Bird-Bolts and Cannon-Bullets IV
An Encomium of Aimee Mann
This is my weekly roundup of reading, listening, and recommendations for paid subscribers. I tried something new this time: there is an audio version. Let me know how/if you like it.
Listening
Once again this week, I found myself returning repeatedly to an old favorite: Aimee Mann’s Live at St. Ann’s Warehouse. I really don’t understand why more people don’t rave about this record. Frankly, most live pop or rock albums are pretty much crap, because (unlike jazz or classical music) the fullest realization of the composition is (usually) the product of the studio process. This is, after all, why the Beatles stopped touring in 1966; the studio wizardry of albums like Revolver simply could not effectively be reproduced on stage. The only time a live album is worth it is when it brings something new to the compositions rather than simply trying to create an onstage copy of the studio recording. On the rare occasions when live albums achieve this, they can transcend their studio counterparts. The Rolling Stones’ Get Your Ya Yas Out or The Who’s Live at Leeds or David Bowie’s Stage are great live albums because the performances bring something new to the experience of the music. On the other hand, as much as I love Steely Dan, I find their live records pretty boring, because they are simply imperfect copies of the studio arrangements.
Aimee Mann’s Live at St. Ann’s Warehouse is, for me, quite simply one of the best live albums, which means that it’s one of the best albums, full stop. For years, I’ve thought that Mann is one of our greatest living songwriters, but she seldom is mentioned in such conversations, probably because she is a woman. Misogyny persists, unfortunately. In any case, the proof is right here on this record. On full display are her signature themes: the potential alienation of intimacy, the struggle and vulnerability inherent in the roles that we play in our own lives, our tendency towards self-deception. And her melodic hooks and Beatlesque song-structures keep the songs in your head for days, in a good way. All of this is conveyed in lyrics that cut to the bone: “Save me / from the ranks of the freaks / who suspect they could never love anyone.” Consider the extended conceit of “The Moth”:
The moth don't care if the flame is real,
'Cause flame and moth got a sweetheart deal,
And nothing fuels a good flirtation
Like need and anger and desperation.
No the moth don't care if the flame is real.
Furthermore, most of the live versions of these songs are, to my ears, superior to the studio recordings (most of which I love also). For example, the aggression of this performance of “Sugarcoated” makes the tune into the banger that it always should have been. The band is so tight throughout: listen to the in-the-pocket the rhythm section on “That’s Just What You Are.” But most of all, it’s Mann’s voice, strong but also vulnerable, that makes this record so special. If I had one complaint about the album it would be that her voice isn’t always forward enough in the mix, but that is nitpicking. I just want to hear her brilliant lyrics.
I discovered recently that this album was also released as a DVD, and you can see some of these performances on YouTube. Here is probably her most famous song:
It’s a love song like no other. Indeed, it might more accurately be described as an anti-unlove song: save me from my inability to love. It’s more heartbreaking than a million torch songs. Yes, you must hear this album.
Reading
Dear Reader, I have once again abandoned poor Dorothy Dunnett. Last week, I wrote about all of the times that I have tried and failed to get through her novel The Game of Kings, and so this time I was going to try another of her books, Niccolo Rising. Once again, I have failed. I daresay the fault is mine, not Dunnett’s. She is so highly regarded that I keep thinking that I must be missing something. I acknowledge her impressive descriptive powers, her gift for witty dialogue, and her voluminous knowledge of her historical periods. So what is it that bothers me?
I think I have finally put my finger on it: this week I thought of what Henry James has to say about Trollope in “The Art of Fiction.” James complains that Trollope drops the artifice at one point in a novel and suggests to the reader that he, the author, is in charge, and can make anything happen that he likes. While this, undoubtedly, is true, it makes the narrative feel like something of a puppet show rather than a true attempt at mimesis.
Now, I happen to admire Trollope a great deal (indeed, sometimes I prefer him over Henry James), but I understand James’s point, and this is the feeling that I get with Dunnett’s work. She is too impressed with her own ability to manipulate her narrative. She is too confident that she will dazzle the reader. And this creates a sense of unreality. This is not to say that all fiction needs to be serious. I am, after all, a longtime reader of P. G. Wodehouse, whose novels and stories are as frivolous as they come. It’s not frivolity that bothers me; rather, it’s this problematic mode of a piece of historical fiction that seems more like an underwritten video game, meant to impress us with its graphics and action while it fails to immerse us in narrative.
Dunnett probably also suffers by comparison to what I’m used to. My favorite writers of historical fiction (Hilary Mantel, Patrick O’Brian, Rose Tremain) are specialists in immersing the reader in narrative. And I am, at the moment, simultaneously reading my two favorite novels ever: Emma (which I’m teaching at the moment) and Middlemarch (which is my current bedtime reading). Poor Dorothy: few novels could stand up against such competition. So maybe I will give Dunnett another try some day. I will let you know when and if I do.
Cooking
I cooked a pork tenderloin in the Instant Pot this week, but I forgot to take pictures. (I know, I know—pics or it didn’t happen.) No, really, I did. I applied a spice rub that included rosemary, sage (the recipe called for thyme, but I substituted), garlic salt, and a few red pepper flakes (not in the recipe) for good measure. It turned out pretty good too—served it with basmati rice and broccoli, with a gravy made from chicken broth, soy sauce, and dijon mustard. I got the recipe from Well-Plated, and you can find it here.
That’s it for this week. Enjoy your long Labor-Day weekend. Any plans? What are you reading, listening to, or cooking this weekend?
Thanks for reading, from my fancy internet typewriter to yours. And thanks for being a paid subscriber.
