Recent Reads - June 2010

The Forsaken by Tim Tzouliadis

This was a revelation to me, a well researched account of how a large number of US citizens fell out of the frying pan of the Great Depression into the fire of Stalin's Russia. These economic migrants were welcomed and feted initially but soon they began, one by one, to fall prey to the paranoia that prevailed under Stalin. The US embassy washed their hands of those who looked to them for succour - presumably viewing them as traitors for deserting their country. Aside from the great ogre Stalin, the villain of the piece is the US ambassador Joseph Davies who, in addition to ignoring the plight of his trapped fellow countrymen, sent glowing reports back to Roosevelt about the state of the Soviet Empire. Davies attended the Stalinist show trials and alone of all Western observers saw nothing untoward in these farcical proceedings. His main preoccupation was buying up Russian art treasures and shipping them back to the US. A monster of appetite and self-regard.

The Big Short by Michael Lewis

While a lot of this was too technical for me, I think I got the message. And can even explain what a credit default swap is. While the world's economy was going down the toilet thanks to the reckless packaging and selling of sub-prime mortgage bonds, certain clever boys (and they were all boys) were betting against these bonds and making billions from their inevitable failure. The brazen effrontery of the financial institutions who marketed these scrofulous bonds and who, in some cases, also bet against them is a wonder to behold. And we thought we had poor regulation over here. The book is good on the personalities who populate this freakish enclave - a lot of them seem to suffer from Aspberger's Syndrome .

Solar by Ian McEwan

A light-weight comic offering by a man who in his early days suffered from a certain portentiousness. This is an amusing confection for the beach - and why not. In Michael Beard McEwan has created a character to rival Nick Cave's Bunny Munro or Martin Amis's John Self. He's ostensibly a scientist but his glory days are over. His main concern is indulging his appetite for drink, food and women - strictly in that order. The plot is replete with cod science and there's an unlikely murder scenario, but that makes no difference. Enjoy the fun of the set pieces - especially the frozen penis episode. If you don't laugh out loud at that I'll refund your money.

At the Same Time by Susan Sontag

I picked this up at a car boot sale in Dun Laoghaire. I noticed that the flyleaf was neatly inscribed with the signature of Sinead O'Connor. A common enough name of course but I hope she's not down on her luck. Or maybe it was just spring cleaning. This is Sontag's final book of essays published three years after her death in 2004. It contains her famous (or infamous) New Yorker article following 9/11 where she bravely bucked the trend. She's a true intellectual hero who, while sometimes priggish and gratuitously esoteric, expands our horizons and challenges our smug assumptions. The best essay in this book is about Leonid Tsypkin a Russian doctor who wrote just one novel - Summer in Baden Baden. It's a labour of love.

Rancid Ruminations

What fresh hell is this - being exposed on the national airwaves (Newstalk at lunch time) to the fulminations of that officious twat Gay Byrne. He was banging on about the 600 new speed cameras that are going to be installed - all the better to harass the persecuted Irish motorists still further. This is all about revenue gathering. Remember when parking restrictions were introduced we were told that this was to help traffic flow. Now it's an extortion industry - I can't even park outside Paddy Power's in Dalkey on a Saturday without some prick in a comic opera uniform feeling my collar.

For me the summer is over after the carnage in Pairc Ui Caoimh last Sunday. Nothing to look forward to but another lap of honour for the charmless Cody. Cork had the hunger and the passion, Tipp had lots of elegant stylists but they weren't allowed to play. It was like a saluki being attacked by a pit bull terrier. It ill behoves me to say an admiring word about Cork hurling - I still haven't forgiven Mattie Fouhy for throwing that hurley back in '61 (or was it '62). However there was much to admire about them last Sunday. I've always been a big admirer of Donal Og - both for his politics and for his tactical acumen. He threw in a few superb saves as well. The full back Cadogan was my man of the match though. Would that anybody on the Tipp team had his energy and manic commitment. Add the likes of John Gardener, the marvelous and ageless Ben O'Connor, and that family of South Sea Islanders they imported and you have a truly formidable force. Will they be able to crank up that level of intensity again this summer is the question. As for Tipp, I truly despair. What can Sheedy do with such a spineless bunch. And apart from Cummins they have no natural leaders. Maybe last September has damaged them fatally for they must know they left an All-Ireland title back there.

Art Musings

The annual RHA debacle is upon us. Looking at the paucity of sales you might wonder are the RHA now making more money from the entry fees than they are from sales. And of course the vast majority of submissions are rejected every year - there being little room for everybody else in a show dominated by the Academy members' multiple submissions. The exhibits are the usual mix of the good, the bad and the truly mediocre. I am mortally affronted every year by the poor quality of the portraiture - dead eyes in dead faces, no animating presence. Send the lot of them off to the Prado to see how it's done. There were occasional good deeds: a mighty fine Gwen O'Dowd, an exquisite little Eilis O'Connell bronze, a moody Martin Gale featuring a line of cars at dusk heading into the ominous countryside, and a super urban landscape by Donald Teskey. And then there was a plastic bag of used clothes with a little photographic ID showing through - the title was "My Father's Portrait" . The bag contained the clothes and property handed over by the hospital after the poor man died. Poignant? No, bloody trite.

Peter Green at the Olympia

Rumours of Peter Green's terminal decline are greatly exaggerated. Backed by a solid chugging band (including standup bass) he put on a fine performance in the Olympia last Sunday. Sporting a bandana and bearded like Captain Birdseye he beamed out on the audience as if he was really enjoying himself. The show took a little time to get going, but after a couple of perfunctory workouts we were treated to that sharp soaring sound that make him a legend amongst blues guitarists. And the amiable growl of a voice worked well. He ran through some of his popular stuff like Black Magic Woman, and Albatross but a large proportion of the show harked back to his John Mayall days and obscure songs by Robert Parker and Willie Dixon. The highlights for me were a virtuoso version of Parker's Steal Your Heart Away and a lengthy exploration of Rainy Night in Georgia.

Donovan at Russbrough House

The last time I saw Donovan was in the old Arcadia Ballroom in Cork back in the Sixties. It was very early in his career and he was plainly at sea as a public performer. I remember a lot to time spent tuning his guitar before he got going. I quite liked some of his songs but regarded him a lightweight in comparison to Dylan. When I saw that he was opening an exhibition called Atlantis to Arcadia in Russborough House I saw it as an opportunity to kill three birds with one stone. Pay my first visit to Russborough House, support the excellent Cherrylane Gallery folk who were presenting the show, and see how the old hippy was looking these days. The show was very well attended but was over awed by its salubrious surroundings - why look at the decorative and insipid art when you can enjoy the glorious architecture and antique silverware. Donovan made a short and zany speech that seemed to suggest that Atlantis was located off the Kerry coast and told us how much he had in common with John Lennon. He is still flying his freak flag but these days it's topped by some circular decorative headwear - a la Richard Thompson. After the opening the crowd go downstairs for the promised performance by Donovan. This actually consists of Donovan declaiming rather than singing something dreadful called Atlantis while abusing a perfectly good guitar. After one song he mercifully hands us over to Chris de Burgh (an in-law of the artist) who sings a tuneful and perfectly acceptable version of Catch the Wind - by far Donovan's best song. A rum do all in all but we left well amused.