding a Bone Thugs-N-Harmony career wave at the time, circles and underlines Slick Rick’s “Hey Young World” with his performance, which is dull, while O’Shea tries his darnedest to give listeners an optimistic, motivational speech, even going so far as to censor his own cursing, so as to reach as wide an audience as possible. Sure, “Until We Rich” fits the ‘peace’ requirement of this project, but at what cost?

9. YOU CAN DO IT (FEAT. MACK 10 & MS. TOI)

You two already know this song, which first appeared on the soundtrack for Next Friday in 1999 but was popular enough to justify Priority Records placing it on as many projects as possible, I suppose. For the handful of readers who somehow missed this footnote in popular culture, “You Can Do It”, a spiritual follow-up to “We Be Clubbin’”, the hit single from our host’s directorial debut The Players Club, finds Cube, Ms. Toi, and his boy Mack 10 putting their asses into a One Eye-produced club effort that is slight on lyrics, but is rather catchy otherwise. It sounds so fucking absurd today that it somehow shifts from “corny” to “entertainingly corny” during Cube’s opening verse and never once budges again. At least our host sounded engaged on here, unlike most everything else on War & Peace Vol. 2 (The Peace Disc) thus far, and having Mack 1-0 perform over a fast-paced beat forces him to match that energy or die trying. Inessential, but it brings the pretty girls at the club out onto the floor, in case that helps you in any way.

10. MACKIN’ & DRIVING (SKIT)

Playing War & Peace Vol. 1 (The War Disc)’s first single, “Pushin’ Weight”, in the background of this interlude only reminded me of rapper Mr. Short Khop, whose career was abruptly halted after Cube stopped giving a shit about his young charge. I mean, why else would he not have been a good enough performer to make it to the second volume? Good call by the way, O’Shea.

11. GOTTA BE INSANITY

Curious, but not entirely out of left field when you remember “You Can Do It” was a hit, so why wouldn’t O’Shea go back to that well? The funky-ish guitar loop on this Mario Winans (!) production reminded me of Jermaine Dupri’s “Going Home With Me”, except I like that song and found this one to be middling at best, as Cube panders to the lowest common denominator while trying to get back inside the club. I can’t be sure who our host thought his audience was when he recorded “Gotta Be Insanity”, but he’s done enough good work and has earned the ability to record and release whatever he wants. Still doesn’t mean we’re all required to listen to any of it, however.

12. ROLL ALL DAY

As we all know and agree with every third Wednesday at our meetings, the best storytelling raps are the ones where you don’t realize the artist is even telling a story until the third verse. That’s what happens on “Roll All Day”, anyway. Over a One Eye beat that doesn’t entirely gel but has its moments, Ice Cube boasts about having purchased a full tank of gas (a fact repeated throughout, with a humorous callback toward the end) and offering to cruise around with a woman he just met in exchange for sexual intercourse. You know, standard-issue rap-type shit, but it begs the question: why is she so interested in the car? Has the woman in question never been inside an automobile before? Cube could have probably rolled up on a pedal bike and worked out a similar proposition just because he’s Ice Cube, but I suppose there’s no vehicle for a story there (pun intended). Regardless, he never gets that far, as by the third verse she’s [SPOILER ALERT FOR A NINETEEN-YEAR-OLD SONG] broken the car’s windows and, later, stolen it outright. His flow is strictly boasts-n-bullshit until the ending, where he reveals some of that sense of humor he tapped into while writing Friday. “Roll All Day” is meh, but the effort was appreciated, at least.

13. CAN YOU BOUNCE?

This was fucking terrible, and that’s without O’Shea making a Pokemon reference, which he absolutely does on here. So that happened. (Also, Younglord apparently produced the beat. Was War & Peace Vol. 2 (The Peace Disc) designed as Ice Cube’s covert demo reel to hopefully snag a label deal with Bad Boy Records? Because the gambit hasn’t paid off yet.)

14. DINNER WITH THE CEO (SKIT)

…

15. RECORD COMPANY PIMPIN’

The flip side of EPMD’s “Please Listen To My Demo”, down to the same Faze-O “Riding High” sample being used, as Ice Cube and producer Bud’da urge the youth not to get involved in the rap game without learning the business side of the industry first. Advice such as this can only come from someone who was famously jerked around by their label in the past, as Cube was during his short stint with Ruthless Records, but while the man clearly knows of what he speaks, that doesn’t mean “Record Company Pimpin’” (a topic many artists have tackled before and since O’Shea put pen to paper) is an entertaining song to actually listen to. Our host should have taken these ideas and given a TED Talk instead. That’s not a joke: imagine how many people he could help in the process. But you can skip this track outright.

16. WAITIN’ TA HATE

So it turns out that War & Peace Vol. 2 (The Peace Disc) is a stealth EPMD tribute album filtered through a Puff Daddy lens. That’s a lie, obviously, but “Waitin’ Ta Hate” is the second song in a row to pay homage to Erick and Parish specifically, although this time around producers One Eye and DJ Joe Rodriguez (that name gets to the point, can’t be mad at that) get lazy by choosing to just sample “So Wat Cha Sayin’” directly. For his part, O’Shea sounds downright angry on here, which informs an entertaining performance that isn’t reminiscent of his finest work, but let’s be real, it’s the best we’ll get at this point. The production doesn’t do much to differentiate itself from the EPMD standard, but maybe, this time around, it isn’t such a bad thing. (Side note to E-Double: you should give Cube a shout for a future collaboration, as the man is clearly a fan.)

17. N—A OF THE CENTURY

Accompanied by someone that could be that Pain In Da Ass dude whose entire shtick was aping flicks such as Scarface and Goodfellas to open up early Roc-A-Fella Records projects but likely isn’t, which means there were two of these guys in our chosen genre at some point, which seems wasteful somehow, our host caps off the evening lobbying for an award that doesn’t exist. Charley Chap’s production is too dull to properly reward Ice Cube as a winner of any competition, and O’Shea’s own bars aren’t worth wasting a paragraph on. At least we’re done here.

FINAL THOUGHTS: War & Peace Vol. 2 (The Peace Disc) approaches self-parody at points, as Ice Cube genuinely seems to not understand just what it was about his work that listeners connected with back in the early 1990s. It certainly wasn’t this shit: nobody ever wanted to hear what it would have sounded like had Cube signed with Bad Boy Records twelve years after his prime. The O’Shea Jackson found on this project is a man who is content with his station in life: the only time he ever really comes across as passionate about anything is when he’s schooling younger artists on the inner workings of the music industry, a topic that obviously resonates with him. Even his generic threats on “Hello”, a song I fucking liked his performance on, sound more like amiable suggestions than anything. When Cube gets in his storytelling bag, he seems to at least be having some fun with this shit (not that it always translates for the listener), but when he’s simply talking shit, the momentum on War & Peace Vol. 2 (The Peace Disc), or whatever little momentum exists, halts immediately. Twenty years removed from his debut solo project, this album proved that Ice Cube was no longer vital to the ongoing health of the local hip hop concern. He has all of his other ventures to fall back on, and of course he’ll always be welcomed at the barbecues, but unless he’s laser-focused on targets (we’ll always have the first Westside Connection effort), he loses the plot very quickly, and one can only coast on charm and the acclaim derived from your prior work for so long.  I won’t go so far as to say that War & Peace Vol. 2 (The Peace Disc) is a “peace” of shit, because that pun is beneath me, but it’s plenty awful.

BUY OR BURN? Neither. If you absolutely must, stream the tracks listed below, but, you know, life is short.

BEST TRACKS: “Hello”; “Waitin’ Ta Hate”

-Max

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