Crimedog One

BODY OF WORK

It's cool when my literary agency's website updates my client page, since it makes me sound a lot more impressive than I think I am.  Check out the teaser for the latest, still out there floating around, Girl Missing.

Kudos to Allan Guthrie at the Jenny Brown Agency in Scotland for sticking up for my novels.  And that's a guy who would know a good one, since he's a monster noir novelist in addition to his agenting work.  Loved Kiss Her Goodbye, and I got a sneak peek at his next one, Hard Man, which I consider as rough as a splintery bat in the groin.  If you want violence described in a way that's both heartbreaking and bright as neon, Guthrie's your man (see also: Two Way Split).

THE "ALL DRUMMER ALL SUMMER" TOUR WINDS DOWN

I survived the excessively humid (and snooty) South of my origins and drove back through the blistered plains to my little piece of Minnesota.  Long drive, but worth it.  I much prefer seeing the country this way, listening to radio talk shows and stopping at cool truck stops with their newly attached fast food franchises, seeing the billboards for the Adult Superstores and Fireworks Emporiums at nearly every state line.  By the time I hit Omaha, Sioux City, Sioux Falls, I was tired.  But I kept on til home, middle of the night.

I've maybe got a few book signings left in me, one for sure in Marshall in September at Bound to Read (more on that later), but otherwise will get back to the hard and rewarding work of teaching college students how to communicate using both their creative and critical reasoning brainwaves.  And I've got a draft of something or other to edit and remix and complicate before I show it to The Boys.

In the meantime, here are a handful of photos from the latest album, which you can find a link for off to the left.  We've got some fine shots from ConMisterio in Austin--in which Gischler's name is misspelled; in which Doolittle and I think bad thoughts about a deer head; in which Jesse Sublett and Dennis McMillan rock at too early in the morning; in which Gischler is afraid to face the day. Plenty more in the album.

I'll also throw in some from our visit with The Man Himself, Scott Wolven, in New Orleans.  Here we are at The Pearl, a little joint mentioned in nearly every James Lee Burke novel.  Tasty muffalettas.  Here're Gischler and Wolven on the patio at the Napolean House bar.  Here're me and Wolven in front of a giant Mint Julep ad from godknowswhen. The Man showed us a good time in the bars and on the s treets of the Big Easy.  Even in as sad a shape as she is right now, she's still smiling.

"Sometimes, the Line Walks You"

If you like the rural noir of Daniel Woodrell, Jim Thompson, Jimmy Lee Burke, Jimmy Crumley, Scotty Phillips, or the gonzo Southern fiction of Cormac "Macky" McCarthy (before all the cowboy stuff), Tommy Franklin, William "Willy" Gay and Barry (he's already got a "y" on his name...) Hannah, then you should love this band: Murder by Death.  Hot damn, these folks play some fine depressing stuff.  And here's some more of their fine depressing stuff.  Admire them for the titles if nothing else.  Certainly got a way with words (or even "got away" with words).

No need to thank me.  Just play it loud and shout at the darkening sky.  Bring it on!

Overheard My Grandmother...

She's eighty-six.  I heard her tell someone this about cockfighting:

"These days, it's sin, blood and murder, but back in those days, it was so much fun watching them roosters fight."

"The Best Most Derelict Deranged Bareknuckled Voices in Crime Writing"

I can't wait to read Murdaland.  I'm in the first issue, and I'm humbled by being included with a list this impressive: Bruen, Gaitskill, Woodrell, Franklin, Goodis, and that's just to get you started.  I knew these guys had the right idea from the day one of the publishers called to pick my brain about Plots with Guns.  And from the looks of things, they are certainly showing up PWG.  Very hot-damned impressive.

Guess that means I'd better pull on my boxing gloves, climb back into the ring...

Skinner in New Orleans

I had a chance to sit down with Robert Skinner yesterday down at Parley's Dream Lounge (formerly Parley's Pub) in New Orleans near Lakeshore.  We had a few beers, talked about the city, academics, writing, and his flooded home.  Hope he gets back into it next year.  We've been meeting up at Parley's every chance I've come to the town for the past six years or so.

Bob wrote the critically-acclaimed Wesley Farrell series, kicking it off with the Anthony-nominated Skin Deep, Blood Red.  He then wrote Cat-Eyed Trouble, Daddy's Gone A-Hunting, Blood to Drink, The Righteous Cut, and Pale Shadow.  All of these will knock you on your ass, because even though they are set in 30's and 40's New Orleans, we're not dealing so much with reality as the series develops.  We're talking about a vivid cartoon here, one full of incredible violence, stunning duplicity, and primal greed.  Read it like that and the world of Skinner will open up before you.  This is the New Orleans you see on the canvases of those painters down in Jackson Square, but a hell of a lot dirtier.

He's also a scholar of the genre, having written on Hammett, Chandler, and Chester Himes.  Not to mention a student of westerns and war stories.  So the history is there, but mixed with an originality and wonder that saves it from being stigmatized as "historical" fiction.

He was always kind enough to contribute his work and time to my little magazine Plots with Guns, too.  You can find some short stories and one perfect introduction to an issue he edited in the archives.

So keep fighting down there in the Big Easy, Bob.  We need someone to show us that as bad a state as the city may seem to be in, it could always be worse.

"Never Had Sex in a Hurricane"

That's a line from Southern Culture on the Skids' "Whole Lotta Things".  You've got to try this rockabilly/psychobilly/gonzo-surf/trailer-trash trio to believe them.  Great stuff.  Mostly about sex and food.  You've heard of them because they did that song that goes: "You make me wanna walk...like a camel!" And there ain't many titles better than Plastic Seat Sweat.

I picked up their new CD Doublewide and Live yesterday.  Yessirree, I imagine this one will be spinning quite often in the big red truck on my drive back to Minnesota.  Maybe St. Louis and the rest of Missouri will still be evacuated so it'll feel like one of those Mad Max flicks (or at least Omega Man).  This would be the perfect soundtrack.

And if you're still in the mood (and you should be), follow it up with last year's too-good-for-all-y'alls 'billy band Heavy Trash (Jon Spencer was in on that one).

For those reading this saying, "You are batshit insane.  It's all gibberish!  Sounds like you're speaking in tongues!"  I can only say that you need a crash course, so visit the Psychobilly Hall of Fame.

Don't be afraid of the heat.  Just load up your IPod or Walkman or MusicSuppository or whatever, find a nice cool puddle, and start splashin' around. 

Spillane

Maybe now they'll finally call him a genius.  But then again, what fun would that be?

Funny: for the millions and millions of copies he sold to readers all over the spectrum, doesn't Spillane still feel like a dirty little secret?  And that's just fine.

Don't overanalyze.  Just read 'em, and be thankful they are what they are: pulp that's been beaten to a pulp.

THE DRUMMER in Publisher's Weekly

So maybe they didn't think it would change the world or replace James Joyce on college reading lists or outsell Dan Brown, and maybe they didn't like my awesome, nasty, don't-want-to-ruin-the surprise ending, but other than that, I'd have to say that Publisher's Weekly seems to give my little rock-and-roll novel a thumbs up:

"Merle Johnson's past is catching up with him in this enjoyable, if unremarkable, novel from Smith (Psychosomatic). A drummer for the 1980's heavy metal band Savage Night, Cal Christopher quits the music scene in 1990, burns down his mansion and fakes his own death, leaving his band-mates mid-tour and facing bankruptcy. Fourteen years later, living as "Merle" in New Orleans, he's tracked down by ex-lead singer Todd Delacroix, who tries to blackmail him into a band reunion. When he finds Todd laid out in his hotel room, surrounded by bottles of booze and a suicide note exposing Merle's true identity Merle grabs the note and goes on the run from the cops, the press, the IRS and a couple of mystery men. Faces from the past resurface, including former bandmate Doug, who is dying of AIDS, and his sister Alison, Merle's old flame. It all leads up to a messy surprise ending that defies rational explanation, winding down much too fast much too easily. Nevertheless, it's a fun read about drugs, rock and roll, brawls and banging (drums, groupies and otherwise). A portion of the book's proceeds go to Katrina charities."

Also, if you check out the "Books" list to the right, you'll find that we're now loud and proud on Amazon.com. So now we're playing in the big leagues. Batter up...

"Miles and Miles of Texas..."

Today's the second day of ConMisterio in Austin, and we've been having a good time talking up our books, our friends' books, dead writers' books, and books by complete strangers.  And then there's beer, margaritas, barbecue, and heat.  Soul-baking heat.  And this coming from a guy who's used to the tropical humidity of the Mississippi Gulf Coast.  But, hey, I don't mind.

Bill Crider is giving everyone a better taste of who's here and what's up.  As for me, I'll just say it's been great meeting or remeeting writers I admire and readers who actually bought books I wrote.  Wow.  Also a pleasure to hear from one of my heroes, James Crumley, as he was here to help promote the new "geezer noir" anthology Damn Near Dead, edited by Duane Swierczynski for David Thompson's Busted Flush Press.  Plenty of other heavyweights are included, too.

Once I get back to New Orleans next week, I'll upload photos and add some more local color (i.e. "stuff that happened in the bar").  In the meantime, I'll be outside playing in Austin's simmering western landscape. 

Next stop: Houston's Murder by the Book.  Monday night.