Silmarillion re-read, link to part 1 and letter to Milton Waldman

White ships from Valinor, Ted Nasmith.

I’m currently re-reading The Silmarillion and you can now find the full post of part 1 of my 2010 “Blogging the Silmarillion” series originally published on The Cimmerian, here.

A few additional thoughts and comments on this most recent go-round.

I don’t know why I previously failed to mention Tolkien’s 1951 letter to Milton Waldman that leads off the volume. It’s like reading the cheat code for Tolkien’s greater legendarium. Interestingly this letter does not appear in the 1977 Houghton Mifflin first edition hardcover, but does appear in the gorgeous, Ted Nasmith illustrated 2004 second edition that I also own. Get this latter edition if you don’t already have it, there are nearly 50 illustrations and many appear in this volume for the first time.

Waldman was Tolkien’s friend and an editor at the publishing house of Collins, and the letter is more or less a lengthy summation of Tolkien’s argument that The Silmarillion and The Lord of the Rings should have been published together, or at least in conjunction, “as one long Saga of the jewels and the rings.” Of course that did not occur as The Silmarillion was published posthumously in 1977.

The letter contains a wonderful summation of what lies at the heart of the legendarium, “Fall, Mortality, and the Machine.” I am perhaps slightly more forgiving than others of Tolkien adaptations, even though I’d be content if we got no more, but I do believe that any faithful Tolkien adaptation must contain these elements. A Fall from God, the creator, Iluvatar; the problem of Mortality (and the problem of the pursuit of deathlessness); and the Machine, or the desire to dominate or coerce other wills and raze and bulldoze the natural world. Either implicit or explicit.

Re-reading The Silmarillion, and reviving my old Cimmerian posts

I've started re-reading The Silmarillion. It's been a few years, and I'm due to revisit the rich and wonderful history of Middle-earth.

I'm enjoying it as much as I did upon my last re-read, which prompted me to revisit my old "Blogging the Silmarillion" series for the Cimmerian website. 

Back when I was writing for The Cimmerian I used to run part of the post here and link to the rest. Unfortunately that has resulted in incomplete posts after that site was radically overhauled. Time to correct that by posting the full text here, which I fortunately retained.

Here's the series introduction, Cimmerian sighting: Blogging The Silmarillion. 

I'll post the others as I work my way through the text, and possibly add a little additional commentary.

Some interpretations of the ambiguous ending of The Green Knight (2021)

If you haven’t seen The Green Knight, and don’t wish to be spoiled, stop here before you enter the Green Chapel and its perils. Thou hast been warned.

The 2021 David Lowery written and directed film The Green Knight is an interesting, inventive take on the old poem “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.” 

It’s beautifully rendered. You can’t take your eyes off it. It also sticks with you, in part due to its ambiguous ending, which is very much open to interpretation.

Here’s a few thoughts I had from a recent re-watch. And yes, I seem gripped again by my annually recurring year-end fascination with King Arthur.

Needless to say spoilers coming. 

***

Brief recap: The plot of The Green Knight (book and film) centers around the arrival of a massive, green-skinned and armored knight in King Arthur’s court on Christmas. He offers up a challenge: Any knight can strike him a blow with sword or axe from which he will not flinch, save that he will return the blow one year hence.

Arthur’s nephew Gawain, the youngest knight in the court, takes up the challenge and strikes a savage cut that sends his head tumbling to the floor. Then, to the horror of all in the hall, the mysterious figure picks up his severed head and turns to leave the stunned court, but not before reminding Gawain he must ride out to his chapel in a year to complete the challenge.

Gawain commits, and embarks on a series of adventures en route. In one of these he is given a green belt/sash that renders him invulnerable to any blow. An obvious, unforeseen advantage in a contest of his sort. But also, unfair and dishonorable.

In the poem, Gawain leaves on the sash, and receives a nick on the neck as a rebuke.

In the film, Gawain removes his sash after an agonized internal struggle, then turns to await the blow. One we’re not sure lands, because the film ends before we see it.

So, does Gawain get his head cut off?

I don’t believe that’s what actually matters. What does is his decision moments prior.

Earlier in the scene Gawain asks an existential question as he stares death in the face: “Is this really all there is?”

This is not (merely) a question concerning the end of his own life, but the possibility of a life without meaning, one ruled by the material laws of nature in which purpose and beauty and meaning are empty and meaningless, and death and decay our only masters. The type of world described by the dragon in John Gardner’s Grendel: “It’s all the same in the end, matter and motion, simple or complex. No difference, finally. Death, transfiguration. Ashes to ashes and slime to slime, amen.”

If he leaves on the sash, he will be invulnerable, but also will have fatally compromised the only virtue that matters in such a word: His integrity. 

Gawain has a flash of what would happen should he leave on the sash: he becomes a king of a fallen kingdom, a dishonorable ruler, haunted by his choice over the long years until the kingdom falls, corrupted.

Ultimately he chooses honor. Does that cost him his life?

The film offers some clues. “Well done my brave knight,” the green knight says, after Gawain removes the sash. And then, the final cryptic line of the film: “Now, Off With Your Head,” which obviously implies he’s a goner. 

After all, a blow is due in return per the sacred rules of the game. Honor demands it.

However, the Green Knight delivers the final line with a good natured, light-hearted spirit, indicating that any blow will be only lightly given, which would make it true to the poem.

As important as this (obviously) is for Gawain and his future, I’m not sure it matters either way. 

Even if Gawain loses his head, the message of the film can be interpreted as profoundly hopeful. 

Let’s start with the idea that the Green Knight represents nature. If so, his acknowledgement of Gawain’s selfless act implies there is honor embedded in nature. It is not an abstract, empty term rendered meaningless by postmodernism, it is as real as the grass under our feet, the rotation of the earth and its seasons. We just have to make the choice.

Though there is a far bleaker interpretation. There may be honor but it ultimately doesn’t matter, nature is going to kill you in the end anyway. It’s all a cosmic joke.

But maybe we should still act honorably anyway, because doing so is its own reward.

Regardless, I believe Gawain's transformation from shiftless coward to noble knight suggests that facing death with dignity is essential to living a meaningful life.

What do you think?

I welcome any thoughts on this.

Where Eagles Dare, Iron Maiden (for Nicko)

Job well done.

This Metal Friday, a toast to the great Nicko McBrain, who last week called it a day after a career that spanned more than 40 years behind the drum kit with Iron Maiden.

When Nicko joined Iron Maiden in 1982 there were skeptics. He was replacing Clive Burr, a terrific player who had been there since Maiden’s debut album, and joining a well-established band that had just put out the wildly popular Number of the Beast.

Nicko had to make an impression. And he did, on the very first song of his first studio album with the band, “Where Eagles Dare.” An awesome, driving tune kicking off side A of Piece of Mind (1983).

It’s telling that the first sounds you hear on this classic album are Nicko’s thunderous drums. He brought a new level of heaviness and intensity to the band, and remained Maiden’s drummer for 42 years, until age and the residual effects of a 2023 stroke forced him to hang up the drumsticks. 

At 72 Nicko has more than earned his retirement.

I’m glad I got to see Maiden and Nicko one last time earlier this year. Our metal heroes are aging, no guarantees of tomorrow.

Of the year in writing, and reading--memoir update and more

I went outside yesterday to take in the trash barrel and pick up the mail (exciting stuff--I’m a rock star, in case you haven’t realized that yet) when I felt a firm bite, piercing my heavy flannel shirt. A deep cold settling into New England. 

The year is winding down, fall rapidly turning to winter, and as I’m wont to do in December I’m turning reflective. 

And so, a reflective post.

I’m planning on one of my usual “annual state of the blog” posts later this month, so I’ll save the Silver Key analysis for later. This is an update on what’s going on outside of the blog, of a reading and writing bent.

Heavy metal memoir

My work in progress has a name but I’m not going to share it—yet. More than a name it’s got 80,000 plus words over 11 chapters, words that are being hammered into readable shape, and setting into something I’m reasonably happy with.

I am confident in saying it will be published next year. If not by a traditional publisher, then by me. 

I’m experiencing the same phenomenon as with Flame and Crimson. The first draft did not come out in a rush (writing is not easy) but it came out, with a beginning, middle, and end, following a detailed outline I put together in the fall of 2022. 

Then I put down the draft, read it … and cringed. Did I forget how to write? Apparently.

On to round two. Ripping out an entire chapter, sections of others. Wholesale rewrites, and additions.

Then round three.

This wave of edits is finally resulting in headway. Despair is turning to hope as I hammer on the raw material and find some gold. Or at least ingots of copper and silver.

This is a far more difficult book to write than Flame and Crimson. That required a great deal of research and academic rigor, far more than the WIP, but the struggle with memoir is telling a compelling story. Not quite what you’d do with a novel, but it relies on some amount of novelistic technique. Scenes, and dialogue, and interior observation. Deciding what is important to the reader vs. what was important to me. It also requires raw honesty of a very personal sort.

To be clear, this is book is most definitely not a history of heavy metal. Those are legion, written by authors far more knowledgeable about and closer to that wild and interesting subject than I. This is my story, of the prime years of my life from teenager-dom to adulthood, written in the context and against the backdrop of heavy metal. It has metal history and observations in it, but filtered through my unique experiences, which form the basis of the work. 

Will anyone find this interesting? Will anyone read it? I don’t know. I do know I had no choice but to write it. 

I believe it is worth committing to paper, if only for my own sake. I believe anyone who has lived a full life has a memoir inside to share. The process of writing it has been cathartic. It involves joy, and pain, revisiting old memories and opening some old wounds. 

It’s intensely personal, loud and dumb. It’s also a blueprint for how I improved my life and how a reader might theoretically improve his or her own. 

I am riven with self-doubt about its viability as art or commerce but that’s par for the course. 

I hope anyone who follows this blog and has enjoyed my ramblings over the years might consider picking it up. I don’t believe you have to be a metal fan to appreciate its message.

Flame and Crimson

Flame and Crimson had a solid 4-5 year run with a lot of chatter, reviews, and even an award from the Robert E. Howard Foundation. It finally seems to be receding into the past, which is fine. Most who know S&S have encountered it in some way, shape, or form.

I remain immensely proud of the book. And I continue to get praise, which never fails to move me.

For the curious Flame and Crimson has a joint 274 reviews across Goodreads and Amazon, averaging 4.6 stars on the latter and 4.2 on the former. Most readers seem to have enjoyed it, both as a scholarly work that added some critical rigor to the subgenre, and as a compelling read. That was the goal.

I believe at some point I will do an expanded second edition. But no immediate plans on that front.

Reading

I’ve read 40 books to date. Not bad, but again will fall short of my annual goal of 52 books (one/week). Which I almost never meet. Life gets in the way, as I’m mostly glad is the case. I live a pretty good, full life.

After The Fall of Arthur I’m feeling like it’s time for another delve into Tolkien—The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion, maybe some volumes of HOME or some of the criticism. I’ve read enough to know that Tolkien will never be surpassed by any other fantasy author, living or dead. So I keep returning to him. Arthur has whetted my appetite.

Here's what I’ve read to date.

1. The Saga of Swain the Viking: Volume 1: Swain’s Vengeance, Arthur D. Howden Smith (finished 1/7)

2. Excalibur, Bernard Cornwell (finished 1/15)

3. Conan the Barbarian: The Official Story of the Film, John Walsh (finished 1/18)

4. Death Dealer 3: Tooth and Claw, James Silke (finished 1/23)

5. Misfit, Gary Gulman (finished 1/29)

6. Shimmering Images: A Handy Little Guide to Writing Memoir, Lisa Dale Norton (finished 1/31)

7. The Shadow of Vengeance, Scott Oden (finished 2/2)

8. From the Heart of Darkness, David Drake (finished 2/11)

9. Art of Memoir, Mary Karr (finished 2/25)

10. Surprised by Joy, C.S. Lewis (finished 3/3)

11. The Long Game, Dorie Clark (finished 3/9)

12. Bulfinch’s Mythology, Thomas Bulfinch (finished 3/24)

13. Game Wizards: The Epic Battle for Dungeons and Dragons, Jon Peterson (finished 4/2)

14. Silk Road Centurion, Scott Forbes Crawford (finished 4/28)

15. Twisted Business, Jay Jay French (finished 5/8)

16. In a Lonely Place, Karl Edward Wagner (finished 5/14)

17. Eaters of the Dead, Michael Crichton (finished 5/30)

18. The Vikings, The Seafarers series, Time Life Books (finished 6/8)

19. Tain, Gregory Frost (finished 6/19)

20. Into the Void, Geezer Butler (finished 6/30)

21. The Craft of Revision, Donald M. Murray (finished 7/2)

22. Tehanu, Ursula LeGuin (finished 7/9)

23. Treasure Island, Robert Louis Stevenson (finished 7/13)

24. Beowulf and Other Old English Poems, translated by Constance B. Hieatt (finished 7/19)

25. Deliverance, James Dickey (finished 7/28)

26. A Grief Observed, C.S. Lewis (finished 8/5)

27. Hither Came Conan, Rogue Blades Foundation (finished 8/18)

28. Somewhere in Germany, Mark LaPointe (finished 8/20)

29. Weird Tales of Modernity, Jason Ray Carney (finished 9/2)

30. Neither Beg Nor Yield, Jason Waltz editor (finished 9/16)

31. Fire-Hunter, Jim Kjelgaard (finished 9/22)

32. Bloodcurdling Tales of Horror and the Macabre, HP Lovecraft (finished 10/7)

33. My Effing Life, Geddy Lee (finished 10/9)

34. The Shining, Stephen King (finished 10/22)

35. The 6% Club, Michelle Rozen (finished 11/4)

36. Mustaine: A Heavy Metal Memoir, Dave Mustaine (finished 11/5)

37. Freedom, Sebastian Junger (finished 11/9)

38. Immaculate Scoundrels, John Fultz (finished 11/20)

39. The Last Celt, Glenn Lord (finished 11/26)

40. The Fall of Arthur, JRR Tolkien (finished 12/2)

Season of the Witch, Grave Digger

Grave Digger... a legendary band with whom I was only lightly acquainted until I saw them open for Blind Guardian circa 2017. I very much enjoyed what I saw, prompting me to explore a bit more of their back catalog. Including this week's selection for Metal Friday.

No frills on "Season of the Witch." Atmospheric opening, a nicely building song with a great guitar tone, heavy, with a wonderful little chorus supported by excellent backing vocals. Given the subject matter of the song I suppose I should have slotted this into October.

Observation: These German power metal bands (Edguy, I'm looking at you) have slightly off-beat lyrics, occasionally non-sequitur, betraying English as a second language. Its slightly word salad and generic fantasy, but nevertheless carried along by the wonderful instrumentation and a powerful vocal performance. Enjoy.

Sons of Albion awake: Of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Fall of Arthur and Iron Maiden

You'll probably want to read this.

The King Arthur myth is ubiquitous and timeless because it is powerful and its themes universal. The Arthurian myths speak to us subconsciously, on deeper levels than we can readily articulate. 

We feel their powerful call, and many have sought to capture their magic in diverse adaptations. These include authors separated by long gulfs of time—Malory and T.H. White, for example—and artists working in very different mediums. 

J.R.R. Tolkien and Iron Maiden. 

I just got finished reading Tolkien’s The Fall of Arthur. It’s a curious little volume, 233 pages, of which the actual centerpiece poem is incomplete and only comprises 40 pages. The rest is critical apparatus by Tolkien’s son Christopher.

But what a poem it is.

40 pages of 14th century alliterative verse rendered into modern English metre, telling the story of Arthur’s journey into far heathen lands before he is summoned back to Britain to quell an uprising by the traitor Mordred. Of Guinevere’s flight from Camelot and a great sea battle.

This is no tale of formal courtly love or restrained codes of chivalry, but resembles something out the pages of The Iliad, the Goddess singing of the rage of Achilles:

Thus the tides of time     to turn backward

and the heathen to humble,    his hope urged him,

that with harrying ships     they should hunt no more

on the shining shores      and shallow waters

of South Britain, booty seeking.

As when the earth dwindles    in autumn days

and soon to its setting    the sun is waning

under mournful mist,    then a man will lust

for work and wandering,    while yet warm floweth

blood sun-kindled,     so burned his soul

after long glory     for a last assay

of pride and prowess,     to the proof setting

will unyielding    in war with fate.

There is no magic, no romance, just vengeance, hard combat, lust, and doom.

… then a man will lust for work and wandering… so burned his soul after long glory. Not exactly Bilbo comfortably enjoying cakes and tobacco at Bag End. Yet Tolkien wrote The Fall of Arthur contemporaneous with his much more famous work.

Tolkien began the poem in the early 1930s and there is evidence to suggest he may have continued working on it as late as 1937, when The Hobbit was published. He spent a lot of time getting the words right, and his effort was not wasted—its words ring with power. Christopher says his father drafted some 120 pages before settling on the final text presented in the book. “The amount of time and thought that my father expended on this work is astounding,” he says. 

Given the effort expended it remains a mystery why Tolkien abandoned the poem, though Christopher offers up a possible explanation: He was turning his whole thought to Middle-Earth. 

After the publication of The Lord of the Rings Tolkien expressed a desire to return to the poem, but the effort failed. It’s a shame the poem remained unfinished but Tolkien’s unbounded genius outstripped his available hours. 

But the extant work is remarkable, and as Christopher demonstrates in the additional material served as likely inspiration for the great Middle-Earth legendarium, including the voyage of Earendil and the fall of Numenor.

Arthurian Eddie.

What makes these stories so potent? For that answer I need to turn to Iron Maiden and Bruce Dickinson.

Arthur was taken to Avalon to be healed after his great wound suffered at the hands of Mordred at Camlann. The story from there varies; in some versions he does not make the voyage but dies and is interred in an abbey graveyard at Glastonbury. But in others he seems to reach the fabled isle, where one day he will return, healed, to unite a divided land.

Maiden refers to the legendary properties of the isle in “Isle of Avalon” off of 2010’s The Final Frontier.

The gateway to Avalon

The island where the souls

Of dead are reborn

Brought here to die and be

Transferred into the earth

And then for rebirth

This same Isle of Avalon prefigures Tolkien’s Tol Eressea, the Lonely Isle, accessible only by a Straight Path out of the Round World denied to mortals, that led on to Valinor.

Arthur, gravely wounded, bides in Avalon/Tol Eressea. His return is promised in the old rituals and the enigmatic enduring standing stones of Britain, as depicted in “Return of the King,” a track appearing on the expanded edition of Bruce Dickinson’s 1998 solo album The Chemical Wedding.

What is the meaning of these stones?

why do they stand alone?

I know the king will come again

From the shadow to the sun

Burning hillsides with the beltane fires

I know the king will come again

When all that glitters turn to rust

The song is a powerful cry for Arthur’s return, one that I feel.

We’re all engaged in the eternal struggle. As human beings we're possessed of individual desires and wants and enjoy our freedoms, but must balance that as members of a civilization that provides purpose and joint safety--and in exchange saddles us with restrictions and obligations. The Arthurian myths speak directly to this great tension. 

Arthur is a man with earthly desires, including his great love for Guinevere, but must subsume them to greater obligations owed to his kingdom. Launcelot is a heroic figure whose martial prowess and love for Guinevere can be viewed as the Chivalric ideal, but his base desires and human weaknesses undo a kingdom.

All the same struggles play out today. There is no clean resolution, just a balance that must be struck with compromise.

I think we’ve have tipped too much into individualism. We create and curate our own virtual realities in our smartphones. We distrust institutions. Civic engagement has sharply declined. Some of this institutional skepticism is warranted. But if everyone reverts to selfish individual interests the center cannot hold, and civilization falls apart.

We need the return of a king to unite this fragmented land. 

In “The Darkest Hour” Bruce/Winston Churchill exhorts the besieged people of England to turn their ploughshares into swords and take up arms against tyranny (“You Sons of Albion awake, defend this sacred land”). Perhaps we one day we may unite under a common cause, the idea of Arthur, and create a new shining kingdom from the wasteland, a “Jerusalem” on earth:

I will not cease from mental fight,

nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,

till we have built Jerusalem

In England's green and pleasant Land.

Immaculate Scoundrels by John Fultz, a review

An immaculate cover.

When it appears in sword-and-sorcery anthologies, John Fultz is a name that I look forward to reading.

Why?

His “Chivane” (Worlds Beyond Worlds), “Evil World” (Neither Beg Nor Yield), and “The Blood of Old Shard” (A Book of Blades) are terrific, ranking among the best of modern sword-and-sorcery that I’ve read (and I haven’t read it all, I can’t keep up). I recommend any modern S&S reader seek out Worlds Beyond Worlds, which collects 11 of his fantasy tales published during 2010 to 2020. Almost all of the stories in it are good.

But despite his reputation for short fiction, John recently started a series, Scaleborn, of which Immaculate Scoundrels (2024) is the first.

It is well done fantasy, blending epic fantasy with sword-and-sorcery. It boasts a nice cast of characters and a lot of action. The prose is clean and unadorned, modern, and dialogue-heavy. It reminded me more of Joe Abercrombie than the stylized Jack Vance shaded with ornate Clark Ashton Smith flourishes that I was used from his prior works.

I think the style of Immaculate Scoundrels probably works best for longer, multi-series works. Or perhaps Fultz, who once described his literary influences as Lord Dunsany, Howard, Lovecraft, Smith, Tolkien, Tanith Lee, Darrell Schweitzer, and others, has finally found his voice. 

Regardless, he’s a good writer. He really understands pacing and story, too.

Speaking of Abercrombie, the main character of the work, Thold, reminds me a little bit perhaps of Logen Ninefingers. Very deadly and with a reputation that proceeds him. He’s a well-drawn character, as is the sorceress Yuhai, the two of whom get most of the ink here.

“Scoundrels” describes the cast of characters that populate the book, many of which have baggage, flaws, or ulterior motives at odds with the cohesion of the group. Nevertheless as their paths cross they stick together through to the end, drawn by necessity or perhaps a higher fate.

There is a distinct Asian flavor to the world of the Scaleborn. Yhorom is not your traditional Medieval European fantasy 101. Fultz does a nice job creating a world that feels both dirty and visceral and familiar, but also alien. War is its unending drumbeat.

It’s also got great fight scenes and inventive magic. A fun and atmospheric tomb raid, and a desperate final battle with a high body count, higher than I was anticipating for a series. I won’t spoil any of that here but you’ll be surprised, methinks. Plus cannibal tribes and weird monsters. And of course we are introduced to the race of Scaleborn, which are mostly human in appearance but with patches of scaly skin. They are a marginalized, dwindled race, and often brutalized by human captors. But we get just a little bit of that here with much left to the imagination, presumably to later entries.

Despite being a multi-character series, Immaculate Scoundrels feels much more S&S than high fantasy. As noted, the scoundrels are mostly rogues who enjoy the sordid side of tavern life, and a few have made a living as hired thieves or assassins. Outsiders and rogues, making a hard living. This isn’t A Wizard of Earthsea or The Belgariad, though there are definite higher powers (or at least greater forces) at work.

All that said, this one did not land quite as squarely for me as the best of his shorter S&S pieces. I suspect this is largely due to preference; I am that rare bird that prefers short stories and standalone novels. I find most multi-series fantasy to be padded out unnecessarily. Immaculate Scoundrels feels a little more expansive than I typically prefer. There are several threads that Fultz leaves open-ended, a budding romance unconsummated, all of which my impatient self would prefer to get now, in one book.

I can and do recommend it, however. Immaculate Scoundrels is a fun, strong, good read, a promising start of a new series that fans of independent authors and sword-and-sorcery should support.

TL;DR, read some Fultz, people.

Start the Fire, Metal Church

Metal Friday returns with simple, hard-driving metal. Metal Church and "Start the Fire," off The Dark (1986).

Nothing subtle about this one, just a great example of classic mid-late 80s metal. The main riff kicks ass, decent guitar solo, and the late David Wayne puts on a terrific vocal performance.

Nothing else needs to be said. 

Have a kick-ass weekend, in The Dark.

A review of Iron Maiden, Nov. 9 2024, Prudential Center, Newark New Jersey

Me, Scott, and $22 beer.

Last week I was hanging out with some younger colleagues at a work retreat, and a few expressed amazement to learn that I had tickets to see Iron Maiden Saturday night.

“Iron Maiden? Aren’t those guys like, a hundred years old?”

“In their 60s and still rocking. Selling out arenas, in fact.”

Incredulous faces. But I get it. 

They don’t know what I know. What all metal fans know.

Iron Maiden is not just one of the biggest metal acts on the planet, they’re one of the biggest bands on the planet, full stop.

Banged out show.

Age does not seem to be a barrier for Maiden. Someday father time will catch up to them, as it does for all of us. Time it waits for no man.

But not this night.

Long review short: Maiden was awesome. They never disappoint. They did not fail to meet even my higher than usual hopes for this concert. My favorite Maiden album is Somewhere in Time, and The Future Past World Tour features a heavy rotation of songs from both that album and their latest studio release, Senjutsu. 

Past and future.

That’s what we got, a lot of past and future hits. From the once and future king(s).

Bruce leaned heavily into the time travel theme. He put on a battery powered leather jacket from deep in the Maiden archives, one he last wore circa 1986. This was part of a fun monologue which led appropriately enough into “The Time Machine.”

After the opening Vangelis theme from “Blade Runner” (a favorite film of mine which inspired the iconic and dystopian Somewhere in Time album art), Maiden hit the Stage like a tornado to “Caught Somewhere in Time.” 

Then it was on to my favorite song off the album, “Stranger in a Strange Land.”

These days I’ve taken to leaving my cell phone in my pocket. Like many others for a time I’d record chunks of concerts, but I found myself never going back and listening to the clips, which inevitably disappointed me. Today I prefer to live in the moment. Besides, someone always winds uploading a superior recording on YouTube.

But I had to capture Adrian Smith’s “Stranger in a Strange Land” solo, perhaps my favorite in their catalog. Here it is. 

As with all cell phone recordings this does not do it justice. It’s a pale replica but nevertheless I offer it here for the curious.

The rest of the set list is below.

Maiden famously never played “Alexander the Great” live, until this tour. So I can now check that off the bucket list. It was great, one of the highlights of the show. Cyborg Eddie made I believe three appearances on stage, including once for a laser cannon duel with Bruce. Bruce by the way was in a cracking good mood, which is not always a guarantee. His banter was fun and positive, and he left with the comment that they’d 100% be back next year (European tour dates already announced) because us fans “were the only friends they’ve got.”

Was I surprised with anything on the setlist? Not really, except that perhaps they did not play their usual closer “Hallowed be thy Name.” No songs from Powerslave, one from Seventh Son, and one from Piece of Mind was perhaps a bit of a surprise, but I’ve heard heavy doses of these albums on prior tours.

I was quite satisfied.

One good, unexpected surprise: “Hell on Earth” in the encore. It’s a terrific song and worked very well live. 

I could see “Wasted Years” coming from a mile away. It’s the most recognizable song on Somewhere in Time if not their entire catalog. But a satisfying conclusion.

I drank a giant $22 IPA (a price that included tip, but so laughably overpriced that I had no choice but to buy it) and had a blast crowd watching. Again, the place was sold out, which is fucking remarkable, so I enjoyed many memorable sights and fan nonsense.

The only lousy part was my cranky right knee which flared up in agony halfway through the set. I was unable to extend it due to the tight seating, requiring me to leave my seat and walk it off on the concourse. I returned to my seat, but the bright pain resumed with three songs to go. Likely arthritis. 

It sucks getting old, and time is not on my side, but hey, it might mean I’ll have my own cyborg components soon. 

Caught Somewhere in Time

Stranger in a Strange Land

The Writing on the Wall

Days of Future Past

The Time Machine

The Prisoner

Death of the Celts

Can I Play With Madness

Heaven Can Wait

Alexander the Great

Fear of the Dark

Iron Maiden

Encore:

Hell on Earth

The Trooper

Wasted Years

* Addendum 

I realized I forgot to mention The Hu! Maiden's opening act was a Mongolian folk metal band. Loved their incredibly unique sound, a mixture of powerful orchestra and something like Rammstein. Worth getting there early to see.

Rest in peace, Paul Di'Anno

He's running free...

Punk music bloomed in the mid 1970s and by the end of the decade had permeated the popular culture. Just as Iron Maiden was forming and ready to burst onto the scene as the premier act in the New Wave of British Heavy Metal.

Maiden’s first two albums are a compelling fusion of punk and heavy metal, blending everything that made that moment in time unique.  And that made Paul Di’Anno just what Maiden needed as a lead vocalist.

Di’Anno had an unpolished, angry, raspy style, perfect for songs like “Prowler,” “Running Free,” “Wrathchild,” and “Killers.” He brought a menace to the stage and looked like he might kick your ass after completing the set. 

But that’s probably underselling Di’Anno, who also could straight out sing in an emotive, soulful way, as evidenced with songs like “Remember Tomorrow” and “Strange World.”

I am someone who firmly believes Bruce Dickinson greatly elevated Iron Maiden. Founder and bassist Steve Harris wanted someone with greater vocal range, stage presence and professionalism, and found him in Dickinson. Maiden would not have achieved the heights it reached had Bruce not joined the band.

But that does not diminish Di’Anno’s contributions in the slightest. They are immeasurable. And those first two albums are still damned good. Today they sound as fresh and unique as ever, and still make it into my rotation. 

RIP Paul, and thanks for the music. 

Stephen King's The Shining, book and film

I’m a big fan of The Shining, book and film. Both work really well, for slightly different reasons.

My grandfather owned this edition.

I encountered the book first, discovering it along with many other horror and men’s adventure titles through my grandfather. He used to keep a few shelves of well-worn paperbacks behind his easy chair and down in his basement, and when my parents would visit or drop us off for a night of babysitting I’d inevitably find something good to read.

Among the titles that stand out from this time are Whitley Striber’s The Wolfen and Stephen King’s The Shining.

I “read” both as a kid, skimming here and there for the good parts. Both scared the shit out me. My grandfather’s edition of The Shining had the added bonus of stills from the movie, so I had a visual representation of Jack Torrance, Wendy and Danny.

Eventually I would view the film, which also scared the shit out of me as a kid and later bring me great artistic pleasure as an adult. But the film has been so successful and vivid in the public imagination that it has in many ways surpassed the book and become the definitive version of the story. So, I decided to revisit the novel, deep as I am in the Halloween season and struck as usual by the need to indulge my horror sensibilities.

There are many similarities between film and book. The deep isolation of The Overlook, its history. Danny’s ability to “shine,” his precognition as well as knowledge of things that have passed. Jack’s instability. The major plot points and beats of the book are there in the film, too. The endings differ greatly, though people make a little too much of this. Both Danny and Wendy escape, and Jack does not, even if the “how” is quite different.

The book however departs from the film in other interesting and important ways, perhaps principally in that it’s a character study of Jack Torrance. He’s not the sole POV character (Wendy and Danny, and minor characters including Dick Halloran get their turns, too), but it’s mostly Jack’s story. A man battling his demons—career frustration, artistic failures, domestic chafing including resentment for his wife--all fueled by the demon of alcohol. Danny’s “shining” gets a much deeper, fuller treatment in the book. He can detect not only moods but whole thoughts in the heads of others. The motivation for the Overlook wanting him is therefore much stronger in book than film.

I’ve mentioned before that films and books have their unique strengths. 

The film does some things better than the book. Stanley Kubrick’s long, panoramic shots of the approach of the Torrance family in their VW bug, and the hotel interior, empty hallways and ballrooms and kitchens, lend the film a sense of physical isolation that the book cannot quite match. The iconic shots of the murdered twin girls and the tsunami of blood from the elevator are so strikingly rendered in film that they surpass the book, too.

But the book gets us inside Jack’s head in a way no film can. I found myself understanding and even sympathizing with book Jack on a much deeper level than Jack Nicholson’s portrayal. I love Nicholson in the film (his work approaching Wendy on the staircase--“Wendy, gimme the bat”) and later crashing through the bathroom door with an axe (“here’s Johnny!”) are fantastic, but he’s pretty much unhinged from the get-go, a veneer of normalcy papered over an unstable lunatic that needs very little psychic urging from the hotel to erupt. In the book we get much more of the why behind Jack’s vulnerabilities, including his childhood traumas with an abusive father, creative frustrations, self-loathing and guilt, and his deep struggles with alcohol.

In short, I love both versions, but the book serves as another example of why I appreciate both mediums and don’t privilege one above the other.

More (mediocre) content is not better than no content: A rant

Once in a while you’ve got to let off some steam (Bennett). For most, that means punching a heavy bag, screaming into a pillow, maybe going crazy and tearing the tag off a mattress.

For me, it’s … angry blogging! Friday rant incoming.

What’s gotten under my skin?

The incessant need for “more content.”

I’m hearing this in the cries of Rings of Power defenders, many of whom admit that while the show is mediocre at best, and plays fast and loose with Tolkien lore in nonsensical ways, they nevertheless continue to watch. Because “its more Tolkien content, and I need more Middle-Earth. I need more content.” 

Actual quotes.

This chaps my ass.

No one needs “more content.” Not of this sort.

To me it sounds like infantile and babylike cries of, “more food, mama!”

How about, more art, please.

Stop consuming cheap and disposable shit, and begging for more. Find the good stuff that already exists, and enjoy that instead. 

There’s more content right now than anyone can consume in a lifetime.

If everyone stopped producing content tomorrow—if somehow we implemented a worldwide ban, and you could only consume content that’s already been made—you’d have enough for 50 lifetimes.

You’ve got way more than enough. I’m not advocating this, BTW, just making a point.

I hate the need for more, at any cost. I also strongly dislike the word “content” when it comes to media. “Content” is the stuff we expel from our bowels. Probably not what we should be feeding our minds with.

We do need good art. But corporations don’t make art. Corporations make content, on an industrial scale, for undifferentiated masses, in order to make loads of cash. As we see with Star Wars and now (unfortunately) The Lord of the Rings “franchises.” Corporations buy franchises and expect massive ROI on their investments. In Amazon’s case, it’s all about getting more Amazon Prime subscribers, converting to product consumers. The Lord of the Rings becomes a means to an end, a power grab, which is the opposite message of the book.

When you consume poorly made “content” produced by corporations it encourages more of the same behavior. Instead:

Support independent artists and small businesses producing new material. Discuss thoughtful and well-made art. Appreciate it. Encourage creation of more of that sort of art. Or, explore the good, old, time-tested stuff. 

If you adopt these practices worry not, you still have near infinite options.

More “content” comes with a cost.

It devalues the historical wealth of riches we already have. I have a bias here; I’m a historian. I do wonder: Who talks about Fritz Leiber anymore? Clark Ashton Smith, Leigh Brackett, Poul Anderson? Very few, in comparison to the new and shiny content of the moment. Hell even Ursula LeGuin, once a household name, is starting to slip into the past. 

I worry these men and women will be lost to time under an avalanche of new “content.”

“More content” chokes out the magic of what makes old properties special in the first place. The avaricious need for more content causes every timeline, every side character, every magic item or scroll, every byway, to be fully filled in. Until the magic is gone. 

We no longer need to wonder how the force operates. We no longer need to speculate about the Blue Wizards and what they were doing.

They’ve all been spelled out, like an adult paint by numbers, in the pursuit of feeding the content machine.

We need dark places in the woods, unexplored realms beneath the seas. 

And we need white space on the page. 

Obviously, I enjoy modern adaptations. Obviously, I consume some of them. Perhaps that makes me a hypocrite. But I’m definitely more judicious these days with what I watch and read, because I know that you are what you eat. And I’m not a big fan of eating shit.

I’m not advocating closing off possibilities. What I do advocate is, mindful consumption. Read or watch deeply instead of broadly. Then share that out. Celebrate the good. And stop giving your time and attention to the mediocre. 

The haunting season is here, in Lovecraft Country

Heading to a trail behind my home, in Essex County.

"It is the night-black Massachusetts legendary which packs the really macabre 'kick'. Here is material for a really profound study in group neuroticism; for certainly, none can deny the existence of a profoundly morbid streak in the Puritan imagination."

--HP Lovecraft 

October is here and I couldn’t be happier. I love this time of year.

I live in Lovecraft Country. I’m surrounded by horrors.

To the west, Arkham University. To the east, Innsmouth and Kingsport. 

The South, Salem, which needs no fictional fears. Along with Danvers State Mental Hospital. Or at least the façade, now that the main body has been turned into haunted condominiums.

For good measure, to the North is New Hampshire, home to America’s Stonehenge. Northwest is Vermont, setting of ‘The Whisperer in Darkness.”

I’ve been reading some Lovecraft to get in the mood for the season, Bloodcurdling Tales of Horror and the Macabre. The 1982 Del Rey edition with the wraparound Michael Whelan cover that serves as the main canvass for the subsequent line of paperbacks.

I have read most of Lovecraft’s stuff, but it’s been a few years. So it always leaves me very pleased to see the plethora of local towns called out in the stories.

Newburyport, which I visit quite frequently. Rowley. Ipswich. Marblehead. Athol. Portland. We still have a handful of old Puritan homes with small dark windows and the long sloping roofs that nearly touch the ground, the haunted architecture that served as inspiration for stories like “The Picture in the House.”

I’m minutes away from some of these locations. In about 10 minutes I can be in Newburyport, home to several scenes in “The Shadow Over Innsmouth.” My wife and I love to eat there and stroll along the wharf.  In “Shadow” a decrepit bus takes passengers on a little-used route to Innsmouth, home of a strange, mutated race of fish-men and the Order of Dagon Hall.

Which makes it not impossible for a Deep One to have wandered over and taken up residence in this still pond just a short walk behind my house. Where I took these photos, today, while getting outside for fresh air.

These photos are a minor piece of Lovecraft Country.

Nothing too extraordinary, but in a few weeks they’ll look a whole lot more suitable as the orange and red leaves begin to pop. And perhaps a few Mi-Go. What’s that sound? Perhaps the Music of Erich Zann…

Home to a Deep One?

Don't cross that gate...

Alone on the path?

Neither Beg Nor Yield, a review

This book can have none more attitude.

Neither Beg Nor Yield is an ass-kicking sword-and-sorcery anthology that you should read.

This thing is a beast, an obvious labor of love. 456 pages. 20 stories. Illustrated throughout. An incredible lineup of authors. How the hell did editor Jason Waltz manage to land this group, a who’s-who of fantasy writers? Each story gets an outro penned by Waltz, a smattering of biographical info coupled with his insights on what makes each story fit the prescribed “sword-and-sorcery attitude” that unites each of the stories.

This book has attitude.

Did we mention attitude?

Waltz plants an Iwo Jima-esque flag for what sword-and-sorcery means to him. It can be summed up in one word. Attitude, with a capital A. Always. Stories of vital, never-say-die protagonists, shouting “enough talk!” before contemptuously hurling a dagger into their garrulous foe (this actually happens in one story). Think of Conan cutting down a magistrate and hacking his way free of a corrupt courtroom, or running down a cruel Frost Giants’ Daughter in the snowy wastes. “An indomitable will with the passion to live,” Waltz proclaims, in his introduction to the volume “It’s Not Gentle.” 

This attitude accurately describes a large swath of S&S, and undoubtedly draws many fans under its bloody banner. Including me.

It’s an interesting and compelling way to look at the subgenre, even if it does circumscribe S&S a bit more narrowly than I’d prefer. I suspect it might leave out the Clark Ashton Smith weird/antiheroic strain of Satampra Zeiros that I enjoy, for example. I’m not sure if it permits a story like “The Best Two Thieves in Lankhmar,” or most of the Elric stories. I fear something like HP Lovecraft’s fuck around-and-find-out, dreamy and atmospheric “The Doom That Came to Sarnath” would not make the cut. 

Even Conan realizes the pen is often mightier than the sword, and diplomacy is needed.

On the other hand Waltz’ theory allows for a story like “Suspension in Silver,” a story set in the present in which werewolves attack a tattoo parlor that most probably would not consider S&S. So in another sense, it’s permissive.

Sword-and-sorcery can mean different things to different people, and readers gravitate toward it for many reasons. Though it is admittedly a relatively narrow subgenre dominated by men and women of action, there are different strains within it, not all flush with attitude.

We can decide what sort of S&S we prefer. And that flexibility allows an editor to curate a vision for what type of stories he or she wants to publish.

Waltz plants a firm fucking standard in the ground with NBNY. A giant middle finger at the sky, drenched in blood. I commend him for this.

Are the stories any good?

Of the 20 tales, I liked at least 13 of them. S&S anthologies are never perfect and I consider this a very good hit-miss ratio.

My absolute favorites included:

• Soldier, Seeker, Slayer, John C. Hocking. A powerful story with an end that hits like a ton of bricks. A mercenary who has lost his memory has it all come crashing back.

• The Stone from the Stars, Chuck Dixon. This was well-told, amusing, and entertaining start to finish. Reminded me of a Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser story with a little more gross-out action.

• Evil World, John Fultz. Fultz is one of the best S&S writers working today and delivers the goods every time I read him. This story taps into the mythic, with battles against external evil and weakness within.

• Reckoning, Keith Taylor. Taylor is an excellent author, full stop, one of the best of the S&S “silver age” or whatever you want to call it, late 60s to early 80s. The author of Bard takes us back to his sweet spot, Dark Ages Ireland for a tale of Nasach. The combat is 10/10. Great little tale.

• Bona Na Croin, Jeff Stewart. I don’t believe I’ve read anything by Stewart before but I loved this gritty story from an unknown to me author. Very Taylor-esque with its ancient Celtic setting, good use of grit and historical realism that makes its irruption of weird magic powerful and horrifying.

• Virgins for Khuul, Steve Goble. Another new name I was pleased to be acquainted with. This was like a much better told Death Dealer story, over the top but in a fun way. Includes a massive snake and a protagonist with the moniker “Slaughter Lord” … but it all works.

• The Last Vandals on Earth, Steven Erikson. Erikson is a great author even if I have no intention of wading through his Malazan series. Powerful and well-written with an emotional charge, dying letters written in blood never fail to move me.

• Maiden Flight, Adrian Cole. Very apropos ending for the book. Concerns a Valkyrie and a warrior not ready to depart for the halls of Valhalla. The Northern thing never fails to land with me and this one stuck the landing.

Five other stories were good, entertaining if not as unqualified good as the ones above. Seven failed to land with me, likely a matter of taste and style. The only disappointment I want to mention is the Joe Lansdale story. I am a HUGE Lansdale fan and was greatly anticipating this one, but I bounced off its gonzo style and (very) strange subject matter. It reminded me of his The Drive-In, which I also did not particularly enjoy. I love Lansdale’s Hap and Leonard stories, and several of his standalone novels including The Bottoms. He writes humor better than any author I’ve read, save Douglas Adams. He can do pathos and action with equal facility. I’m firmly in Joe’s fan club and he can take the critique. Other reviewers seem to like “The Organ Grinder’s Monkey” so make of this what you will.

TL;DR, get this book and read it. You will be entertained, and your testosterone levels will increase. It’s pretty metal.

Rock on.

Weird Tales of Modernity: Elevating the artistry of the Weird Tales Three

Pulp and other forms of genre fiction have become not just an accepted form of entertainment, but an acknowledged outlet for meaningful artistic expression. But this is a relatively recent phenomenon. For more than a century literary critics shunned pulp, categorizing it as cheap entertainment for coarse consumers, junk food devoid of value. Some actively discouraged its consumption.

Today literary elites no longer dictate broad cultural tastes—or if any do, they certainly wield less power and influence than the likes of Harold Bloom, Edmund Wilson and William Dean Howells once did. At least from my limited perspective.

But one result of this century of neglect is comparatively few literary studies. Only recently have we seen a steady uptick with the likes of Jonas Prida’s Conan Meets the Academy (2012), Justin Everett and Jeffrey Shanks’ The Unique Legacy of Weird Tales (2015), Mark Fisher’s The Weird and the Eerie (2017), Bobby Derie’s Weird Talers: Essays on Robert E. Howard and Others (2019), John Haefele’s Lovecraft: The Great Tales (2021), and Stephen Jones’ The Weird Tales Boys (2023). We have plenty of catching up to do, which makes Jason Ray Carney’s Weird Tales of Modernity (McFarland, 2019) a welcome volume. It’s a work that certainly deserves more attention. I recommend it strongly, with a few caveats.

The first caveat is price. McFarland describes itself as a leading independent publisher of academic and general-interest nonfiction books, but academic publishers typically charge more due to their small print runs, and McFarland, though cheaper than some academic presses, is still pricey. This book runs nearly $40 new at just under 200 pages.

The second is accessibility. Weird Tales of Modernity is a challenging read. It took me a while to get into the flow due to the denseness of Carney’s language and use of academic jargon. I have a degree in English and have read (and even appreciate) academic writing, but it’s been a while since I tackled such material and needed to shake off a little rust to get back into that headspace. It probably also assumes a little too much familiarity with literary modernism.

But once I acclimated to the language I both enjoyed Weird Tales of Modernity as an entertaining read, and for the compelling case it makes for the literary merits of H.P. Lovecraft, Clark Ashton Smith, and Robert E. Howard. Carney’s central thesis is that the “Weird Tales Three” were not just producing entertainment, but contributing meaningfully as original artists writing in reaction to literary modernism.

This would be a good time to explain that particular term. 

Literary modernism was an experimental mode of fiction in vogue from roughly the late 1800s to the early 1940s, peaking in the interwar period (1920-39)—roughly concurrent to the literary output of Howard, Lovecraft, and Smith. It was a time marked by profound disillusionment in institutions and doubt that universal truth and human progress were possible. Rapid changes in technology and industrialization coupled with the carnage of World War I made old certainties a shifting sand.

Amid these rapid changes artists such as T.S. Eliot, James Joyce, William Faulker, and Virginia Wolfe adapted modes of literary expression to match, abandoning old traditions and pioneering new prose and poetry techniques--slice of life, introspection, emphasis on realism, abandonment of meter and rhyme in poetry. As the old sureties in life were slipping away, they sought to achieve immortality through “art in amber,” even if just in limited, fragmentary glimpses. A chief example is Joyce’s Ulysses (1922), a dense and sprawling work which depicted the events of 24 hours in the life of Leopold Bloom.

Carney argues that Smith, Lovecraft, and Howard were aware of this movement, but instead of engaging in it produced stories of shadow modernism, “strange art, artists, and experience of art created in reaction to modernity.”  Howard’s decaying cities and corrupt civilizations and Lovecraft’s Great Old Ones and uncaring, indifferent cosmicism were symbolic representations of the terrible ephemerality that lurked behind the seeming consistency of our day-to-day lives—the inevitable march of time and the subsequent corruption and decay of all human endeavor. The Weird Tales Three saw through this veil and understood the ephemerality of life—the “ephemerality of the ordinary” as Carney repeats in an oft-used phrase.  “Irrespective of tribe, race, clique, or coterie, we are all ephemeral forms trembling in strange stasis destined for formlessness.” 

Capturing the ephemerality of human endeavor required more than the language of literary modernism could provide. It required fantastic and extraordinary literary techniques married to the techniques of the Gothic novel—hallmarks of the Weird Tales Three. Writes Carney, “After many creative iterations honed over several stories—e.g., Pickman’s demented art, Malygris’s sorcery, the fell mirrors of Tuzun Thune—this shadow modernism becomes an inhuman form of technology that, functioning like a cognitive prosthesis in the virtual world of fiction, thereby reveals the secret truth of history: history is a cruelly accelerating process of deformation. The ordinary is ephemeral. History is the interplay of form and formlessness with formlessness terminally ascendant.”

Carney does an impressive job supporting his thesis with multiple references from the literature, both from mainstream modernist writers and from Howard, Lovecraft, and Smith. I found his arguments original and convincing, offering new insights and perspectives I hadn’t previously considered. If you take these writers seriously it’s a book you ought to seek out.

In addition to his scholarship Carney has done much of note for sword-and-sorcery and the broader field of pulp fiction. His efforts building the online Whetstone discord community (which recently shut down after a notable run of some five years), initiating the Trigon awards and associated conference, organizing academic panels at Howard Days, and of course establishing the Whetstone Amateur Magazine of Pulp Sword-and-Sorcery, served an important function for many. We’re all on the same path of dissolution and formlessness, which makes any efforts to make sense of the art we enjoy while offering warmth and community for other like-minded souls deeply appreciated and sorely needed. Weird Tales of Modernity and Carney’s broader oeuvre serve as a bulwark against the ephemerality of the ordinary.

This review also appeared on the blog of the Rogues in the House podcast.

Prayers for Howard Andrew Jones, ardent sword-and-sorcery champion

When I heard the news that Howard Andrew Jones was diagnosed with inoperable and fatal brain cancer, it staggered me. I’m still reeling. 

The great HAJ, author of Lord of a Shattered Land

Although we’d never met in person, Howard is much more than just an author whose works I admire. He’s a person I admire.

Relentlessly optimistic.

Passionate and informed.

Encouraging and welcoming.

And after all that, he’s also a darned good writer responsible for some books I enjoyed, and recommend you seek out.

I got to know Howard a bit through an online Discord community, Whetstone, which has recently shuttered. We also served together on a Rogues in the House podcast and a video panel, The Best of Sword-and-Sorcery.

But despite meeting him in online venues only, I feel like I knew him. 

I’ve heard it said that if an author writes in enough volume, and truly, that he will inevitably end up on the page. I’m not sure if I fully believe this, but I do believe it in the case of Howard. 

He was Hanuvar. Relentless in his work, honorable, hopeful that one day he might succeed in his mission.

He was also The Skull, mascot of Tales from the Magician’s Skull, the sword-and-sorcery magazine he edited for Goodman Games. Relentless in his love of sword-and-sorcery, and threatening immolation for anyone who profaned the sacred genre. He reduced many interns to ash, all in good humor of course.

He was a tireless champion of Harold Lamb, whose stories he assembled in an eight-volume “Harold Lamb Library” series for Bison Books. Howard constantly shoehorned Lamb into every conversation about early pulp adventure writers, which was endearing but also opened many eyes (including my own) to Lamb’s underappreciated influence and greatness. Instead of “GOAT-ing” Harold as all-time Lamb champion, we’ll bison him, I guess.

I’m hoping against hope that somehow we might get more stories from his pen. I hate talking about him in past tense, because he's still very much alive. But the news does not sound good.

Cancer steals people in their prime, with no warning. Cancer stole someone near to me, now it threatens Howard’s life. It is an absolute scourge and I hope one day I might live to see it eradicated, or driven back to the pits of hell from whence it came, like Conan did to Thog in Xuthal of the Dust.

Life can be absolute shit. 

This heavy news is yet another reminder to live every moment like it matters. Because they all do, and we never know when it may all be taken away.

Prayers for Howard and his family.

Resurrection, Rob Halford

Let's set the scene for this Metal Friday.

In the late 90s heavy metal was in shambles. A Mad Max wasteland, fans squabbling over the little juice that remained like savage, scavenging bikers. The mutated blight of grunge and nu metal (Jesus I hate even typing nu metal) had dropped a steaming deuce on anything resembling taste, talent, or actual heavy metal. It was a dried out, sad, creatively bankrupt, pathetic wasteland of terrible music, suffused in the outflow of the great septic tank of post hair-metal apocalypse. 

God I hated this period.

And please don't try to change my mind. It sucked, hard. I saw it all, first hand, at multiple Ozzfests and a lot of shitty listening sessions in college surrounded by assholes in flannel. Yes, I gave it the old 'college try,' for FOUR YEARS, and can confirm it sucked, Pearl Jam and all.

I saw Limp Bizkit come out of a toilet, literally, at Ozzfest. They should have stayed there. I'd gladly hit flush, as the world cheered. 

Spare me your nostalgia and stories; this was fucking dark times for heavy metal.*

And then came 2000.

Iron Maiden came roaring back with Brave New World, and Rob Halford came out of a post Judas Priest funk with Resurrection. And suddenly the world tilted back on its correct axis, and all was right again. 

Heavy metal was back.

"Resurrection" was Halford telling the world, "Fight and 2wo were interesting ... okay not 2wo. But I needed these albums at this point in my life. I've gotten them out of my system. Now? Fuck that noise. I'm back, with legit music." 

This was a repudiation of the 1990s. Don't believe me? Here's the lyrics:

I'm digging deep inside my soul

To bring myself out of this god-damned hole

I rid the demons from my heart

And found the truth was with me from the start

Holy angel lift me from this burning hell

Resurrection make me whole

This song is awesome. It resurrected heavy metal.

Listen and enjoy. And remember how fragile it all is, boys.

* I don't hate you, I just think you have terrible taste in music.

Of artistry, addiction, and self-discovery: Forthcoming memoir of fantasy artist Tom Barber

Tom Barber at the canvas.

The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. 

--Kurt Vonnegut

Tom Barber was working in a commercial art studio in the mid 70s when he walked into a local bookstore while on lunch break. He found a book of illustrations by N.C. Wyeth, picked it up, leafed through it. 

Returning to work, he marched in to his boss’ office and gave his two-week notice.

“I didn’t know what I wanted to do, but after looking at those paintings I knew it was something along those lines,” he said.

That “something” was a lifelong commitment to the creative muse over the commercial. Wherever that path would take him. 

Tom assembled a portfolio for Houghton Mifflin, a Boston publisher specializing in children’s books. And was promptly humbled. “I got my first interview with a real art director,” he said. “He looked through my work and told me I ought to find another line of work.”

Stung but undeterred, Tom took his ideas in a new direction. An architect friend reviewed his work and saw something the art director didn’t. He asked Tom if he’d ever been to a sci-fi convention. Tom hadn’t. So he painted several pieces and attended his first convention, art in tow.

And promptly sold every painting he had.

Tom's first cover.

Buoyed by his success, Tom set his eyes on New York. “I started pounding the pavement, trying to get a cover on a magazine called Creepy,” he recalled. After a few failures, his first agent encouraged him to try sci-fi. Tom painted a beautiful spaceship against an alien backdrop. That turned out to be his first cover, for the March 1976 Amazing Science Fiction, featuring a story by George R.R. Martin (aside: 43 years later Tom received an email from a scientist informing him that the March ’76 cover got him interested in aerodynamics and wind tunnel testing, and eventually to studying failure modes in US spacecraft). That same year Tom attended the New England Science Fiction Convention, met his second agent, and started selling regularly to New York publishers, including Zebra Books, an imprint of Kensington Books. 

Zebra published Tom’s work in a torrent, for the likes of the covers of Black Vulmea’s Vengeance (Robert E. Howard), Lud of London (Talbot Mundy), Andrew Offutt’s The Sign of the Moonbow, Adrian Cole’s The Dream Lords: A Plague of Nightmares, Lin Carter’s paperback revival of Weird Tales, Robert Bloch’s Mysteries of the Worm, and others. 

One of my favorites.

The rest is history. “I found my niche,” he said.

That history will soon be revealed in full. Tom recently finished a memoir of his creative life, and is currently exploring publishing options.

He’s also still painting, though as much or more of the natural world than S&S and SF. In addition to Frazetta and N.C. Wyeth he’s also a devotee of Claude Monet, and you can see clear inspiration of the French impressionist in his expansive skies and galaxies.

But Tom still takes regular detours into the weird and macabre. His new memoir will feature more than 60 pieces of art. Some are scenes from his life, but others are conceptual, and dark, reflecting his own dark struggles with alcohol addiction. So you’ll experience not just his story, but a large slice of his visual imagination.

Tom discovered his love of speculative fiction from the short-lived TV show Flash Gordon (1954-55), which he watched as boy of eight. Later he discovered Conan and Frank Frazetta. “That took me off into the land of make believe. Or maybe I already had it in me and that woke it up,” he said.

Zebra kept Tom busy...

His imagination never stopped working. In fact, he spends a good deal of his time wandering the halls of his mind. As a regular at the Vet Center in White River Junction, VT, attending readjustment counseling, he recalls standing with a bunch other Vets in the kitchen one day. “As I was standing there, one of the psychologists came out and said to the group, ‘you know, just because you see Tom standing here in person, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s actually here.’ I just spent a lot of my time in other worlds, my head in the clouds, my heart in the stars.” 

Tom dwells in other worlds because he’s found this one rather chaotic. He served as a Vietnam-era army medic from 1968-71, providing bedside care for some grievously wounded soldiers returning from the jungle. The experience never left him. 

In the early 80s Tom moved to Arizona, leaving behind the east coast and his promising art career. He attempted to keep working but his addiction got the better of him, and for a while he stopped painting altogether. Drinking not only derailed his career but nearly ended his life. He was fortunate to have friends who realized he needed help.

The memoir begins with him finishing off his last beer in a smoky little barroom full of drunk Indians up in Flagstaff, Arizona. This was followed by a 28-day, in-patient rehab program at the VA in Prescott. 

“I knew if I didn’t stop drinking, I’d be dead. All the details are in the memoir.”

Tom reads books about Zen Buddhism and has tried meditation with limited success. Painting remains his principal form of meditation, his studio a place where the chaos stills. 

After a series of sessions at the VA his counselor recommended Tom put his life to paper. Writing his memoir proved therapeutic.

“She said, ‘Tom, you’ve had an interesting life. Why don’t you write?’ So I went home and starting writing. It took hold, and turned out to be a real eye-opener,” he said. “I was learning about myself, stuff I didn’t realize.”

The book is written for entertainment but also to let others suffering with addiction know that there is a way out. Tom doesn’t care who knows about his struggles. He hopes his story might help them in some way.

“One thing I don’t like about Alcoholics Anonymous is the word ‘anonymous.’ You’re not supposed to tell people,” he said. “Well, I always tell people because you don’t know who you’re standing next to. They could be ready to go home and shoot themselves.”

Attack at Dawn

At age 78 Tom is a survivor, and likewise his best work stands the test of time. Most of his classic work is in the hands of private collectors.  In the noted collection, The Frank Collection: A Showcase of the World's Finest Fantastic Art (Paper Tiger, London, 1999), the following short writeup accompanies his work, “Attack at Dawn”:

Watching over these sculptures, peering warily above the tops of their shields, is Tom Barber’s small army of armored warriors in Attack at Dawn, a personal work he created circa 1980. This is the first piece we purchased from him. We were immediately drawn to the image, always wondering, who and what army might those soldiers be confronting that morning? We lost track of Tom in the early 80s, when he moved out west to paint western scenes. And no one that we know in the fantasy art world has ever run into him again. That’s a shame because Barber was a great talent and if he had stayed in the field he would today be known to fans around the world.

And then one day, there he was. Sober.

“Attack at Dawn” now resides in the private collection of George R.R. Martin.

Tom's latest S&S foray.

Jane recently asked him to create a new piece of commissioned art. Tom responded with a foray back into sword-and-sorcery, a muscled warrior battling a fearsome giant scorpion. 

Today he continues to get occasional jobs, including some covers and private commissions.  And he continues to live by the motto: 

Art that isn’t shared with the world is only half finished.