deadman

Susan Whitfield's Blog: Randy Rohn: Hang On Sloopy

2011-09-01T06:32:00.000-07:00

Susan Whitfield's Blog: Randy Rohn: Hang On Sloopy

still fresh as a daisy

2009-08-10T21:31:00.000-07:00

From Hawthorne, California, home of the Beach Boys, Emitt Rhodes is one of the most underappreciated talents in rock’n’roll. He started his career in a group called the Palace Guard and later went on to form The Merry-Go-Round. The Merry-Go-Round had a great baroque rock. When the group disbanded, Emitt set up a studio in his parents’ garage and produced one of the best albums of the 70s. On the self-titled solo debut, you can hear the Beatles/Paul McCartney influence.

Even more impressive, he wrote all the songs himself, played all the instruments and did all the vocals. His first album was a critical success – Billboard called Rhodes "one of the finest artists on the music scene today" and later called his first album one of the "best albums of the decade". The album reached number 29 on the Billboard charts. He had a minor hit with the song “Fresh as a Daisy.” His follow up albums, although they had great tunes, weren’t quite as good as his first.

Sadly, he had signed a record contract that called for two albums a year. Since he did everything himself, and was a perfectionist, he couldn’t keep up the pace and was sued by his own record company. He ended up broke, broken and depressed. He never produced another record for release.

Today, he is a recluse. Divorced. Suffering from diabetes, he spends his time reading physics and mathematic textbooks and recording songs in the same garage he did his three albums. He supposedly has hundreds of tunes recorded, but who knows if they’ll ever see the light day.

It’s a sad story. But the music he recorded, like the best Beatles music, still stands up today. ABC/Dunhill has released a retrospective of his career. His stuff still sounds amazing, It is worth checking out.

got me a complication

2009-07-26T09:29:00.000-07:00

Talk Talk came blasting out of radio speakers all over the U.S. when kids were going back to school in 1966. No one had ever heard anything quite like it on Top 40 AM radio. No one had ever seen anything quite like the band, the Music Machine.

They dressed all in black, dyed their hair black and wore one black kid leather glove. They were punk before punk was cool.

The Music Machine (1965–1969) was an American band headed by singer-songwriter Sean Bonniwell based in Los Angeles.

The group came started as The Ragamuffins in 1965, but became The Music Machine in 1966. The single "Talk Talk" was recorded at RCA studios on July 30, 1966.

Their first album, (Turn On) The Music Machine, was released in 1966 on the Original Sound label. Seven of the twelve tracks were originals, written by Bonniwell. One of these, "Talk Talk," became a Top 20 hit in the U.S. The follow-up single, "The People In Me," peaked at #66. Bonniwell blamed the weak showing of this single on bickering between the band's manager and a top record label executive. It is very similar to the story in the movie, That Thing You Do, written and directed by Tom Hanks. Four cover songs were included on their debut release, due to record label pressure, much to the disappointment of Bonniwell.

After a promotional tour of the U.S., the rest of the original line-up, which included Ron Edgar (drums), Mark Landon (guitar), Keith Olsen (bass) and Doug Rhodes (organ), left Bonniwell, due to internal conflicts. In 1967, Music Machine, essentially only Bonniwell at this point, were signed to Warner Bros. and re-named The Bonniwell Music Machine. A self-titled LP was released that year, made up mostly of previously recorded singles with the original line-up. The recording spawned no big hits, despite the inclusion of a few more pop-oriented songs.

A third album was recorded but never released. In 2000, a Bonniwell Music Machine album called Ignition was released on Sundazed Records. This is a collection of songs from the unreleased 1969 album, as well as demo tracks from the band's Raggamuffin days in 1965.

In 2000, Bonniwell, from 1980 on a devout Christian, wrote about his life and The Music Machine in a biography called "Beyond The Garage," published by the small press publisher Christian Vision.

He claims he has “thousands” of recorded songs stashed away in boxes at his home which could have been hits.

a world without gordon

2009-07-17T19:29:00.000-07:00

Gordon Waller, of the British rock duo, Peter and Gordon, died today in Connecticut. He was 64.

Peter and Gordon had several top ten hits in the 60s starting with "A World Without Love", written by John Lennon and Paul McCartney. The two Beatles also wrote "Nobody I Know" and "I Don't Want To See You Again" McCartney, under the pseudonym Bernard Webb wrote their hit "Woman". The string of chart-toppers ended with the song Lady Godiva.

After the group broke up, Peter (Asher) went on to produce records by Linda Ronstadt, James Taylor, Cher and Diana Ross. Interestingly, Peter was the inspiration for the look adopted by Mike Myers for his Austin Powers role.

August 2005, Peter and Gordon reunited onstage for the first time in over 30 years, as part of two tribute concerts for Mike Smith of the Dave Clark Five in New York City. This was followed by more complete concerts at The Festival for Beatles Fans (formerly Beatlefest) conventions beginning the following year. Paul McCartney heard about the reunion shows, and sent a message to them congratulating them for deciding to reunite

An announcement on the Peter and Gordon MySpace page says: “We are deeply saddened to report that...Gordon Waller went into cardiac arrest and was taken to the emergency room. Despite intensive efforts on his behalf by hospital personnel, Gordon passed away...Please keep him in your thoughts and prayers.”

paul mccartney returns to Ed Sullivan

2009-07-14T22:15:00.000-07:00

For the first time in 45 years, Paul McCartney will be playing at the Ed Sullivan Theater in New York City. He will be a guest on the Dave Letterman Show tonight.

The last time he played in the Ed Sullivan Theater, he was with this little group that went on to do nothing much other than change the world. They were called the Beatles. Here is a clip of his first appearance.

the death of Sky

2009-06-29T21:53:00.000-07:00

Sky Saxon of the Seeds passed away on June 25. One of the great garage-rock bands of the 60s, Muddy Waters called the Seeds “America’s Rolling Stones.” The group had two hits, Pushin’ Too Hard and Can’t Seem to Make You Mine.

Besides the music, the Seeds were involved in two of he strangest video artifacts from the 60s. One is an appearance on a typical sixties sit-com, The Mothers-in-Law . Listen carefully and you can hear their music referred to as “gassy.” The Seeds’ music was also used in a dance video by the late, great Betty Page .

Saxon broke up the Seeds band in 1967 and formed the Sky Saxon Blues Band. After the release of one album, A Full Spoon of Seedy Blues, Saxon reestablished the Seeds but the group did not attract any mainstream attention.  

Saxon released a number of albums under various band names including The Starry Seeds Band, Sky Saxon & FirewallKing and Shapes Have Fangs.   In 2008, Saxon and the Seeds collaborated on some new songs and recordings with Billy Corgan of The Smashing Pumpkins.

You can read more about the seeds here:

The Sacred Cake by r2

2009-06-03T22:11:00.000-07:00

It all started going wrong the day they agreed to let my little brother have a toy. Okay, I guess it wasn’t really a toy, but it wasn’t anything special, either. It was just a telescope. Nothing professional. Just one of those things you can buy in any hobby shop or Sharper Image. No biggie.

Brad, my brother, was a science geek. He had begged and begged Dad for it. Of course, telescopes were on the Forbidden List, but what wasn’t? I mean, iPods are Forbidden. Vampire Weekend is Forbidden. You couldn’t live if you followed all the bullshit.

But Dad, although usually easy going, can be a bit of a stickler about certain rules and regs, so he took it up with the council and got the big okay.

For Brad’s twelfth birthday he got a telescope. Big whoop. He took it up to his room and looked through the little peep-hole for hours on end. Knock yourself out geek-boy, I had better things to do. And by better things I meant Amanda, who lived on the other side of the compound. Now you wanna talk Forbidden? That girl and I tore Forbidden to shreds.

It was one of the few nights I was home when lil’ bro came downstairs and asked Dad about the cake.

“What cake?” Dad gave Mom one of those looks.

“The cake in the middle of the road.”

“What road?” Dad’s voice took on that edge. It was time for Brad to retreat. Do the “uh nevermind” bit. Maybe he could save himself.

“The little road behind the temple.” Sometimes my brother was such a dimwatt.

Dad got out of his chair and clomped upstairs. He took one look through the telescope, picked it up like a Louisville Slugger and started beating it against the sill until the thing was bent to hell, the lenses shattered and the windowsill was splinters.

“You were supposed to look at the stars, not spy on the sacred grounds behind the Temple,” Dad yelled.

“But what about the cake?”

“There was no cake. Understand? No cake. Don’t ever mention the cake again.” Let’s just say Dad hit a decibel level I’ve never heard before or since.

“But…” At that I gave Brad a shove. Even though he was a geek and a pain in my ass, he was still my brother and I didn’t want Dad to totally spazz.

Later in the week, I was with Dad cleaning up the garage. He was his usual mellow self. “Imagine Brad thinking he saw a cake in the road,” I added a bit of chuckle to my voice.

Dad gripped the claw hammer he was putting away. His knuckles turned white and for a second I thought he might smash my head or something.

“I told you to never mention that again.” Actually he had told Brad, but I decided not to press the point. “So forget about it. We’ll talk about it when you become an Elder.”

Hmm. So there was a cake. “Yea. Sure thing, Dad. No prob.”

Well, I forgot all about the cake and the telescope. Amanda and I were too busy exploring each other in ways the Church condemns, parents discourage and our hormones dictate. Life was sa-weeet.

Then one night, about a month later, Brad came into my room and shut the door. “It’s real. I saw it.”

“What are you talking about?” I took the iPod buds out of my ears and turned around on my chair to face him.

“The cake. It’s a wedding cake. I saw it in the road. I stuck my finger in it and tasted the icing.”

“You were on the sacred grounds behind the Temple?”

‘Yea, I climbed the fence when the guards weren’t looking and ran to the road and there it was. I had to see if it was real.”

“You idiot. You’ll be banished if anyone ever finds out you were there.” Those words were just out of my mouth when the door opened. Dad was standing in the doorway. He had heard everything.

That night Dad and Brad left for a special meeting with the Elders. Only Dad returned.

Besides the Forbidden List and the lamb sacrifices and all the other hoo-ha, my religion has rituals I won’t know about until I become an Elder. One of them involves girls becoming “married” to the Church on the night of their 17^th birthday. A girl puts a cake in the road behind the temple so the Elders know she is ready to consummate her vows. Some of the girls have gone into shock and died from the consummation ceremony.

They say my brother committed an unpardonable sin by touching the sacred cake. For that, he was stoned to death.

Ammonium nitrate gel makes dynamite look like firecrackers. I know. I tested it. I made some out of bags of fertilizer I stole from the communal barn. Put it in a bucket. Put some styrofoam painted like frosting on top and the sides. Those horny old bastards aren’t going to touch my Amanda. Tonight’s her 17^th birthday. And when the Elders circle the “cake” and start in with their chanting, BOOM! Yea, they’re going to pay for what they did to Brad.

Sorry, Dad, but even though he was a pretty geeky, he was still my brother.

Book Review: Flipping Out by Marshall Karp

2009-04-18T10:14:00.000-07:00

I just finished Marshall Karp's FLIPPING OUT. A great weekend read with enough twists and turns to keep you turning the pages fast-fast-fast, with no bitter aftertaste.(Marshall, like James Patterson, used to be an adman.) It's better than sex! Better than Scotch! Better than a big tax refund! Okay, maybe I went a little over the top, but it will keep you in suspense and in stitches from the first page to the last. Great entertainment.

The Prosecution Rests: New Stories About Courtrooms, Criminals and the Law edited by Linda Fairstein

2009-03-02T19:44:00.000-08:00

I haven't read the book yet, but all the advanced reviews seem to be outstanding. Publisher's weekly had this to say: "Fairnstein has put together a stellar anthology..." With the late, great Edward Hoch contributing a short story and the likes of James Grippando, Barbara Parker and Joel Goldman also contributing, it is sure to be a winner. This is a Mystery Writers of America Anthology and each one in the series has been excellent. I'm sure this one will continue the trend. Not available until April 14, I'm going to be one of the first to get a copy.

Friday's Forgotten Books

2009-02-26T22:48:00.000-08:00

Murder in Metropolis by Lonnie Cruise, Murder Beyond Metropolis by Lonnie Cruise, Married in Metropolis by Lonnie Cruise and Malice in Metropolis by Lonnie Cruise.

Metropolis, Illinois is a quirky little town of about 7,000 on the Ohio River. Its claim to fame it that its the only town in the United States named Metropolis.

To capitalize on its moniker, the town "adopted" Superman and, in 1986, the Illinois House declared Metropolis the Official Hometown of Superman. There is a 15-feet statue of Superman at the east end of the courthouse.

Lonnie Cruise grew up in Las Vegas, later moved to California and finally settled in Metropolis to raise her family. She then started writing Metropolis mysteries beginning with Murder in Metropolis.

Sheriff Joe Dalton, the hero of the series, is a likable, very believable character who is constantly called upon to solve a fictional murder that usually turns into more.

To solve the murders, he has the help of his deputies, his mystery-writing wife and the folks of the town itself. The people of Metropolis have the same hopes, dreams, schemes, aspirations and jealousies of people everywhere. But Cruise pulls you into their lives with an easy-going style that makes you care about them and cheer Joe on as he uncovers the clues that finally lead to solving the crimes.

But don't let the easy-going style of writing that mirrors the easy-going style of Sheriff Dalton fool you. Beneath his laconic exterior is a great cop who is an excellent judge of character and an excellent detective with a keen mind for unearthing clues and using whatever forensic science is at his disposal to aid in his detection.

Likewise, just beneath the surface of Cruise's smooth prose are thrills, chills, suspense, adventure and plenty of twists and turns. The books always keep you guessing until the end.

Just as interesting as the mysteries themselves, are the cast of characters who populate the town. Having grown up in a Midwestern town about the size of Metropolis, I can tell you the people she writes about are absolutely real and, like some folks in most small towns, really colorful, bordering on the bizarre. They are headstrong, set in their wacky ways and not about to let fashion or convention change them one bit.

Most of the time, the Statue of Superman figures prominently in the stories, which adds a touch of surrealism to the hyper realistic milieu.

Start with Murder in Metropolis, which revolves around a headless body found draped over the Superman statue by the courthouse. I read all four books, in the order they were written, in one week. Once I visited Metropolis and spent time with Joe, his wife and the townsfolk, I just didn't want to leave.

Cruise emailed me awhile back with the news that she had given up writing the Metropolis books because she didn't sell as many as she does with her new series, the Kitty Bloodworth, Fifty-Seven Mysteries, which also take place int Metropolis.

Here's hoping sometime she returns with further adventures of Joe Dalton and the super mysteries set in Superman's official hometown.

2009-02-14T18:01:00.000-08:00

SEND IN THE CLOWNS

2009-02-08T12:34:00.000-08:00

This is some flashy fun in which we were all given opening sentences and asked to finish the story. My opening was: For all the thrills and excitement I get, the part I hate is getting the blood out of my clown suit.

And here is the story...

SEND IN THE CLOWNS

For all the thrills and excitement I get, the part I hate is getting the blood out of my clown suit. Club soda doesn’t work nearly as well as they say it does. Spot removers leave a vestigial stain. And the laundry? Forget it. Sometimes I just have to throw the suit away. It’s a pain, no doubt. But it has to be done.

All the beatings and the killings and the bloodshed can’t be helped. It‘s just the way it has to be. Sometimes you have to crack a few eggs to make an omlette.

It started with Augie Doggie. I bumped into him at a backyard birthday party for the mayor’s son.

I was pulling quarters out of the children’s ears, shooting water from my oversized boutonnière---the usual. He was on the other side of the patio, just waving and hugging children one by one. No style. No class. Not even much of a show. I came up behind him and yanked his tail. “What are you doing here?”

“Same as you, entertaining the kids.” He didn’t even try to mimic Augie Doggie’s voice. He turned his back on me.

“I got some advice for you, be out of town by sunset. We don’t like your kind around here. This is a clown town. Always has been. Always will be.”

He didn’t reply.

Soon there were a pack of brightly-colored dogs roaming the streets: Doggie Daddy, Huckleberry Hound. Ruff, Scoobie Doo, and Astro.

I didn’t like it. The other clowns didn’t like it. But we stood by and did nothing. First the canines and then came the other Hannah Barbarians: Quick Draw McGraw, Trixie and Dixie, Magilla Gorilla, Tom and Jerry, Yogi Bear, Boo Boo, Cow and Chicken. Our town was turning into a damn zoo of human-sized cutesy animals. I don’t like cutesy,

“We gotta do something,” Henry the Hobo said at the next meeting of the Clown Club. “Costumed characters are taking over. They have to be stopped.”

One of the old timers, Chuckles the Clown, called for restraint. “I say we let it be. They’re not hurting anyone. They’re only doing the jobs we don’t want to do anyway. Church picnics. Small birthday parties. The crap jobs. We can coexist.”

He couldn’t be more wrong. The dominoes started falling. After the animals came the minor heroes, Johnny Quest, the Power Rangers and the Hurculoids. Followed, of course, by the DC and Marvel cost-tumors. We saw our neighborhoods decline, We watched our jobs go. Who wanted a clown when you could have Batman or Spiderman at your function?

When a couple of other clowns and I showed up at the annual sidewalk sale and saw Barney on the stage, I lost it. That had been our gig forever and I wasn’t going to let some pussy purple dinosaur ruin it. When he came off stage we jumped him and beat his purple ass black and blue.

However, the big showdown came during the July 4th Picnic and Fireworks. Someone had invited a lot of costumed characters to the event. No clowns. This had to be stopped. We clowns were not to become the laughingstock of our own town. We met at the Velvet Painting, a clown bar. We devised a plan. We armed ourselves. We came to the show loaded for bear, dogs, and what have you. We had seltzer bottles full of battery acid, cream pies filled with razor blades and gunpowder-packed rubber noses.

You think Superman can only be hurt by kryptonite? Well try jamming an exploding slap shoe up his crimson skivvies. Batman didn’t like bats so well when they were Louisville Sluggers wielded by ten angry clowns. Aquaman couldn’t swim for shit with three clowns on his back. And Yogi Bear hated the tricks we put in his pik-a-nick basket. All in all, it was a massacre. Clowns stomped the shit out of the other kiddie entertainers. Frankly, I dug all the violence. I never felt more alive. The costumed creeps found out we weren’t clowning around. They left town.

Since then, we haven’t seen any costumors. Even the Hamburgler and Mayor McCheese have left McDonald’s.

We’ve elected a clown mayor, related to the Bush family, by the way, and have clown majority in the city council. It was decided by our elected officials that our borders were a little too porous, so we’ve built a wall around the town and set up border patrols. We’re trying to keep our town free of undesirables.

Just last night, when I was on patrol, I saw a mime trying to sneak in. I asked what he was doing. He didn’t say a word. So I shot him point blank. My gun had a silencer on it.

So listen up all you costumed characters, you mimes, you dancing edu-tainers and magicians, you’re not welcome in Red Skelton City. We have a zero tolerance policy. Our borders are sealed. And we clowns are not afraid to get a little blood on our mitts. We are the baddest clowns around.

Don’t you forget it.

THE END

(for more stories in this challenge see: Patti Abbott's blog: http://pattinase.blogspot.com/
and Gerald So's blog: http://geraldso.blogspot.com/)

Happy Thanksgiving

2008-11-27T11:42:00.000-08:00

Despite all the bad news these days, we all have so much to be thankful for.

GOODBYE CYNARA by r2

2008-10-19T15:16:00.000-07:00

I have been faithful to you, Cynara, in my fashion. You know it. I know it. Oh sure, there have been other women. I’ve looked at them, checked them out, maybe even flirted with them. But I’m a man. That’s the way I’m wired. And face it, the crowd we run with has some great looking babes. I’ve never, never, had another woman in the way I’ve had you. I’ve never even dreamed of it. Never.

But you, you’ve broken our sacred trust. You’ve been with other men. Or, at least, one other man. Don’t tell me it isn’t true. I saw the pictures. Hell, they were all over the internet and in the gossip rags. Of course, they never showed you doing the deed. But I know. I can tell by the way you were holding his arm. I know. You know I know. Don’t even try to deny it.

How could you? Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Did you think I wouldn’t see the pictures? Wasn’t what we had enough for you? What could he give you that I couldn’t? What more could you want? What did Mr. Pretty Boy have that I don’t? I know he’s had plenty of women, that’s for sure. I read the magazines. I had only you. You were my one and only. You were the woman in my life. Singular. One woman. You. You were everything. And now, you’re nothing.

It’s over. You and me. We’re over. Our life is over. Your life is over.

What do I mean? It means, after today, I will never see you again. No one will ever see you again. That’s right, it’s the end of the line for you and me. It’s the end for you.

Maybe we should do it one more time. Just once more. For old times’ sake. One last good night together. What do you think? You seem like you’re willing. But, no. I don’t think it’s a good idea. I’d rather not. I’d rather just end it. Now. Right now. While I still have the rage inside me.

So, I’ll start the fire. The cleansing fire. Strike the match. Light the tinder. This will burn Mr. Pretty boy out of you. Out of your pores. Get his handprints off your body. Will it hurt? Well, yea. But you hurt me. You deserve a little pain. But it should be over soon. Soon, I can walk away from the ashes of our romance. Soon the memories of you will blow away like smoke in the air.

I’ll close the pages on us. I’ll throw the magazine on the flames and watch your face burn, turn black and curl. And you’ll be gone.

And then I’ll move on to another. Another woman. Another month.

AN OLD-FASHIONED VACATION by r2

2008-05-27T19:54:00.000-07:00

With gas prices rising, our plans had to change. They had to. No ifs, ands or buts.

We couldn’t do what we did last vacation. It was just too expensive. The rest of the family didn’t like it. Not one bit. But hey, we could still have fun. Couldn’t we? Well, couldn’t we?

“Nah, this is just gonna suck. It really is,” said Ringo, the youngest of my little brothers.

“Watch your mouth,” I said.

Even though he wasn’t around just then, I didn’t want any of us to get Dad all riled up.

“I’ll give you a smack,” Dad always says when any of us cusses. That’s the warning. After that, it’s a slap to the back of the head for us boys. Nothing for Sissy, ‘cuz she’s a girl and never says half the stuff us guys say, anyway. But in the big picture, it really ain’t fair if you get right down to it.

But right now I didn’t want to worry about what was fair and not fair. I mean hell, it wasn’t fair for them Arabs to be drivin’ gold plated, diamond crusted Rolls Royces while we had to mess up our vacation plans ‘cuz they were so greedy we couldn’t even afford gasoline anymore.

But I didn’t want to get Dad started on that either. I just wanted to break the news to my brothers and sister and get them all calmed down before Dad got home. Since Mom died giving birth to Ringo, it wasn’t hard to get Dad upset. And then the drinkin’ would start and none of us could talk to him for days. Or he’d get all cranky and yell at us or give us a smack for any little thing. All except Sissy, of course.

As the oldest one in the family, I felt a responsibility to make sure us kids had fun and Dad had fun this vacation. Truth be told, I didn’t like it any better than Ringo, but I didn’t let on.

“Dad says we’re gonna have an old-fashioned vacation. Like he did when he was a boy. It’ll be great. I promise.”

“So what’re we gonna do?” Big John asked. He was two years younger than me but already outweighed me by fifty pounds and was about three inches taller.

“I don’t know, but Dad has something in mind.”

“This blows,” Ringo said.

“Now goddamnit, Ringo, just stop your cussin’. I mean it,” I said.

“'Blows’ ain’t cussin. I didn’t mean it the way you thought. I meant, blows, like blows chunks.”

“Whatever.”

So we waited until Dad got home. There was grumbling, sure, but it died down and we played some lame-o word game that Sissy wanted to play. The boys in the family are pretty good about doing things Sissy wants to do since she’s the only girl in the family and there aren’t too many girls her age around.

“Okay gang, we’re going on a camping trip,” Dad said as he came through the front door. He was a big man, and when he was happy, it just sort of filled the room with happy.

“No use trying to go anyplace without gas,” Dylan, Big John’s twin said. Okay, maybe he didn’t feel it. I held my breath for a minute thinking he was going to change the direction of Dad’s mood.

“You’re wrong,” Dad said. “Just wait.”

So we gathered up our sleeping bags and all our other gear and hiked out of our housing development. We had to hop a fence and then we slogged across a cornfield that had been harvested, hopped another fence, then into the woods.

The woods went on for about a half a mile and then there was a railroad track, another field of some sort, weeds it looked like to me, a creek and a scattering of houses just before a gravel road.

We were about three-quarters of the way through the woods when we stopped.

Dad had all of us boys gather dry twigs and leaves. He found a fallen tree and chopped it into logs and smaller pieces for kindling. When it grew dark, we lit the tinder and eventually got a big fire going.

It took awhile, but I have to admit we had fun.

We all sat in a semi-circle at far edge of the woods and watched the house burn down across the creek. We could hear the screams from where we sat, a half a mile away. I admit, burning down the house of an Outsider was a lot quicker with gasoline, but there was something to be said about doing it the old fashioned way.

THE CRIMINALIST by Eugene Izzi

2008-05-07T23:31:00.000-07:00

When I was just out of college and money was tighter than a Democratic primary, there were three authors I would actually pay to read. Waiting for their books to come to the library was a torture I was unwilling to endure. They were Robert B. Parker, Loren D. Estleman and Eugene Izzi. Izzi was a tough guy novelist who did for Chicago what Estleman did for Detroit and Parker for Boston. He never had the humor of Parker nor the mannered style of Estleman, but wow could he tell a story. I’m recommending THE CRIMINALIST, the last and best book by the unfortunate author. Unfortunate because after it was written, Izzi was found hanging by a rope outside his office window. It was listed as a suicide but he was found clad in a bullet proof vest with bruises on his face. There were rumors Izzi had written a book about police corruption that was a little too close to the facts, and that a police hit squad had killed him and made it look like a suicide. Anyway, that’s another mystery for another blog. THE CRIMINALIST is raw, full of testosterone and grim like all of Izzi’s novels, with a very intricate, yet totally believable plot. He is at the top of his game in this novel. I would recommend all of Izzi’s books, but if your want to start with the best, go with the last.

Welcome to My Blog

2007-03-13T22:22:00.000-07:00

Thanks for stopping by. Pull up a comment and stay awhile.