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Summary
Summary
A New York Times New & Noteworthy Book * "Strange and affectionate, like Almost Famous penned by Shakespeare. A love letter to music in all its myriad iterations."--Kirkus Reviews * "This book has no business being as good as it is."--Christian Wiman
In the year 2063, on the edge of the Crater formerly known as Montréal, a middle-aged man and his ex's daughter search for a cult hero: the leader of a short-lived band named after a forgotten work of poetry and known to fans through a forgotten work of music criticism. In this exuberantly plotted verse novel, Guriel follows an obsessive cult-following through the twenty-first century. Some things change (there's metamorphic smart print for music mags; the Web is called the "Zuck"). Some things don't (poetry readings are still, mostly, terrible). But the characters, including a robot butler who stands with Ishiguro's Stevens as one of the great literary domestics, are unforgettable.
Splicing William Gibson with Roberto Bolaño, Pale Fire with Thomas Pynchon, Forgotten Work is a time-tripping work of speculative fiction. It's a love story about fandom, an ode to music snobs, a satire on the human need to value the possible over the actual--and a verse novel of Nabokovian virtuosity.
Author Notes
Jason Guriel is the author of several collections of poems and a book of essays. His writing has appeared in Slate, The Atlantic, and other magazines. He lives in Toronto.
Reviews (2)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Guriel's playful debut novel (after the poetry collection Satisfying Clicking Sound) explores the nature of fandom and inspiration. Writer Geoff Gibson is obsessed with musical auteur Jim Gordon and the only album produced by his group, Mountain Tea, titled The Dead. Guriel begins with passionate Jim putting together his "garage band" with sky-high artistic aspirations while under the influence of Nabokov (he considers calling the band Pale Fire, after his favorite artwork of any medium). The fact that band members Lou, Hal, and "wet and woeful" Dennis have different passions augurs ill for the group. Years later, they get a rave review and attention from an influential writer, which impresses the dogged Gibson. After Gibson expresses his devotion to the group's legacy, a former "Tea" member sends Gibson a message requesting that they meet. A feast of allusions--musical, literary, and cinematic--is the book's most entertaining aspect, and it speaks to the powerful currents flowing between artists and artworks across disciplines, as well as to the effect of art on its consumers. The name Mountain Tea, for example, comes from an obscure poem, while the work of Orson Welles is a touchstone throughout and Gibson writes in a coffeeshop called Swann's Way; the narrative itself is written in iambic pentameter. Guriel's bountiful celebration of connections between art finds an inspiring, infectious groove. (Sept.)
Kirkus Review
In the near future, obsessive fans try to find meaning in a band's lost legacy in this eccentric, ambitious debut novel by Canadian poet Guriel. Novels about legendary but unsuccessful artists are not unheard of--see The Commitments, This Is Memorial Device, or Juliet, Naked--but this may be the first rock 'n' roll novel written in iambic pentameter. Composed entirely in heroic couplets, Guriel's book chronicles the long, strange trip of a one-hit-wonder band called Mountain Tea, led by madman composer James Gordon and backed up by Dennis Byrne, Louis Reed, Hal U. Hawks, and a drum machine. The boys released a brilliant album called The Dead in the early 2000s, along with one single, and then promptly disappeared. Some half-century later, a motley crew of fans are chasing down every scrap of information they can find about the band. They include the tragic Patti Devin, a reporter for MOJO magazine who wrote one of the fundamental pieces about the group. Others include a triptych of competitive buyers seeking out rare vinyl copies of The Dead as well as a timid bookstore owner and an English student who find themselves on a strange pilgrimage into a disaster zone to find the heart of Mountain Tea's mystery. To make things even stranger, Guriel has crafted a dystopian scenario that includes bots, an odd Google-ish syndicate called Zuber, and fake nails that can record conversations. The book's rhythm takes a little getting used to, but the story is oddly compelling, particularly when the seekers eventually discover the band members' fates. Name-checking dozens of artists ranging from Nick Drake to Lester Bangs, the novel is strange and affectionate, like Almost Famous penned by Shakespeare. A love letter to music in all its myriad iterations. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Excerpts
Excerpts
1. Hubert's favorite work was Mountain Tea. It's why he'd gotten into poetry. He loved a stylish sentence. Strong vibratos. He loved that Amis book about castratos, The one that has a character called "Hubert." He loved to say he loved the works of Schubert. Most of all, he loved to love great books. His earnest views, though, often earned him looks Of pity. Books are "texts," and love? All wrong. The point of reading (someone paused, mid-bong, To tell him) isn't pleasure or escapism; The point is pointing out the hidden racism, Sexism, and/or classism of the text-- Which left the English major feeling vexed. He'd found himself inside the sort of dorm Where young men, parroting their profs, perform The part of well-read mind and talk til dawn Of Butler, Derrida, Foucault, Lacan, And other luminaries of the Left. But Hubert, waving off the bong, soon left. A life-sized holo Scarface followed him, Machine gun swiveling. At home, his dim Room, sensing movement, raised the lights a notch. To raise his spirits, Hubert liked to watch The sort of film his classmates liked to hate Or label "problematic." "Ziri, 8 1/2," he said. "First scene." He yawned and sank Down on his futon. In his fauna tank, A sleeping bonsai panther wagged its tail. The mail had yet to beam down on the mail Pad by the door. The smart paint on his wall Began to play Fellini's picture. (Small Dead spots, where paint had chipped, stood out like stone In rushing water.) Artists work alone, The picture seemed to say. It was about A film director, Guido, wracked with doubt About his half-formed film, while all around Distractions--mistress, wife, and actors--hound Our hero. Hubert liked the lesson: men Directing films have merely swapped out pen For megaphone. They pick and place their herds Of extras as a poet would his words-- Though their words, armed with legs, will often wander Off. Fellini's man had paused to ponder Life. His wife, it seemed, thought he'd outgrown her. But Hubert liked that Guido was a loner Floating like a god above the fray. Of course, he knew that those who brood the way Fellini's privileged male director does Ignore the drones enabling them, the buzz Of labour on the set. And yet he felt The self behind each scene. The cult band Felt, The poet Frost, Fellini--Hubert knew Their work expressed their souls, which passed clean through Our sieve-like theories. Souls were real, the art They made the proof. The film had reached the part Where Guido and his wife explore the set That's been constructed for the film he's yet To start: a giant spaceship's skeleton, The sort of ship some blob of gelatin With tendrils would attack. The science fiction Of a simpler age. He loved this vision, Hubert, of a future that would never Happen now. He pictured it whenever He imagined what tomorrow might Be like. Fellini's spaceship, poised for flight, Was dated now, a silly dream, but in Its time, it gleamed. Likewise, a dorsal fin Was de rigueur when navigating stars In 1960s Jetsons bubble cars. And in the novel Neuromancer, human Beings--jacked in, wearing trodes--would zoom in On vast tiers of data; outer space Had been replaced by pre-Zuck "cyberspace," Which Hubert figured would've looked like Tron: The ground a grid your avatar slid on. The futures we prefer have long since passed. Tomorrow is interred inside the past. *** Hubert loved looking back. He'd waved off eye Replacements; Hubert had a glasses guy Who sourced assorted old-school gear for old Souls and their skulls. His frames were bold, As quaint as whalebone corsets, hunting foxes, iPhones, and those primitive Xboxes That weren't implanted but, instead, sat on Your furniture. He loved the off-brand dawn His window ran, recorded when the sun Could still be seen. He loved such stuff as Fun House, Horses, Astral Weeks, The La's, Pet Sounds, Thomas Disch's essays, Ezra Pound's Translations, Orson Welles as Harry Lime (The Third Man), poetry that dares to rhyme, The books of Paula Fox, the bass of Carol Kaye, that moment when the poet Daryl Hine compares some "love-disordered linen" To "brackish water." Hubert longed for hymns in Churches, first editions, and constraint. He loved the room he rented in a quaint Toronto house. He loved artisanal walks. (He wouldn't teleport.) He thought Talk Talk's Last record music's cloud-wreathed apex; Toto Its nadir. On the mail pad, MOJO Materialized. (The mail beamed in at night.) "Pause." The wall became a black-and-white Tintype: Fellini's hero's face in doubt. (One eye, where paint had chipped, appeared burned out.) Hubert watched his mag, like Star Trek sand, Take shimmering shape, then touched it with a hand: Still warm. There was the standard MOJO mix Of articles, reviews, and concert pics. There also was an obit for Oasis; The aging band had fused and perished, faces Picassoed, mop tops mixed--a teleporter Mishap while on tour. One shrewd reporter, Who'd glimpsed the Cubist mess, could not refrain From wit: the band's two stars now shared one brain, Which was ironic; Liam and Noel, rock gods And warring brothers, spent their lives at odds. But now their hearts, once split in two, were one Big mashup of a muscle in a ton Of flesh--the band's last huddle. Noel's song "Slide Away" was playing; Hubert had subscribed To MOJOplus, the upper-price-point version Of the mag--and Hubert's main diversion From the grind of grad school. MOJOplus, On pixiepaper, was superfluous, But awesome. If you tapped a tintype (what His folks once called "a foto") it would strut Or speak or turn into a talking head Voiceovering some footage. If you read About a song, the page might start to play Its chords. That said, the reader had no say In when concentric liquid ripples might Begin to spread across the text, a white And foamy head of Stella swallowing The type; or when the letters, following Their own discreet imperatives, might swarm Like filings in magnetic fields to form A BMW. A barnacle Of kale might crawl across an article And bloom into an ad for superfood. Your MOJOplus could analyze your mood, Decide you need more sleep, and push a pill Designed for you alone--bespoke ZzzQuil. On pixiepaper, type, no longer black And fixed, could stretch, divide, curl up, go slack, And vanish. Pics could puddle, spread, and blend, Like Rorschach blots set loose. Towards the end Of every MOJO was the "Buried Treasure" Essay. This one-page feature took the measure Of some minor work time had forgot To, well, forget or scrub from human thought: The sort of record that was out of print Or went for hundreds when described as "mint." And it was this page, in the June edition, Hubert later likened to a vision. Excerpted from Forgotten Work by Jason Guriel All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
