Year Zero by Rob Reid

Published by Del Rey on July 10, 2012

The alien members of the Refined League share a superior aesthetic sense, at least when it comes to art, architecture, fashion, interior design, and stained glass -- everything, in fact, except music, the one realm in which humans rule.  Aliens who have unwittingly pirated Earth’s music have discovered (as have myriad American college students) that the Copyright Damages Improvement Act is “the most cynical, predatory, lopsided, and shamelessly money-grubbing copyright law” ever devised in the history of the universe.  They owe the music industry pretty much the net worth of every planet.  Unfortunately, the aliens’ solution to the problem is even more draconian than the law itself.  It’s up to a young copyright lawyer to save the world.

Making fun of lawyers is easy, particularly the self-serving lawyers who think you should pay a royalty every time you hum the theme from Welcome Back, Kotter.  As suggested in Year Zero, the scorched earth approach to music piracy benefits law firms while harming everyone else on the planet, including musicians.  The music industry and its pet politicians are equally tempting targets, as are reality tv shows, trendy Manhattan restaurants, and celebrities (or wannabes) who indulge the desire to live life publicly via Twitter and other social media organisms.  Rob Reid skewers them all.

The bottom line is that Year Zero is funny, although quite a few of its laughs derive from silliness.  The aliens have access to superheavy metals and, music lovers that they are, have given them names like metallicam.  The atmosphere of a planet is identical in composition to Drakkar Noir.  One alien species resembles a vacuum cleaner.  And so on.  The narrative also takes well-aimed shots at Microsoft (Reid is clearly a Mac user).

The text is riddled with footnotes.  Most of them are amusing but the more informative notes reveal hard truths about the music industry and its suicidal, thought-deprived executive decision-makers.  Reid’s incisive and insightful takes on music piracy are a must-read for anyone with an interest in the subject.

Year Zero has a definite political point of view.  Rabid fans of Orrin Hatch are unlikely to enjoy the novel.  Highly placed music industry executives and partners in law firms specializing in intellectual property are equally unlikely to enjoy its stinging criticism (associates in those firms, on the other hand, will probably get a kick out of its accurate depiction of young lawyers as fodder that fuels the money machine).  Readers who don’t make their living extorting ridiculous sums of money from college kids who download songs illegally are likely to appreciate the novel’s humor.  The story provokes more chuckles than belly laughs, but as light comedy, Year Zero worked for me.

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The Tango Briefing by Adam Hall

First published in 1973

The Tango Briefing is the fith in a series of spy novels featuring a British agent named Quiller written by Elleston Trevor using the pen name Adam Hall.  A recon flight returns pictures of something in the Algerian desert that might be an airplane. Because its suspected cargo would be dangerous in the wrong hands, Quiller is dispatched to "take a close look at the bloody thing." And bloody is just what he gets, as one would expect from a Quiller novel. He also battles dehydration, exhaustion, and the constant threat of death as he shakes off surveillance, dodges bullets, and parachutes into the desert where vultures are hoping to have him for lunch.

Quiller is a fun character. Of all the fictional spies, Quiller is probably the least likable -- and that's what makes him so easy to like. He's testy, quarrelsome, disgruntled, a loner who loathes everyone, particularly his bosses. Most of the time he behaves like a jerk, but he gets the job done. Quiller survives by relying upon his intellect, a sharp mind that is constantly at war with his instinct and the demands/fears of a body he refers to as "the organism." If often seems as if Quiller wishes he weren't burdened with frail limbs and human emotions, that he would be happier as an analytical robot.

I love the refined-but-tough first-person prose Adam Hall uses to narrate Quiller's story. His surging sentences are perfectly timed, reflecting the anxiety and restlessness of a spy waiting for the action to start. And once it starts, it's unrelenting. Action scenes are intense, particularly those that take place in the desert. They left me feeling parched. The Quiller novels aren't in the same class as the best spy fiction, but they're smart, gripping, and thoroughly entertaining. The Tango Briefing is one of the better ones.

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Infrared by Nancy Huston

 

Published by Grove Press/Black Cat on July 3, 2012

Infrared is a contemplation of love, sex, family, and survival, but it is fundamentally a gradually developing snapshot of Rena Greenblatt. Over the course of a weeklong vacation in Tuscany with her father (Simon) and her father's wife (Ingrid), Rena comes into focus. Nancy Huston builds Rena's life by layering opinions upon memories until she becomes whole, as crisp and detailed as the photographs she takes. Rena is an introspective snob, a sensitive woman tormented by guilt, a free-thinking photographer who captures the heat of sex using infrared film. Her running commentary -- thoughts often triggered by her observation of art and architecture -- touches upon religion, genitalia, male sexual performance, prostitution, pornography, photography, beauty (which she feels compelled to "smother with erudition"), motherhood, sodomy, and the geographical history of sexual violence. Rena's opinions as much as her memories give breadth and depth to her character.

Rena's memories are far from pleasant. She has a complicated relationship with her father (a former disciple of Timothy Leary). Rena's mother (a feminist lawyer) died under circumstances that still cause Rena grief. Rena's brother abused her during her childhood. Rena tells us that infrared film captures warmth, the ingredient missing from her childhood. At the age of 45, Rena has had a multicultural assortment of husbands and lovers. She also has a long-standng internal voice, an alter-ego named Subra, with whom she is in constant conversation.

By using infrared film, Rena believes she is capturing an invisible world, "the hidden face of reality." It falls to Ingrid to remind Rena that her photography reveals only half the truth. Ingrid argues that Rena deliberately omits the pleasant, not just from her photography but from her life. While Rena's erotic memories and fantasies -- never far removed from her thoughts -- might fairly be regarded as agreeable (some of them, at least), Ingrid has a point. Perhaps with good reason, Rena is not a particularly happy person, and it isn't clear that she ever will be.

Huston has a gift for crafting unexpected sentences. There is, in fact, nothing predictable about Infrared. The novel's exploration of sexuality and "the theatre of masculinity" is fascinating, but even more absorbing is Huston's construction of Rena. Layered in memories, shrouded in opinions, the "hidden face" of Rena's reality is starkly revealed in all of its brutal complexity.

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Advent by James Treadwell

Published by Atria on July 3, 2012 

I'm not usually a fan of novels that feature witches and mermaids -- they just aren't my thing -- but I picked up Advent because it purported to have literary merit.  The plot creatively joins two legendary figures -- the prophetess Cassandra of Greek mythology and the 16th century Faust -- and brings them both into the present, threatening the modern age of reason with a return of dark magic and evil spirits.  In the end, despite James Treadwell's graceful writing style, I just didn't care.

Young Gavin Stokes has an imaginary friend named Miss Grey.  To Gavin, Miss Grey is far from imaginary -- she is annoyingly real and has gotten him kicked out of school.  When Gavin's parents send him off to spend some time with his aunt, Gwen Clifton, Gavin encounters Gwen's neighbor, the eccentric Hester Lightfoot, on the train.  Arriving at his destination, Aunt Gwen is nowhere to be found, but Gavin meets a thirteen-year-old named Marina who, like Gavin, sees people who aren't really there.  It turns out that Heather has the same gift.  Marina's friend from across the river, Horace Jia, has seen the missing Gwen but he's not about to tell any adults where she is.  Trouble begins when Marina and Gavin go searching for Gwen and find something that's not quite the Gwen of Gavin's fond memories.

Meanwhile, in 1537, the world's greatest magus, Johannes Faust, acting on a whim, asks his spirit servant to show him the most beautiful woman of all time.  To his surprise, it is another woman, Cassandra, standing behind Helen of Troy, who captures his attention.  Cassandra gives Faust a gift that turns out to be a curse.

The cast having been assembled, Gavin has a series of frightening supernatural encounters before he partially comes of age (he only vaguely understands his linkage to another legendary figure with a similar name) and confronts Faust, who is now in a 20th century guise.  The transition between the two stories takes place in an oddly expository chapter positioned midway through the novel.

The novel's structure is strange.  Faust's story alternates with Gavin's.  That's not a problem, but Faust's story begins at the end and works it way back to the beginning for reasons that are unclear.  I'm not bothered by nonlinear structures if they serve a purpose but I'm not sure that this one does.  After the stories join they often seem muddled.

Treadwell's writing style is exceptional.  His evocative prose brings the night alive, creates a strong sense of place, and is generally a joy to read.  The characters in Advent (as you might expect from people who are touched by the supernatural) are quirky and eccentric and often a bit rattled, characteristics that make them interesting even if they never seem fully developed.

Given the skill with which the story is told, why am I not a fan of Advent?  Ultimately, Advent left me unmoved.  Faust's story is tragic by nature yet I felt no compassion for the unfortunate character.  Gavin and Marina undergo harrowing experiences yet I did not share their terror.  In short, I felt no connection to the story or its characters.  The novel did not absorb me, did not trigger my willingness to suspend disbelief.  The ending struck me as silly.  Perhaps diehard fans of the genre will appreciate this novel more than I did, but readers who don't make a point of seeking out supernatural fiction will probably not want to pick up Advent.

RECOMMENDED WTH RESERVATIONS

Burrows by Reavis Z. Wortham

Published by Poisoned Pen Press on July 3, 2012 

The first Red River Mystery, The Rock Hole, is a novel I strongly recommend to thriller fans. In addition to its spectacularly creepy villain and almost unendurable suspense, the novel introduces richly textured, immensely likable characters. While it is mildly disappointing but not surprising that the second Red River Mystery doesn't warrant the same high praise, Burrows tells an exhilarating story, creates a strong sense of time (1964) and place (the Oklahoma-Texas border), and further develops the characters who were central to the first novel.

Ned Parker has retired as Constable (a decision he regrets) but local folk are used to calling him when there's trouble. A headless body in the river qualifies as trouble. Before Ned and the new Constable, Cody Parker, can get a handle on the murder, more bodies (some headless) turn up, leading officers to investigate booby-trapped tunnels that lead through the mountains of trash that have piled up in the Cotton Exchange (a rather extreme case of hoarding). Since the building is on the wrong side of the color barrier, the town's all-white power structure has studiously ignored the problem. The job of ferreting out the killer from the rubbish falls to Cody, based on his experience as a tunnel rat in Vietnam, with an able assist from John, the black sheriff's deputy whose job is to enforce the law in the black community.

Cody plays a much larger role in Burrows than he did in The Rock Hole. Ned plays a significant role, but the real stars continue to be Ned's grandson Top and Top's foul-mouthed cousin, a girl named Pepper. Top has some trouble of his own -- his cussing and smoking and hooky playing do not sit well with Ned -- but (thanks to Pepper's "encouragement") Top always finds himself near the dangerous situations that Ned and Cody and John encounter. When he isn't getting in the way, Top contributes to the effort to catch the killer.

Dialog is authentic, the pace is lively, and the story entertains. Burrows is a less effective mystery than The Rock Hole (the killer's identity is never a mystery in Burrows, although his true nature comes as a bizarre surprise), and while Reavis Wortham tries to duplicate the horrific elements that made The Rock Hole so chilling, he doesn't quite pull it off. The social issues that worked so well in The Rock Hole are less prominent in Burrows. Still, Burrows is a fun reading experience. The story generates suspense but the characters give the novel its charm. While I would recommend reading The Rock Hole before Burrows to gain a deeper appreciation of the characters (and because The Rock Hole is a better book), I can recommend Burrows to fans of The Rock Hole -- with the caveat that readers shouldn't expect the same level of intensity.

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