Can you separate the art from the artist?

The Graveyard Book and American Gods are good books. Both before Neil Gaiman became embroiled in the current controversy … and after. 

That doesn’t mean I have to like Neil Gaiman the person to enjoy his books (and if the current allegations are accurate, he’s a pretty slimy dude). But I can still read and enjoy The Sandman.

Because art is separate from the artist. Anyone who claims they had an inkling of Gaiman’s alleged behavior from reading Coraline is full of shit. 

There is no need to learn all about your favorite artists. It used to be you knew almost nothing of SF/F authors, save in the occasional printed interview in Analog or the like.

Let’s step away from Gaiman for a moment, who for obvious reasons is a bit of a lightning rod.

Closer to home for me are writers like Robert E. Howard and H.P. Lovecraft. Both writers of a long-ago age, some of their stories literally published 100 years ago. 

Both with well-documented racist beliefs….beliefs which were incredibly common in their day and age. And which aren’t even immediately noticeable in huge swathes of their fiction, regardless.

Both are being read today, and will continue to be read, long after all their critics are dead and forgotten. 

You should be reading these guys if you’re a fan of speculative fiction.

You should be reading these guys if you’re a writer of speculative fiction.

You should be reading these guys if you’re a historian of speculative fiction.

If you don’t, you’re missing out on formative writers that will make you a better writer. And great stories that will give you experiences you can’t get anywhere else. And important literary history that will leave blind spots in your understanding of how fantasy fiction came to be today.

Are there some truly abhorrent writers that make this decision murky? Of course. Marion Zimmer Bradley and David Eddings come to mind. I understand why some want to disown these authors and never read them again.

But even these guys can still be read. I won’t stand up for MZB or Eddings like I do Howard and Lovecraft, both because of personal tastes and because I don’t think they’re nearly as good or important. I am not convinced either will be read 100 years from now. In fact, they probably won’t.

But both can still be read. Because we can separate art from artist.

I realize this question is subjective. Every individual’s threshold for offense is entirely unique. Each reader brings his or her own unique experiences to the table. Some readers are afflicted by past traumas they cannot overcome. Some readers are better than others at compartmentalizing.

But that makes the objective statement, “art cannot be separated from artist,” false. 

Yes, every artist brings something of his or herself to their writing, but the alchemy of creativity defies analysis. An artist does not pour everything of themselves into every story, they choose what goes in. Or they themselves compartmentalize, pour their self-loathing into evil characters committing bad deeds, in acts of self-introspection.

There are many beloved writers, living and dead, with skeletons in their closet—skeletons we don’t know about, skeletons which will never see the light of day. Because the artist is long dead, or no record of their behavior exists.

Every human being on the planet has skeletons. We just don’t know about many of them. Nor do we have to.

If you happen to be one of those rare birds who watches 30 minutes of local news, reads Neil Gaiman, and stays off the internet—you’d never know about the unfolding scandal. It would not diminish your enjoyment of his books. You don’t know who the artist is beyond what is on the page, and you don’t to have to, to enjoy and appreciate his or her work.

Can you separate art from artist? Ultimately it’s an individual choice.

But if you’re asking me? Of course you can. 

And you should.

You already have.

Hither Came Conan; A Review

Also a winner of The Valusian Award from
the Robert E. Howard Foundation.

Robert E. Howard Days was wonderful for many reasons, but among them was the opportunity to talk Robert E. Howard, anywhere, anytime, with anyone. Standing in line waiting for barbecue at the pavilion, on a schoolbus tour led by Rusty Burke, or wandering around downtown Cross Plains, everyone was there to talk REH and ready to engage in banter about their favorite tale or their own Howard origin story.

It was like being in a warm blanket of Howard-heads.

Then it was over, and I was thrust back into the hard cold world of the ordinary.

The good news is if you own Hither Came Conan you don’t have to wait a year for a similar experience. Imagine a bunch of folks gathered around a proverbial campfire with an assignment: "Why is this Conan story Howard’s best? You’ve got 10 minutes. Go.” That is the premise of this volume, published in 2023 by the nonprofit publishing house Rogue Blades Foundation.

Hither Came Conan serves as a fine companion to the Conan stories. I can imagine this book serving as an ongoing reference, pulling it off the shelf and seeing what Deuce Richardson or Gabe Dybing has to say when you’ve finished re-reading “Black Colossus” or “The People of the Black Circle” for the eighth time.

This exercise admittedly gets a bit absurd when you are assigned something like “Vale of Lost Women” or the unfinished “Wolves Beyond the Border.” Everything Howard wrote has some minor touch of genius, some cool scene or vivid snatch of poetic prose, but no one can seriously defend the likes of “Vale” as REH’s finest hour. But I give the respective essayists credit for the attempt.

The list is authors assembled for this project is impressive. Wide ranging, from top scholars to fiction authors and ardent fans. People like Patrice Louinet, who stands in the black circle of top Howard scholars (his Hyborian Genesis essays in the Del Reys are a must), Jeff Shanks, David C. Smith, Bobby Derie, Mark Finn, Morgan Holmes, Richardson, many others.  But the true spine of the book is “Re-Reading” Conan by Bill Ward and Howard Andrew Jones, a written dialogue which appears with every story including the “Wolves on the Border” fragment and “The Hyborian Age.”

Truth be told I was preoccupied and not paying attention in 2015 when the great Black Gate Conan re-read was going on, and so I missed this series when it first appeared. It is reprinted here in Hither Came Conan and so was new to me. This remains the best part of the book. Ward and Jones engage in a back-and-forth discussion that almost feels like spoken word. Both are of course incredibly complementary to REH and offer shrewd insights into what makes each tale great, or at least solid pulp fare, while largely managing to avoid engaging in hagiography. Neither are afraid to critique REH and talk about which stories or parts of his stories fell flat or conform to predictable pulp formula. I’m still puzzled by Howard (Andrew Jones’) ongoing rejection of “Beyond the Black River” but hey, that’s why you read a book like this. If it was all unadorned praise it would invite no engagement and discussion and get real boring, real fast.

Some of the essays are very good, others are uneven or somewhat uninspired. My own is in here (“Honor Among Thieves: Hyborian Age Morality,” an “Extra, Extra!” essay analyzing “Rogues in the House,”) which in hindsight is OK. I’m my own worst critic. If you’ve read it let me know what you think.

I gleaned a few new insights reading the essays, for example the considerable effort REH placed into “Man-Eaters of Zamboula” after reading John Bullard’s appraisal of Howard’s careful revisions over three drafts. But what is best about this book is the sense of shared admiration for this character, and the varied voices of the wonderful community of fans that have sprung up around him. In that vein I also appreciated the work of editors Jason Waltz and Bob Byrne for also including the voices of the readers of Weird Tales. It gives us a sense of communion with the past, and the knowledge that fans leaving comments on the Black Gate website aren’t so different than fans writing to The Eyrie letters column circa 1932-37. 

Indeed any evaluation of Robert E. Howard and Conan involves a communion with a time and place nearly 100 years ago. But one that thankfully shows no signs of slipping into the past, thanks to new volumes like this.

The Battle of Evermore and the timeless nature of fantasy

(early metal-ish Friday)

That it is told in the language of fantasy is not an accident, or because Tolkien was an escapist, or because he was writing for children. It is a fantasy because fantasy is the natural, the appropriate language for the recounting of the spiritual journey and the struggle of good and evil in the soul.

--Ursula LeGuin, “On Fantasy and Science Fiction”

The critics who have dismissed fantasy as juvenile escapism have failed to recognize that fantasy grapples with real and eternally pressing issues, albeit wrapped in metaphor and fantastic trappings.

The same critics who worship at the altar of realism and extol the virtues of novels about average people in familiar times cannot admit their darlings have rapidly aged and are fast losing their relevance. While the classics of fantasy remain as fresh today as the day they were written.

That’s because the language of fantasy is unbound by time, or place. It deals with the big issues—conflict within and without, love, sorrow, friendship, the inevitable march of time, pain, decay and death—in poetic abstraction, and in heroic meter and timbre. Modern novels that reference an author’s time and place will confuse the modern reader with surroundings that grow increasingly abstract and impenetrable with the passing years, while the Hyborian Age or Middle-Earth remain eternally familiar and inhabitable even as their authors slip further into the past. They are distanced from the ordinary, but close to the human heart.

The Battle of Evermore will still be played 100 years from now, though perhaps never as well as this version by Heart. Because we all grasp its emotional depths, and understand the meaning of the plaintive cries.

The apples turn to brown and black

The tyrant's face is red

Oh war is common cry

Pick up your swords and fly

We’re always trying to bring the balance back. It’s the eternal struggle never won, but once in a while we experience the blessed peace of equilibrium.

The Battle of Evermore will still be played 100 years from now, and remain as unspoiled as Lothlorien, because it is the timeless matter of fantasy.

A review of Metallica, August 2nd 2024, Gillette Stadium

Nosebleed seats but what a view!

Metallica isn’t the best heavy metal band on the planet (that would be Iron Maiden or Judas Priest, take your pick) but they’re undoubtedly the biggest. A loyal following of metal diehards coupled with massive crossover appeal to a broader audience of casual hard rock fans and event seekers makes their shows a true event. 

But even I didn’t think Metallica was capable of selling out two nights at Gillette Stadium. They proved me wrong.

Here we are 40 years later with the band in their early 60s, bigger than ever and still sounding fantastic.

I greatly enjoyed the Friday night August 2nd show and left happy and impressed. I didn’t necessarily think that would be the case going in.

I spent some years pissed at Metallica after they abandoned the angry thrash of their first four albums, all genuine metal classics. I no longer harbor any resentment about their drift into mainstream hard rock, or even their St. Anger nu metal flirtation. As I told my buddy Scott I don’t believe Metallica deliberately sold out on the black album; I think they were just evolving in a direction I didn’t particularly care for.

But there is no doubting the showmanship and passion that marks the second half of their career. And they still play the hell out of the old hits. Metallica opened with three deep cuts and ended with two more. And they played “Orion,” which genuinely surprised me and was a personal highlight. Here’s the setlist:

• Creeping Death

• Harvester of Sorrow

• Leper Messiah

• King Nothing

• 72 Seasons

• If Darkness Had a Son

• Foxboro on the Run (Kirk and Rob doodle)

• The Day That Never Comes

• Shadows Follow

• Orion

• Nothing Else Matters

• Sad But True

• Hardwired

• Fuel

• Seek & Destroy

• Master of Puppets

Yeah, Sunday had a better setlist overall, but fans at that show had to put up with driving rain and lightning delays and lousy opening acts. We got Pantera. I’m happy with our show.

I’ve seen Metallica on a couple occasions but this was the first in a long while, and if I’m correct the first with Robert Trujillo. Who I was surprised to hear has been with the band longer than any other bass player. Jason Newstead had a run of 15 years, Trujillo has been with Metallica since 2003. His audition is famously covered in the recommended show and tell-all documentary “Some Kind of Monster.” He’s a talented player with incredible energy.

The band sounded tight, Hetfield’s vocals were on point, and I enjoyed Kirk’s soloing on a number of custom guitars (including his famous purple and gold-lettered Ouija board painted job). “Creeping Death” right out of the gate set the tone for a high-energy show. The concert did seem to sag a bit in the middle, from “72 Seasons” through “Shadows Follow,” but that might have been because I didn’t know the material. Most of the fans were into it. But again “Orion” floored me and “Fuel” was explosive. “Master of Puppets” was a fantastic closer. The sound system and the tower screens (see accompanying pic) surrounding the stage were impressive. Metallica must have hung around for at least 10 minutes after the show thanking the fans and horsing around on stage, a nice touch.

Tailgating is a major part of the concert experience for me and we didn’t slack off that aspect. The three of us set up folding camp chairs in a Dunkin Donuts parking lot, drank lite beer and shot the shit about old times as customers purchased ice coffee and crullers at the drive-thru window.

Orion, Metallica

My metal summer continues, and so Metal Friday continues, with Metallica. 

"Orion" oozes nostalgia and loss, which I'm possibly projecting knowing that its architect Cliff Burton died just six months after its release. It feels like a dirge--and it very much is. The song was played over speakers during Burton's funeral, and James Hetfield had notes from the song's bridge tattooed on his left arm. 

Incredible. 

38 years after its release "Orion" remains a beautiful piece of work, haunting and atmospheric and utterly unique. The break at the four minute mark, broken when Cliff comes back in alone with his bass, is perhaps the high water mark on a magnificent album.

I can't even tell you how many times I listened to "Orion" in high school, driving around aimlessly with Master of Puppets in my car stereo. I relish those days.

I'm hoping I might hear it when I see Metallica next Friday at Gillette Stadium. Highly unlikely as Metallica almost never plays it live, likely out of respect for their late bassist. We'll see.

Treasure Island and the powerful call to adventure

It’s been a busy last month or so. Mostly in a good way, with some PTO combined with some busy times at work. But that means my writing has suffered and the blog collecting a bit more dust than usual.

Reading has been OK. I did manage to finish Ursula LeGuin’s Tehanu and Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island while on vacation last week, and have since moved on to Beowulf and Other Old English Poems.

Treasure Island was a treat. I hadn’t read this since I was a kid and it holds up extremely well, both from the perspective of an adult reading a book ostensibly for young men (it was first published in serialized fashion for Young Folks, a children’s magazine), but also a work written in 1881. It’s bloody, but relatively bloodless, the violence ample though at a slight remove. The action however never stops, and the atmosphere and plotting are things of beauty. Pure, mainlined adventure from page one.

Treasure Island was published as a standalone novel in 1883, a time when literary realism and literary modernism were in the ascendancy, and so was a bit of an anachronism, a throwback to the historical romances of the likes of Sir Walter Scott. But it nevertheless proved immediately popular with the reading public and even many critics of the age.

I read a 1930 edition (Windsor Press) with a fascinating introduction by Harry Hansen, “How Robert Louis Stevenson Wrote Treasure Island.”  In addition to an interesting story behind the physical writing, publishing history and critical reception, I learned of another chapter waged in the well-grooved war of realistic vs. fantastic fiction. Henry James, perhaps the greatest practitioner of slice-of-life/realistic fiction, enjoyed the book himself—but nevertheless critiqued it during a symposium on the art of fiction in 1884. James was “unable to come to grips with the author because it did not touch his own experience,” Hansen writes. James further stated, “I have been a child, but I have never been on a quest for buried treasure.”

Word reached Stevenson. Though he never claimed Treasure Island was more than an adventurous narrative, Stevenson felt the need to defend his work and expound on the artists’ urge to create fantastic stories full of vicarious experience removed from our own. “The creative artist takes certain characters, incidents, motives out of the vast store of living and arranges them to suit his mind,” he wrote, adding that a creative author “both selects from life and expands the slightest incidents, possibly even more successfully when they relate not to what he has actually done but what he has wished to do.”

Stevenson adds a final beautiful rejoinder to James, quoted verbatim by Hansen:

If he has never been on a quest for buried treasure, it can be demonstrated that he has never been a child. There never was a child (unless Master James) has but hunted gold, and been a pirate, and a military commander, and a bandit of the mountains; but has fought, and suffered shipwreck and prison, and imbrued its little hands in gore, and gallantly retrieved the lost battle and triumphantly protected innocence and beauty.

The only thing missing was the N.C. Wyeth illustrations I remember so vividly from my childhood in whatever edition I first enjoyed, decades ago. This edition had fine black and white illustrations by Lyle Justis, but Wyeth of course is a master.

While I remain on a bit of a reading break from sword-and-sorcery Treasure Island is definitely part of its DNA.

***

Tehanu was a lovely read, LeGuin at the height of her literary powers, and I will probably have more to say about it later. Not as soaring or epic as the original Earthsea trilogy but a stirring coda. And quite a distinct experience from Treasure Island, reserved and reflective. It was sitting on my shelf for years and I finally plucked it off and read it, and am glad I did.

The analog kid—some reflections on music and technology and Into the Void

Spiraling into a (digital) void...

I recently finished Geezer Butler’s biography Into the Void. A fun and interesting read for many reasons. It’s mainly as you’d expect a detailed look into Geezer’s time with Black Sabbath, in which he served as bass player and principal lyrics writer. Geezer experienced a wild rock and roll lifestyle, including a roller coaster ride to the top in the early to mid-70s and subsequent plunge to the bottom in the late 80s and early 90s. But along the way Into the Void offers some interesting commentary and a glimpse into how radically the music industry has transformed from 1969-today. Largely due to the rapid adoption of new technology and the corresponding shift from analog to digital.

I am of Generation X (born 1973) and have the benefit of living in two worlds. I grew up in an analog era of tapes and stereos, but also had a front seat to the rise of computers and digital music, and later Napster and YouTube and Spotify. I rode that lightning. 

With that perspective I’ve come around to the belief that technological adoption results in both progress and regress. It is not a universal good, each step an advance toward some Star Trek utopia espoused by deluded techno-utopians like David Brin. Nor is it an evil, each advance in technology removing us further from some mythical Garden of Eden and closer to a digital Hell. 

It is just Change, for better and for worse.

Music used to be harder to access. You had to plunk down hard-earned coin to buy it. There were fewer options, no carefully curated song lists built around your mood or vacation destination. Unless you wanted to go through the considerable trouble of making a mix tape.

But analog music was (and remains, with the right equipment) of a better sound quality than compressed digital, richer and more resonant. And friendlier to the collector. With your analog purchase comes physical art, albums with foldouts and liner notes and the like.

Many things got better for music with the advent of digital. With Spotify Premium ($10.99/ month, soon to be $11.99) I have access to essentially every piece of music ever recorded. I can go to YouTube and watch any music video I formerly had to pray Headbanger’s Ball might play. I can watch hundreds and thousands of concerts I’ve never been to, and documentaries and fan videos, when before the only options were to buy a VHS copy of Live After Death or take a gamble on a bootleg.

Tapes were never a great way to preserve music, and records and CDs can warp or scratch. Digital is “forever” (as long as you pay the monthly fee).

In short, digital was great for me, the fan and consumer, in many ways. I benefit it from it in a small way here on the blog, with my ‘Metal Friday” posts where I can link to videos and share them with like-minded metal fans.

Nevertheless, I prefer the way the music industry used to work. Or at least, enough of it to tip the balance toward the analog era. I’m aware I’m a trader in nostalgia, but like Geezer Butler I believe have some legit arguments to back me up (which makes us both geezers, I suppose).

In the pre-digital age recorded music was not a commodity. It had to be committed to physical objects—records, tapes, CDs—in order to be distributed. Albums had controlled pricing and were marked up to create profitable margins. And because artists could and did make real money on album sales, that meant live shows served a different purpose. They were a way to promote new albums and drive records sales. They were cheaper. 

But for the artist, digital distribution is a nightmare. Butler in his book scoffs at the royalties he receives from Spotify, despite the fact Sabbath has sold more than 75 million albums. Says Butler:

While bands in the sixties and seventies got robbed by dodgy managers, modern artists and groups get robbed by streaming services like Spotify, who pay a fraction of a cent per play. It’s not even worth looking at Sabbath’s income from Spotify, it’s so small.

The only way to make up for the loss of album sales is through touring, which has led to exorbitant concert prices.

Some will argue that the unlimited choices offered by Spotify and YouTube are an unmitigated good for the consumer. But I don’t necessarily see it that way, even though I have found bands on these platforms. Research has found that people like choice, but from a limited, selected set of options. Unlimited choice is crippling, which is why we need curation. Kerrang or Headbanger’s Ball served this purpose back in the day, but today who are the arbiters of taste? It’s harder to find new music when there’s no curated selections in record stores. It used to be a handful of your local rock radio stations would bring you the latest bands, now you have to subject yourself to the whims of algorithms or corrupt search engines.

But access to music just scratches the surface of the massive impact of digital.

Electronic drum machines and autotuned voices massively lowered the bar for who could record an album. It undercut raw ability and negated craft gained through sweat equity, trading it out for dance moves and good looks. Manufactured music gave birth to the rise of pop performers who captivated audiences through sex appeal and dance moves. This kicked off at the turn of the new millennium with the rise of Britney Spears, N’Sync, Backstreet Boys, and the Spice Girls, and continues unabated today.

Before the advent of digital, record labels gave bands like Rush and Black Sabbath several albums to find their sound. It was a risk, but a calculated one, because these bands had paid their dues in clubs, built followings, and could perform. They were talents that then required promotion. 

Of course there were exceptions. Record labels were and are out to make money and signed many shitty bands purely because they were part of a hot music movement. But in general the labels had a longer leash and more patience for artists. When the emphasis is on the music, who cares how the band members look? 

If four ugly dudes from Birmingham England with an experimental new sound that didn’t follow pop formula (and certainly could not dance) were born in 1999 rather than 1949, could they become rock stars? Does anyone think we’d have had Black Sabbath today? Butler doesn’t:

People tend to ask me: Could Sabbath happen now? The truth is, probably not. The odds of four working-class lads coming together in a rough place like Aston, writing very heavy songs about their gritty reality and making it in the music industry are slim to none. They wouldn’t look “right,” they wouldn’t sound “current” and they’d be too much of a risk for major record companies.

Digitalization renders music into a commodity, cheap and disposable, no longer holy. We don’t have to queue up and wait for the new Guns and Roses albums as we once used. My daughters love Taylor Swift and pay big $ to see her in concert but don’t own her albums. The entire concept of an “album” is practically meaningless.

I don’t believe this is better, or healthier, for music. 

I am heartened that analog still has a place. You can still find music stores and new records for purchase. I smile when I see young kids buying records and admiring the artwork, and enjoying the look and feel of a physical object in their hands instead of a vaporware download. But buying physical music is a novelty, not a necessity.

While something was gained in the switch to digital, something was lost along the way.