This week is special INDIE ROCK MASTURABATION BLOGGING WEEK in Mo-land. This is because 2007 marks the ten year anniversary of the apex of my i.r. snobbery, including, but not limited to, appearing at the doorstep of an indie rock legend's home unannounced and getting a ride home after a show from a bigger name entertainer, one who competes with Tom Jones and Engelbert Humperdinck in terms of emotional delivery and career longevity. And because I've been listening to E. Smith without pause for the last three days. Oh, Elliott!
There is a passage in my novel in which protagonist Olivia, a post-college Boston hipster chick who lives in a skanky Somerville shithole apartment and works for a fictional nonprofit that buys art supplies for poor children, is visited unexpectedly by her cousin JR-2, a boozy rich-kid shitheel who is basically the Fresno Armenian version of Clay from Less Than Zero, with less drugs and more luxury spending. JR-2 (John-Robert the Second, if you must know) barges into her bedroom and starts picking through her CD collection in the judgemental manner that all of us must sooner or later admit to doing to others. He picks an Unrest CD off the shelf and says, "Hey, you like Unrest?" like he's a big fan or something, and there is no way that Olivia believes that JR-2 knows, much less is a fan of, Unrest. This story is called back when Zaven, the crazy Armo-militant that Olivia meets after she and Orson go to Fresno to collect the family loot, plays Unrest in the car, and it drives Olivia crazy because she thinks he's fucking with her.
So maybe this is a lame-ass little tribute to indie rock. I cannot help but fear that the aging indie rockers of yesteryear are going to read this little passage and then pillory me for my lack of writing talent and blatant and untoward hipsterism. Indeed, many years ago a dude named Jeff Gomez penned not one but two indie-themed novels that were then expertly skewered by the very people (Franklin Bruno, most notably) I assume he was trying to impress. Poor writing and an undeserved S&S two-book contract aside, I couldn't help but feel bad for the guy. Unlike my Caucasian peers who try to be all down with hip-hop and shit, indie kids are in it for the inclusiveness. Indie kids are generally not interested in a status battle, so for the nice and admirable musicians that one so adores and finds so accessible to just up and diss this guy's book in such a brilliant, sharp, and painful manner gives me pause that Aunt Jenny is going to hurl my novel across her atelier and have me denounced as the pathetic poseur that photographed her eating a hamburger ten years ago.
I certainly hope that the quality of writing in my novel far surpasses that of J. Gomez's twin disasters. For to write two poorly-received novels that spawned a genius tear-down rebuttal is worse than just writing one crappy book.
My book is about wealth and power, not indie rock.
Posted by Zerd at January 11, 2007 05:18 PMseveral years ago I read Our Noise and thought it was the worst piece of shit ever. I thought, gawd, a bunch of cardboard-cutout characters and as many indie rock references as could be crammed between two pieces of cardstock does not a novel make. that said, I sincerely think that your novel will be a million times better than anything Mr. Gomez ever thought about writing, and that a couple mentions of the i-rock will not drag you down to his level.
Posted by: margaret at January 11, 2007 09:39 PM