Some scenes from Uncle Eddie's

Update: Maiden New England and The Hellion were excellent. Both had female lead singers who could belt it out, and great musicians backing them up. Much fun was had. A few scenes from the evening. 

We did not plan matching outfits...

The dumpy charm of Uncle Eddie's...

Ready to rock.

Bit of "Wasted Years."

British steel on the docket tomorrow night

Tomorrow night I'll be seeing two tributes to a pair of British heavy metal legends.

Uncle Eddie's Oceanside Tavern is probably not a place you want to bring a first date. Or a female in general. Unless she is OK with spilled beer, loud music, and the occasional bar fight that spills into the streets of Salisbury MA.

Or happens to like British steel. 

I can't wait for this. Maiden and Priest are my two favorite heavy metal bands of all time. And typically these tribute acts go deep on the cuts, deeper than the original bands themselves who have to appease mass audiences, fake fans who only know and demand to hear a handful of hits.

I'm hoping for "Steeler," "Rapid Fire," "Dreamer Deceiver," or "Starbreaker" out of The Hellion. Maybe Maiden New England will dip into the likes of "Prowler," "Burning Ambition" or "Judas Be My Guide." 

Who knows. Regardless, it will be fun, I'm sure. I need a metal fix and I'm about to get it, double-barreled.

Robert E. Howard Changed My Life

A window into the soul.

I'm glad I’m not the only one. 

I knew I wasn’t, of course, but it was nice hearing the voices of so many other passionate souls for whom the Texas writer made an impact, either on their reading habits, their journeys as writers, or in some cases, a decision to press on in dire personal circumstances.

Robert E. Howard Changed My Life (Rogue Blades Foundation, 2021) collects 33 essays, with additional foreword/afterword/and a fun “Appendix REH” for further reading. It has been nominated for The Atlantean (best book about the life and works of Robert E. Howard) by the Robert E. Howard Foundation and is deserving of the honor. I found it to be thoroughly enjoyable.

An essay by Charles Saunders is particularly poignant as it is likely the last published piece he ever wrote, prior to his death in early 2020. Several other “name” writers have contributed pieces, including the likes of Michael Moorcock, Joe Lansdale, Keith Taylor, Steven Erikson, Howard Andrew Jones, and Mark Finn. Some heavy hitters here.

Many of the essays were excellent, but I think the most powerful may have been Scott Oden’s (author of Men of Bronze and Twilight of the Gods). Certainly it was the most personal, along with Bill Cavalier’s, from whose 2018 Howard Days address the project was launched. Oden lays out his early failures as a writer, his bouts with self-doubt, heavy personal blows including an eviction and a divorce, and finally, after decades of struggle, breaking through with the publication of Men of Bronze. Only to have his career halted as he became caretaker with a father with dementia and a mother with Parkinson’s disease. His insights on Caregiver Stress Syndrome offer a glimpse into Howard’s well-documented struggles caring for a terminally ill mother. Years later Oden’s imagination and pen were rekindled after drawing inspiration from the Howard hero Turlogh Dubh, in the story “The Grey God Passes.”

Robert E. Howard certainly changed my life as well. I’ve documented my discovery of Howard here on the blog and in the introduction to Flame and Crimson. I discovered Howard in the pages of The Savage Sword of Conan in the early 80s and that cemented my love of this weirder, wilder, more muscular brand of fantasy fiction that I would later come to know as sword-and-sorcery. That led me to branch out to other like writers such as Fritz Leiber, Michael Moorcock, and Poul Anderson, write more about the subgenre here and in places like The Cimmerian, and finally decided to offer a full treatment in my book. Howard was a blessed refuge for me, who endured the usual maladies of a suburban kid (alienation, self-doubt, rejection, etc.)

It's a marvel, isn’t it? How did a pulp writer from rural Texas working largely in the pages of a defunct pulp magazine nearly a century ago alter the future courses of so many? The answer is the power of stirring writing, and the force of imagination of a writer who, as Patrice Louinet notes in his essay, is a true American original, “the definer of American fantasy.” I have not heard Howard’s case quite made like that, but, if you consider J.R.R. Tolkien the architect of British fantasy, Howard arguably deserves that moniker on this side of the Atlantic.

So too does Edgar Rice Burroughs. It struck me how many of the essay authors came to Burroughs first, pre-Howard, during the Burroughs Boom of the early 60s, before discovering REH in the purple-edged pages of the Lancer paperbacks. One essayist after the next—Cavalier, Jason Durall, Lansdale, Adrian Cole, on and on—all thrilled to the adventures of Burroughs first, Tarzan and John Carter of Mars, before finding REH. I think we need a companion volume on ERB.

In short, this one is worth picking up.

Gordon Lightfoot recap

So the Judas Priest concert was cancelled after 70-year-old Rob Halford came down with a bad cold, but 83-year-old Gordon Lightfoot powered through on Sunday with a memorable concert at the Tupelo Music Hall in Derry, NH.

Yeah, my musical heroes are aging--check that, are aged. Or, more charitably, well-seasoned. Gordon as you'd expect has changed quite a bit vocally, losing his resonance and richness, and doesn't move too fast on stage anymore. Not sure if he ever did. 

But, none of that mattered. With a good band behind him, a great venue, and my old man and brother by my side, it made for a memorable evening. It was quite cool to see this old legend still performing, after all these years.

Gordon played 90 minutes and we were out of there by 8:30--old men all around, early to bed :). But he got through (almost) every one of the classics I was hoping he would. "Sundown," "Early Morning Rain," 
"If You Could Read My Mind," "For Loving Me," "Carefree Highway," "Song for a Winter's Night," and of course the highlight and everyone's favorite, "Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald." The latter was the highlight, and maybe it was my imagination but Gordon seemed to channel some deep wellspring of strength for this one. It was powerful and sounded pretty darned good.

In an era where everything can be immediately captured on video and shared instantly with the world, it's interesting that this song, which became a no. 1 hit in Nov. 1976, almost a year to the day after the maritime disaster itself, outlives the ephemera, and the crisis of the day that really isn't. That's the power of art over instant gratification. We remember the doomed ship when we hear those sad opening bars, even now.

If anyone reading this is a resident of MA/NH or the broader New England region, the Tupelo is a good take. New, clean, small so the views are all great. Excellent bar with a good beer selection (I drank a couple local brews, a nice Battle-Axe IPA brewed by Kelsen). Reportedly good food too, if you want it. They open 90 minutes before showtime so you can get in and enjoy yourself, and have some cool art on the walls, acoustic guitars signed by a few of the greats, etc. 

Nice bar.

(L-R) my brother, old man, and me. The place did fill in to capacity.

Taking a (permanent?) Facebook break

If asked a few weeks or months ago I would probably not describe myself as a heavy social media user. I had Facebook, but not Instagram or TikTok. I have a Twitter account, but one I rarely use save for business-related tweets. But, I had Facebook, and that was enough. It had become my "home page." I followed news organizations by following them on Facebook. Sports, music, etc., were all fed through Facebook.

I got up in the AM and checked it first. Before bed, it was usually my last stop. In between, I would catch myself scrolling...and scrolling... Hours went by, daily, in small-ish chunks. I was not paying attention to the real world. I was perpetually distracted. 

Worse, I was perpetually irritated, occasionally angry. Because I was seeing a darker side of humanity, and occasionally contributing to the same base instincts.

When you join a Facebook group to follow your town news, who speaks the loudest? The crank with an axe to grind.

When you follow the page of your favorite band, whose comments rocket to the top? The troll, who shit-posts, and gets reactions.

Then, sometimes you respond. And get dragged down into the same mire. And for what reason?

I knew this un-virtuous, illiberal circle was not good for me, but I hung on, for months and even years. I was getting SOME value out of Facebook. I followed my favorite breweries on the platform, and saw their latest releases. I got value out of some old sword-and-sorcery groups, paperback collectors groups. The occasional post from a friend or acquaintance that was genuine, and made me smile. The local news, that fed me stories about a bridge being out so that I could plan a new route. 

And so I kept using the platform.

Unfortunately the noise was drowning out the signal. I saw fewer and fewer friends posting. The ones that were, were often complaining, looking for sympathy I could not deliver over a digital platform, or just posting memes and other nonsense. Arguably harmless, but also a very poor use of my time.

On Saturday I deleted my Facebook account outright, no warning, no good-byes. Did not want to chase one last bit of dopamine in some grand declaration to the world. So I just quit.

So far, I remain off. In a pavlovian reaction that speaks volumes I still go to the page regularly, without thinking, where I'm confronted with a login to an account that no longer exists.

I could undo this--Facebook gives you ample time, and warnings, and pleas to return. But, I'm not planning to. At the minimum, it's going to be a long break that I need.

It's going to be much harder for me to aggregate and follow news, particularly hyper-local stuff. But I"m going to give it a shot. My sanity is worth it.

Judas Priest! ... and Gordon Lightfoot?

This Monday, April 4, I get to see the gods of metal, Judas Priest, play at the Tsongas Arena in Lowell.

Then six days later on Sunday, April 10, I go to see ... Gordon Lightfoot.

It may seem like an odd combo, a pairing that seems to attract radically different fanbases. Except that both are badasses in their own respective spheres of music, each with an unconquered spirit that can be described as metal (using that term as an adjective). So, I'm equally pumped for both.

This post was meant for Metal Friday by the way but yesterday got away from me so I'm shoehorning it into that category. 

I was supposed to see Priest back on Oct. 31, 2021--Halloween night which would have added even more of a metal atmosphere to the show. But guitarist Richie Faulkner decided that an on-stage acute aortic aneurysm was too metal to pass up (the guy kept playing right though it by the way, finishing up the guitar solo in Painkiller. Honestly there is nothing, nor could there be anything, more metal than that). Faulkner nearly died after the dreaded widowmaker and only the presence of a first rate heart and lung center four minutes away from the stadium saved his life. Parts of Faulkner's chest were “replaced with mechanical components.” He added: “I’m literally made of metal now.”

Cue "Electric Eye."

So, that resulted in an understandably lengthy  postponement for the Priest.

But here we are, on the eve of seeing a band that is either my favorite metal band of all time or second favorite to the great Iron Maiden, depending on what day of the week you ask me. I'm super pumped, of course.

Now on to Mr. Lightfoot.

It was my dad that introduced me to the Canadian singer-songwriter, decades ago, when he sat me down to listen to "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald." I remember really liking the song, a haunting retelling of a boat that went down in Lake Superior in November 1975, taking all 29 of its crew with it to the bottom. Later I went on to discover the rest of his catalog, including hits like "Sundown," "Carefree Highway," "Song for a Winter's Night" and my personal favorite, "Early Morning Rain."

Now I get to see Lightfoot, age 83, with my dad, age 78. I'm glad both are still here. Lightfoot is still doing it even at that age, which is just remarkable. I'm sure he's lost a fair bit off the fastball but I don't really care. 

The show will be held in an intimate arena, the Tupelo Music Hall in Derry, NH, a venue that hosts acoustic artists and describes itself as a "friendly, relaxed, attractive, and intimate setting." The environment will likely be a lot more chill than Rob Halford storming the stage on a Harley Davidson in a hockey arena full of men in black t-shirts. 

But, equally cool.

Good times indeed.

Skallagrim: In the Vales of Pagarna

Grim, but not Grimdark

I have said I wanted to review more modern sword-and-sorcery written by contemporary authors, and so stepped up to that promise with Skallagrim: In the Vales of Pagarna. The author is Steve Babb, a name that you might recognize as one of the founders of the progressive rock band Glass Hammer. Steve is a sometime passer-through of my blog, someone I’ve mentioned here before. This is his debut fantasy novel, which published this month.

To cut to the chase:

Do read this if you are looking for something different, a book not easily categorized, that wears a handful of prominent influences on its sleeve. Some obvious ones are Michael Moorcock’s Elric, and J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. There are heavy echoes of both in here. I’m pretty sure I picked up on a few prog song references, too (Time Stands Still by Rush, Steve?).

Don’t read this if you are looking for traditional sword-and-sorcery. That this is book 1 should have already tipped things off. I would say it treads closer to mainstream fantasy, albeit with healthy doses of combat and weirdness that push it back toward S&S territory.

The book’s conceit is that the protagonist, a young rogue named Skallagrim, has lost his memory; he does not know who he is, and cannot remember his friends or his own history. He just knows the blue-eyed girl whom he loves has been abducted, and is due to be sacrificed on the altar of a sorcerer. This sets off a rescue mission through the Vales of Pagarna, a dangerous and weird valley. Skallagrim is also the beneficiary of a powerful but cursed sword with the portentous name of Terminus, a final point in time and space. It represents hope, with a bitter edge. Terminus is double-edged in every sense of the word.

The dialogue is pretty darned cracking. Babb has an ear for it, and that makes the book flow well, very easy to read. The quest is compelling and the encounters with the likes of flesh-eating ghouls memorable and fun.

I did have some minor issues with the novel. I’m an S&S guy through and through and prefer books where lots of things happen at a rapid clip. This book tends to take its time, although there is plenty of action, combat, and weirdness. To be fair there is no leisurely build up: Babb drops the reader into a swirling melee on page one.

The other issue is that I’m not entirely sold on the romance, at least through book one. As noted Skallagrim has lost his memories, but that makes his obsession with this girl not immediately apparent. His primary motivation is her rescue, and what is purer? But that doesn’t mean the reader understands why he’s so desperate and driven. I was deeply intrigued by Skallagrim’s encounter with a powerful and long-lived but fun and lusty water nymph, a memorable character who I hope returns for book two. And I suspect we’ll learn more about Skallagrim’s persona and motivations in the sequel.

A few other items I’m still chewing on… near the end of the book an aging sorcerer delivers a powerful soliloquy on aging. Although Skallagrim is young, the author of this book is not, nor is this reader. There is much in here about lost youth, and lost loves, and regret, and seizing the opportunity while you still can. The sorcerer’s words struck home, at least for this reader.

More ruminations… Skallagrim suffers a grim, face-altering wound at the outset of the novel and Babb expends lot of ink on the character’s disfigurement. Skallagrim is afflicted with bouts of self-loathing, guilt, and unworthiness, even contemplations of suicide. Some heavy stuff I was not expecting, and deeper characterization than you typically get in S&S protagonists.

Overall this is a solid first effort by Babb. Skallagrim: In the Vales of Pagarna can be read and enjoyed alone, as it ends with a satisfying final battle. Book 2 will presumably continue with Skallagrim’s pursuit of his lost love.