First Blood, David Morrell

Don't push it, or I'll give you a war you can't believe.

Growing up in the 80s, surrounded by larger-than-life action heroes, one of my favorite films was First Blood. The first in what would become the “Rambo series” was my favorite, darker and more serious than its sequels. First Blood and John Rambo became a minor obsession among my friends, one of whom got hold of a “special forces” knife with the wicked serrated back edge and a hollowed-out handle where he stored a needle and thread—just in case we needed battlefield stitches. You never know.

As most know First Blood tells the story of a special forces soldier, John Rambo (played wonderfully by Sylvester Stallone), coping with post-traumatic stress syndrome from a brutal stint in Vietnam in which he was captured and tortured. Now stateside and adrift, a post-war vagrant, he just wants to be left alone, but quickly runs afoul of an overzealous small-town chief of police (Brian Dennehy), who ushers him unceremoniously out of town.

Pushed too far and humiliated, Rambo refuses to acquiesce, and turns back. That sets in motion the events of the rest of the film—a rousing jailbreak, a cat-and-mouse game in the mountains of Washington State with Rambo using his survival skills honed as a Green Beret to maim (but not kill) his pursuers. 

I loved the film, and still do. But all this time I had never read the book upon which it is based—David Morrell’s First Blood. Published in 1972, it was out a full 10 years before the film adaptation, which spent the better part of a decade in “production hell” before finally making it to the silver screen.

I recently got a hold of a copy of Morrell’s novel and rectified that, burning through a read in all of 2 nights. I enjoyed the heck out of it and was surprised by the differences from book to film. Chiefly, that Rambo turns on a blood spigot and kills at least 20 of his pursuers, maybe more. Holy hell there is a lot of killing, including a pack of dogs hard on his scent. There is also more characterization. Teasle, the police chief, is portrayed far more sympathetically and three-dimensionally in the book than the film. Morell places a heavy emphasis on his service in the Korean War, a sad separation from his wife, and his obsession and eventual identification with Rambo. I won’t spoil the ending but that is also quite different, and much grimmer, than we see in the film.

 Otherwise the movie follows most of the major beats of the book.

I have this edition... 
but not the knife.

Make no mistake, like the film the book is mainly pure action, unrelenting page-turning glory. There is a deeper and more serious undercurrent, commentary on the invisible scars soldiers often bear (made doubly hard on the veterans of the war in Vietnam, an unpopular and unfavorable conflict that most of the U.S. populace either wanted to sweep under the rug and forget, in some cases treating its returning Veterans with disdain). But principally it grabs you from the opening page with a compelling pace and refuses to let up with its action.

As a sword-and-sorcery fan headlong action and violence is part of what I enjoy in my reading. And First Blood scratches the same itch. In fact, outside of being set in modern times, there are several S&S parallels—an outsider protagonist, suffused with gray, wandering from place-to-place. Low stakes/survival plot. We even get a “dungeon crawl,” a hair-raising sequence in a cave where Rambo encounters filth and bats, rats, the skeleton of an unlucky miner. And a final showdown with Teasle and his men. The equally shared POV between Rambo and Teasle is not something we typically see in S&S but it could work.

Near the end of the book Colonel Trautmann, architect of Rambo’s Green Beret training (played in the film by Richard Crenna), offers up an interesting commentary on why the modern age is anathema to sword-and-sorcery heroes. With the manhunt in full swing, Trautmann—who is both helping Teasle capture Rambo, while also admiring his pupil’s incredible survival skills—laments the coming “machine” that will spell the end of heroism:

“In a few years a search like this won’t even be necessary. We have instruments now that can be mounted on the underside of an airplane. To find a man all you need to do is fly over the spot where you think he is, and the machine will register his body heat… a man on the run won’t have a hope. And a man like me, he won’t be needed. This is the last of something. It’s too bad. As much as I hate war, I fear the day when machines take the place of men. At least now a man can still get along on his talents.”

Morrell, now 78, has lived an interesting life. A former university professor, he gave up his tenure to pursue a career as writer. First Blood earned him a handsome payout from the movie rights and he went on to write novelizations of the ensuing films. He also wrote horror (winning an award from the Horror Writers Association), non-fiction, and for the comics (Captain America, Spider-Man, Wolverine). A pretty cool mid-list author success story, increasingly rare these days.

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.