General Blog About Everything

The world premiere of Tsunami by Dominic Muldowney (the second recipient of
the Elgar Bursary for mature composers) registered barely a ripple. Here was
a highly experienced theatre composer working with a significant poet, James
Fenton, and a charismatic actor-singer, Philip Quast. But Tsunami, played by
the London Symphony Orchestra under Sir Colin Davis, patronised the popular
styles to which it alluded.

Fidel Castro seems to be about the only communist leader whom it’s still OK to like. This memoir, based on more than 100 hours of interviews conducted and edited by Ramonet, confirms that position, and the question-and-answer format makes it easier to read than the usual, bible-sized political memoir.

James Purdew, the protagonist of this awkward novel, is bedevilled by two serious problems: large gaps in his memory and an author who can’t resist foisting his influences on his readers. Losing yourself in a story is hard work when the main character very quickly finds a collection of stories by the same author quoted at the start of the novel (in this case Borges, and if you’ve ever read Borges you’ll have a very good idea where the book is heading).

The Esquire journalist AJ Jacobs, a secular, liberal New York Jew, vows to spend a year living according to every precept laid down in the Bible – the first eight months in accordance with the Old Testament, taking the New Testament on board in the final four. He also travels America and Israel to hear Hasidic and Orthodox Jews, liberal Lutherans, Creationists and Evangelists give explanations of their world-view. Some are reasoned, others as mad as a box of frogs. The result is an engaging, sometimes twee but often comical piece of extended journalism, full of curious lore.

Miranda July has a disarming name that sits well with the artfully intense photo of her on the jacket. Normally these things aren’t worth pointing out, but there’s enough in this collection of whatever it is that makes her picture so distinctive that you might ponder it while considering a couple of things: Some of her writing has a tendency towards repetition, that seems to grasp at some sense of naivety. (”I still felt summery; I had a summery tableau in mind” or “Vincent was on the shared patio. I’ll tell you about this patio. It is shared”.) And in places her sexual frankness starts to resemble the unsolicited whisperings of a pervert on a bus. But skip a couple of the stories, squint a little here and there, and this becomes a very interesting collection.

With his blend of country twang, lolloping boogie and Beefheartian
astringency, Muleskinner Jones may be the British version of Johnny Dowd –
or the Wiltshire version, at least.