At this point, is there any more insight to be had about the Beatles and the Rolling Stones? Any images one could possibly see that one hasn’t already viewed? Just when you think the answer to those questions is “no,” along come two books that seek to color in the few spaces left open in the incredibly complete picture of these two bands.

Bob Bonis isn’t a name I was familiar with before receiving two books in the mail from It Books — The Lost Beatles Photographs and The Lost Rolling Stones Photographs. Bonis was the tour manager for each band during their U.S. tours in 1964-66. I was skeptical, for the reasons stated above, that I would find anything of value in either. But each is a revelation. Fans of either band surely have seen photos of the members in their earliest days, fresh-faced, earnest kids who don’t yet know that they’ll one day rule the world. In these books, which gather the best of the thousands of shots Bonis’ took of them over the course of three years, these intimate moments in aggregate capture the catalysis of the bands as they move from energetic relative unknowns to road-weary stars.

The Rolling Stones book offers more candid moments, with the photos largely divided into sections for each of the five members, plus founding member Ian Stewart and manager Andrew Loog Oldham. Whether by default or by design, the individual Stones seemed better able to be on their own, and this yields photos that feature moments of silliness intercut with those of introspection. Already you can see the personalities emerging. The engaging eccentric Brian Jones, the moody muso Keith Richards, the preening singer Mick Jagger, the aloof drummer Charlie Watts and the good-timin’ non-entity Bill Wyman.

The Beatles book is organized differently, sections mostly given over to 11 of the band’s dates during its U.S. tours. The most revelatory photos are from August 1964. The band was between shows — the Hollywood Bowl and Red Rocks — and spent a few days at the Bel Air, Calif., home of actor Reginald Owen. There, the boys goof for the camera and seem to be genuinely having fun.

From there, we get live performance pictures that span from Maple Leaf Gardens in Toronto midway through their first U.S. tour in September 1964 to Busch Stadium in St. Louis in August 1966 toward the tail end of their last shows in the U.S. The crowds get larger, the band’s suits more elaborate and the sideburns longer. But the grins on the faces of John, Paul, George and Ringo never waver.

Uber fans of both groups likely have seen images like these, and know some of the back story shared here. But they haven’t seen these photographs. Bonis rebuffed attempts throughout his life to publish his photos. He died in 1992, and 15 years later, his son, Alex, connected with Larry Marion, who assembled the books. The result is two time capsules that shed just a bit more light on two very well-illuminated bands.

Things have been moving at a furious pace in the world of The Feelies of late, keeping in mind that things were moving rather slow for two decades.

After hanging it up in 1991 for what would become a 20-year hiatus, the band has been on fire, relatively speaking. First came leader Glenn Mercer’s 2007 solo debut, Wheels in Motion. That was followed in 2008 by some dates by a reunited band (this includes Mercer, guitarist Bill Million, drummer Stanley Demeski, bassist Brenda Sauter and percussionist Dave Weckerman) and word that Mercer and Million were again writing songs.

That brings us to 2011, and the improbable event of the release of the Feelies fifth album, the majestic Here Before. Indeed, it feels as if we have been here before, with an album that could be the logical successor to 1986′s The Good Earth, a collection of songs that blend the pastoral wash of acoustic guitars with the more frenetic picking of electric strings. There are subtle changes from when we last heard the band, as just a touch of studio sheen is replaced by a slight hint of experimentation. But this is a Feelies record, and a very good one at that.

All of this isn’t as unlikely as one might gather from the above. Pre-2007, however, it might have been. But when Mercer began recording what he called his “Feelie-ish” solo debut, he called is old bandmates for assistance. Million, who had decamped in 1991 for Florida, said was interested, but the timing was off, Mercer told me in 2007. “It just didn’t seem right to call it a Feelies record without Bill’s involvement.”

Fast forward a year, and Million is back playing with the reunited band, and the prospect of a new album became strong.

Some have assumed that the lyrics make direct reference to the band’s return, and it’ easy to hear. Opener “Nobody Knows” begins with the lines “Is it too late/To do it again?/Or should we wait/Another ten?” Mercer debunks that, a bit, below. But regardless of what the band thinks of the return, fans are sure to rejoice. The Feelies are among the few bands without a real misstep, and Here Before continues that streak effortlessly.

TIRBD: Much has been made of some of the lyrics here, where songs bookending the album refer to “doing it again.” Do those songs reference the band getting back together, and if so, what was the mindset of the band while recording those tracks?

GM: Most of the reviews have mentioned the opening line as being a reference to the reunion, and there may be some connection to that, but the song is more about the lines, “well, you never know how it’s gonna go.” It’s mostly dealing with the balance between trying to exert control over circumstance and accepting whatever life is presenting to us. We’ve always been more successful when being reactive, rather than pro-active, in terms of our “career.” In regards to the song “So Far,” that really doesn’t have much to do with our reunion and it’s more about my life in general and that’s also true of “Nobody Knows.” The phrase “do it again” doesn’t imply any specific reference to the passage of time.

What has the chemistry been like being together again, particularly playing with Bill?

I wouldn’t want to go too far toward analyzing what makes our band’s chemistry what it is, but I appreciate that we have a particular sound that comes only from the combination of the five of us. In general, it comes from the way we each approach our instruments. I think our chemistry remains in place because we still have the same approach. Our playing may be more refined, but our approach is still the same. As far as playing with Bill, we share a sympathetic style that requires very little, if any, communication or analysis. We just play with a dynamic that is effortless.

You mentioned around the time of your solo album that the absence of Bill Million was the difference between that being your solo debut or the fifth Feelies album. Now that he’s back, what is the difference in the music being made? Do you write differently when you know it’s for a Feelies project, or are the songs the same but simply performed differently by these players than others?

My approach when writing songs was the same for the Feelies as when I was working on Wheels in Motion. Because Dave, Stan and Brenda played on some of those tracks, it sounds similar to the Feelies in some ways, but it also has a sound of its own because of how and where it was recorded. I didn’t really know if I was actually making a record when I did Wheels. I didn’t have a deadline, or even a label at that time. It was made over the course of several years, in connection with me putting my home studio together. The most obvious difference between the two is that my solo record didn’t have any writing collaborations with Bill.

Should we be amazed at how much of a piece this feels with your past work given the 20 years that transpired between Time for a Witness and Here Before?

I’m not surprised when I hear it suggested that Here Before picks up where the other records left off. Each of those records had its own sound, while maintaining common threads throughout. We didn’t set out to make the new record sound any particular way, except to maintain the same basic feel that we had on the demos. When we play live, there are many variables that contribute to the sound – room size, ceiling height, PA specs, stage set-up, etc. – and we always sound like us. The same is true when recording. Despite the variables, we really can’t help sounding like us. It’s also true when we play or record cover songs, we still sound like us.

The Feelies has been a tremendously influential band, but still no one sounds exactly like you do. Do you hear that influence in younger bands, and what qualities do you feel the band has that make it unique?

It’s flattering to hear that we’ve been influential on other, younger bands, but whenever I listen to other groups that supposedly sound like us, I never hear the similarities, only the differences. Again, I’d prefer not to get too analytical about why we sound unique. For the most part, it’s all very organic and natural and is a result of the sum of the various components.

Here ’tis, the latest stop on the So Dark for April blog tour in support of the fourth issue of The Lineup, a collection of “poems on crime.”  The collection is edited by  Gerald So with Reed Farrel Coleman, Sarah Cortez and R. Narvaez, and features poems by Ken Bruen, Michael Casey, Reed Farrel Coleman, David Corbett, Mary Agnes Dalrymple, Mary Christine Delea, Jeanne Dickey, H. Palmer Hall, Paul Hostovsky, David Jordan, Laura LeHew, Thomas Michael McDade, Peter Meinke, Keith Rawson, Chad Rohrbacher, Stephen Jay Schwartz, Nancy Scott, Kieran Shea, J.D. Smith, J.J. Steinfeld, John Stickney, Caitlin Elizabeth Thomson, Randall Watson, Charles Harper Webb, Steve Weddle, Germaine Welch.

Want to know why I’m writing about The Lineup instead of appearing in The Lineup? Reed Farrel Coleman hits it on the head in his introduction to the great new fourth issue of the collection, subtitled, as always “Poems on Crime”: “You cannot read what follows and be left untouched or uninformed by how this group of poets has chosen to walk the mean streets and look around the dark corners so that the rest of us might understand.”

Oh, sure, in my burgeoning little “career” as a crime fiction writer, I have assayed those “mean streets,” purpled some prose over those “dark corners.” I might even have done so with what some would call a sharp turn of phrase. As I perused this new issue of The Lineup, almost embarrassed that I had bothered to send in my own tepid verse for consideration, I tried to discern what it was exactly that set this work apart from my own. My problem, as you’ll soon figure out if you haven’t already, is that I seem to need several words to get my point across. What the best poetry does is to slay you with a line, a word, a syllable. The best selections in this issue, as in the previous three, offer a gutpunch of realization in a moment captured.

Like Coleman’s “Slider, Part 7,” where, with the six words “the dirt/ more bullets/ more bodies,” he succinctly sums up the devastation of war atrocities.

Like Keith Rawson’s “A Story to Tell Our Daughter,” where he essentially tells that story in three lines: “She kept her daddy’s revolver cocked/ in between her thighs as she guided/ my right hand to her distended belly.”

Like Steve Weddle, who, in his poem “The Balance Lost,” offers a description – “Blood spreads, pools, shimmers,/ Like taillights in the rain” – that you might find in any number of crime fiction stories, but which here is the story, the culmination of a powerful clutch of lines that set the scene.

Like Ken Bruen, who… well, come on, this is Ken Bruen we’re talking about. Is there a writer with more references to “poetic” writing in his press clippings than Bruen who doesn’t have a published collection to his name? Everything he writes feels like poetry, because his prose is spare, razor sharp. Not a word is wasted, entire events are rendered in a line or two. It’s an oft-copied style, but one that, without the power of his words behind it

simply
rings
false.

His poem here, “Funeral: Of the Wino,” was drawn from The Hackman Blues, a poem that it both of a piece with the book and able to stand alone. It is among several poems that have appeared in his early fiction. If there’s any doubt that the man knows poetry as well as poetic prose, have a look.

Seeking wisdom, I turned to the man himself, who was kind enough to share his trademark brief responses to my wordier questions. Look no further than that ratio of question length to answer length to understand why Bruen is in the book, and I’m just writing about it.

TIRBD: Your prose already is very poetic. When you’re writing, do you made a conscious choice about whether something is poetry or prose, or do you follow your muse and then sort it out later?

KB: Write it as I sense it, then hope like hell I can make it sing.

What can poetry do that prose can’t, and vice versa?

KB: Truly move the stone heart

You sprinkled your early novels with poems, but told Ray Banks in an interview that a collection of your poetry will never appear. Why?

KB: Too many Irish poets. Did a pamphlet with Reed, Pete Speigelman for Bouchercon in Madison and loved doing it.

What are your thoughts about a collection of poetry on crime?

KB: Brilliant idea. Wish to fook I’d thought of it.

What poets do you admire and why? (Ed note: I’d like to think Ken was talking about poetic in the larger sense with this response, which lists blogs and novelists instead of poets).

Yours
Jen’s Book Thoughts
Murderati
The Rap Sheet
Crime Always Pays
Gerard So
Bill Crider
Ali Karim
Jason Starr new one

Because they are like a jolt to the soul, love ‘em.

OK, so good intentions and all that. I had planned to offer a daily blow-by-blow of the Mission Creek Festival, and here it is a week after it got done, and I’ve yet to make good on the promise. Here’s what happened: life got in the way. The busiest week and work I’ve had in years coincided with the festival, so I was lucky to see all of the shows I did, let alone report on them. So, here, with a week’s worth of hindsight, is a quick wrap-up, highlighting all the bands I saw.

British Sea Power: A review I read of the band’s new album said something to the effect that BSP had made another compelling record that was once again free of hooks. That sounds harsh, but in a way, it’s true.  Save for the chantlike first single, “Who’s in Control?” there is nothing from the set I can recall, and certainly nothing I found myself humming even as I walked back to my car after the show. Yet it was a pretty great set, an arena-sized performance crammed into a small club. Roaring guitars, inventive songs and a slithering violin snaking through the proceedings made this a great way to start the festival. Openers A Classic Education have internalized whole genres that petered out before they were born, offering up a nice mix of shoegaze and Sarah Records-era pop.

Railroad Earth: I described this as jam band bluegrass, and that comes as close to the truth as anything. Great, fast picking, wonderful harmonies, and songs that went on far too long. When the band played together, it was really nice. When the individual members took interminable solos, not so much. I saw five songs in 45 minutes and, having had my fill, took off. The beauty of the all-access pass.

Jeff Tweedy: This was probably the most entertaining and most puzzling show of the fest. I had read a review of Tweedy’s show from the previous night, which reported that the crowd was unruly and obnoxious. I began to wonder about halfway through the set if that’s something Tweedy brings on himself. He’s not obnoxious, far from it. But he has developed a sharp wit and a masterful stage presence, and it is as if his stance –whether by design or default — seems to encourage the crowd to test him. So, while his song choice and performance was top-notch as always — a solo version of “Wilco (the song)” proving he can do just about anything in that context — the crowd took things out of his hand for a while. At one point, a drunken girl shouted, “my dad is the mayor of Cedar Rapids!” “Now we know who you are,” Tweedy said. He subsequently played the Handsome Family’s “So Much Wine” as a sort of kiss off.

Thurston Moore/Kim Gordon: This was the let down of the festival. A Q&A with the Sonic Youth founders that was moderated by University of Iowa professor Kembrew McLeod was often boring, with the two laconic artists rarely engaged, and McLeod’s questions ranged from too specific to too self-serving (yes, you know Public Enemy. Good for you). A show later that evening with the amazing drummer Chris Corsano was also a dud. The pair had promised two sets — one of noise, the other of “song-based” material. Instead, we got one slightly longer set of noise, capped with a slightly less noisy song where Kim Gordon “sang.” I had hoped for material like that found on Moore’s fairly brilliant Trees Around the Academy release, but instead got the typical head-down noodling and feedback that is interesting only in the service of a song.

Guided by Voices: This was the highlight of the festival. Anyone who reads this with any regularity knows GBV is my favorite band, so the chance to see the reunited group about a mile from my house (after having traveled to Minneapolis and Chicago to see them last fall) was wonderful. Of the three reunion shows I saw, this was the best. I think the size of the room and my proximity account for much of that, but the set, having evolved to include a few tracks from Mag Earwhig! and excluding much of Mitch Mitchell’s ridiculous rap on the too-long reimagining of “Lethargy,” didn’t hurt. They’re playing Pitchfork and a few other places, but I think I’m sated now.

Kurt Vile: I didn’t get the hype about Vile until hearing his new album. There, promising moments coalesced into promising songs. In a live setting, some of the songs were elevated, the energy of performance giving them an extra kick. Others sagged, missing the atmosphere of the studio. Overall, the sound was less nuanced, more forecful, sounding for all the world like a second-tier Seattle band from the early 1990s (that’s not a slight; that second tier takes up significant shelf space in my CD collection). That new album and Vile’s performance moved him up my list from “mild curiousity” to “one to watch.”

Wye Oak: I’ve missed Wye Oak the past few times they have played town, but I won’t again. I’ve really liked their three albums, but I loved their set. Everything clicked for me seeing them live. Jenn Wasner is a monster on the guitar, and Andy Stack is dextrous and assured as he plays drums and keyboards simultaneously. Going back to listen to the albums after seeing the show, they have added depth and color. What a great band.

With Guided by Voices as the top-billed act, you know it’s a lock that I’m going to be all over the Mission Creek Festival. Starting tonight and running through next Monday, the festival brings dozens of music acts and authors to town for eight big nights of rockin’ and reading. In its sixth year, the festival seems to have come into its own, nabbing top-drawer acts that span genres, and putting together a schedule that is manageable and appealing.

Over the course of eight nights, there are shows I want to see on at least seven of them (a great local band that I’ve seen dozens of times plays Friday, and that might give me the chance to catch up on some sleep). I’ll write a bit about each night, which will include reports about several bands I’ve not heard before, as well as some like Jeff Tweedy, Kim and Thurston from Sonic Youth and Guided by Voices — that I have seen before.

One of the top draws is one I’ll likely pass on: filmmaker John Waters. I saw him lecture in Iowa City a few years ago, and while he was entertaining, I don’t need to hear him again.

Here’s what to expect in next day reports:

Tuesday: British Sea Power
Wednesday: Railroad Earth
Thursday:  A taping of the great Sound Opinions radio show and a solo Jeff Tweedy show.
Friday: Gordon/Moore (a lecture and performance)
Sunday: Guided by Voices
Monday: Kurt Vile
Tuesday: Wye Oak

There also are several top-notch authors in town for the fest, and as energy and life allow, I’ll check out some of them as well. Stay tuned for much more.

It’s always dicey business accusing a band of sounding like its earlier self. What exactly, one might reasonably ask, should a band sound like? While some bands continue to evolve and explore sounds with some ear-anchoring through lines to keep listeners grounded, others continue to mine the same territory with diminishing returns.

R.E.M. has taken both paths in its three-decade career. For the first half of its life, the band continued to strive for new sounds. It was never difficult to hear that it was R.E.M. – after all, no one sings like Michael Stipe – but these twists and turns were occasionally exciting and never dull.

But once that exploration failed to yield the desired results – I’ll point to the vapid but beautiful Reveal, the supermodel of R.E.M.’s back catalog, as the starting point – the band began to retrench. That was seen as a welcome return on Accelerate, as the band of fifty-somethings rocked like their thirty-something selves with songs that seemed as much homage to the past as attempts to populate new territory.

On the new Collapse Into Now, the band continues this path, with some initially pleasing but ultimately troubling results. It sounds good on first listen; great in spots. But that’s because it’s as if the band cut up its best bits, tossed the pieces of tape into the air and then assembled an album from the disparate segments. It’s the same reason we like the occasional new Rolling Stones song – what’s not to love about yet another blast of those Keith Richards’ riffs? Then you realize you’ve heard it all before and would rather go back to the source.

Given that, R.E.M. is in a damned-if-they-do spot at this point in its career. Try too hard to do something new and the band will be accused of attempting a hipness transfusion (at a time when hip replacement is more likely). Maintain the old sound and they’ll be slagged for being mired in the past. Accelerate ultimately transcended both arguments by injecting so much youthful energy in the band’s look back that the members were able to successful walk the tightrope between them.

On Collapse Into Now, they again echo the past, but without that same verve. This is a more studied attempt at capturing the past, and as such, it never takes off the way Accelerate did. I wrote a similarly negative review of that album before spending much of the year with it in my CD player, and I wouldn’t be surprised if this follows a similar path. But I’ll expect neither album to merit a place in the band’s canon in the long run,

1. Discoverer – When I first heard this, it felt flat and without hooks, an R.E.M. pastiche without punch. After a few listens, however, the hooks revealed themselves. All it took was that transition from the verse to the chorus, driven by the drums and Peter Buck’s chunky riffs. It’s not a great song, but it’s a good lead-off in the same way “Begin the Begin” was 25 years ago, setting a take-no-prisoners tone. It’s too bad that isn’t maintained throughout the album, but this song is a grower worth repeat spins. And credit for lifting an interesting sound for that opening guitar line. Every time I hear it, I’m reminded of Gordon Lightfoot’s “Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.”

2. All the Best – If this isn’t a leftover from Accelerate, I’ll be surprised. It has the same feel, perhaps with a bit more of the glammy feel of Monster. Pretty unremarkable.

3. Uberlin – The first direct reference to the past with what feels like a pretty obvious younger cousin to “Drive” – it’s a bit peppier and has a faster beat, but it’s there. Stipe seems to acknowledge as much in the first verse, with “crash land no illusions” to rival “smack crack bushwhacked” from the earlier song, speak-sung in the same cadence. That said, it has a more reliable melody than its predecessor and ultimately stands on its own.

4. Oh My Heart – Another song that feels like an Accelerate outtake, another post-Katrina lament to rival that album’s “Houston.” Stipe again directly references the previous song lyrically, responding to “if the storm doesn’t kill me the government will” with “the storm didn’t kill me, the government changed.” It’s a beautiful song with a soaring, heartbreaking chorus, and is the first true standout on the album.

5. It Happened Today – Yet another song that seems to recall past work. In this case, it feels like a sped-up “New Test Leper.” And yes, again you can draw lyrical comparisons, with mentions of Bible stories here to rival the Jesus-centric lyric of the earlier track. There are some nice wordless harmonies between Stipe and Mills (Mills’ rehabilitation on Accelerate seems to have taken root, as his vocals are prominent once again). More than half of the song is given over to this, and it puts a smile on the face of a long-time fan. The song doesn’t have much more than that going for it, but it’s enough in the short term. Oh, and Eddie Vedder is apparently on here, but I’m hard pressed to hear it.

6. Every Day Is Yours to Win – A lullaby of sorts that is the first song on the album that doesn’t sound like R.E.M. 2.0 trying to sound like R.E.M. 1.0. I’ll give them credit for trying something new (ish… this wouldn’t have sounded too out of place on Up), but it’s a fairly slight track that could have used a more adventurous Stipe vocal to combat the rudimentary music-box backing track.

7. Mine Smells Like Honey – Do record company executives still snarl behind a soggy stogie and growl, “I don’t hear a hit… get back in the studio!”? If they do, this is the kind of song R.E.M. would cut in response. Like the product of a generic R.E.M. song generator set to “rock,” the song has those big guitar chords, a deadpan Stipe verse and a soaring chorus. The saving grace: Mills’ backing vocals, which are heavenly. Sticking point: I don’t want to know what smells like honey, and have a hard time not thinking about that every time this song plays.

8. Walk It Back – Another ballad that is perfectly pleasant and yet something I could live the rest of my life without hearing again. This kind of undistinguished filler is what dragged down the band’s worst album, Around the Sun, and it does nothing to elevate this album. In fact, it’s the beginning of a long slow slide on what would be the album’s second side if we demarcated things like that anymore.

9. Alligator Aviator Autopilot Antimatter – I never thought I’d write this, but Peaches is the best thing on this track. R.E.M. can do big, dumb and stupid with the best of them, but in the past that manifested itself as “Superman” or “Strange” (maybe they can only do big, dumb and stupid when it’s someone else’s big, dumb and stupid). Harking back to the dreck of “I’m Gonna DJ,” the band allows Stipe to take a bludgeoning riff of a song and actually make it worse.

10. That Someone is You – I’ve long advocated for the band to go back and re-record more of its first batch of songs (from which tracks like “All the Right Friends” were culled). They seem to have taken the spirit of the idea to heart, if not its intent. The band could have played this punchy number at Tyrone’s in 1981 without anyone batting an eye. It’s a fuzzy blast of nothing that ends up being one of the best songs on the album because it’s among the few where the intent and the execution are perfectly in synch, and it points out all that is wrong with the over-bearing track that precedes it.

11. Me, Marlon Brando, Marlon Brando and I – Awful title aside, the song has appeal, but it’s elusive. I suppose most of that appeal revolves around Stipe’s vocal, as there is little else to grasp, but it’s an atmospheric song that forces the listener to pay attention. That’s not a bad thing, as it likely means it will be one of the few songs here with staying power.

12. Blue – I loved this song when it was called “Country Feedback.” R.E.M. has mined its own back catalog for ideas for the past several years, but this is as blatant as it gets. The music feels like a note-for-note lift of the Out of Time classic, and if that isn’t obvious, Stipe then talks in a hushed, distorted tone to drive the point home. Patti Smith’s presence is nice, but it feels as if her vocal from “E-Bow the Letter” was grafted onto the track. The saving grace: The reprise of “Discoverer” at the end of the track, nicely bookending the album.

As I mention in the first question below, I got it in my head a decade or more ago that I would start writing a mystery with a newspaper reporter as the main character. There are many similarities between reporters and detectives, so it seemed like a no-brainer. And I was a reporter for a daily newspaper, so all of my source material was right in front of me.

I looked and found a few, but not as many as I expected, and few of any prominence. I decided that what the world needed was my take on things, and fired up my computer. That idea stalled about 5,000 words in as I realized that a great character was one thing; a great story is another. I had what I thought was the former, but nothing resembling the latter.

With his Carter Ross series, Brad Parks has both in abundance. In Ross, Parks has created a smart, witty, self-aware investigative reporter for the fictional Newark Eagle-Examiner, kind of like a transplanted Myron Bolitar without the athleticism (and without the creepily efficient sidekick). And, he has very well-plotted stories that blend ripped-from-the-headlines verisimilitude with the right amounts of action, grit and humor.

It’s no surprise that his debut, Faces of the Gone, became the first book to win the Nero and Shamus Awards, two of crime fiction’s most-prestigious prizes. The second, Eyes of the Innocent, picks up where the first left off, this time looking at the fallout of the home mortgage crisis (and yes, it is miles more compelling than that one-line description might suggest).

I have been a newspaper reporter and editor for 20 years, so I’m predisposed to like Parks’ work. Or rather, I’m predisposed to judge it harshly if he gets anything wrong. He doesn’t. These are as much a snapshot of an industry in evolve-or-die mode as they are engaging tales of crime fiction. Parks gets it right, and does so in a way that will have you coming back for more. The good news is that Parks has completed the next two Ross books, so while we’ll have to wait to read them, at least we know they’re in the pipeline.

Sign up for Parks’ newsletter.
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Become a fan on Facebook.

TIRBD: I remember a decade ago searching for mystery books with reporters as the protagonists and finding precious few. Now, there seem to be many more (probably correlating to the number of laid-off journalists looking for a new career). What are your thoughts about joining the fray and did you ever consider having a main character who wasn’t a reporter?

BP: Well, in fairness, I started writing Faces of the Gone in 2005. So in my mind, I originated the trend. All these other guys – Bruce DeSilva? Todd Ritter? Frauds! Wanna-bes! Gauzy imitators of my greatness! OK, seriously… I wish I could tell you I put all kinds of thought behind creating Carter Ross, my investigative reporter protagonist. But, really, I was still working full-time as a reporter myself, writing this thing during mornings, nights and weekends. I needed a world I could create without doing a lot of research. And I knew, having started writing for newspapers when I was 14, I could write a reporter off the top of my head.

Journalism is a very particular form of writing: short, declarative sentences, the most important facts at the top, nothing unverified making it to print, etc. What has the process been like to  transition to novel writing?

I probably never wrote much like a journalist should have. I tended to craft these longer, meandering sentences; I buried my ledes in the sixth, eighth or tenth inch whenever I could get away with it; and, as a sportswriter for much of the time, I got to play a little looser with the attribution than most. So I had less to un-learn than most of my journalistic brethren. But more than that, I’ve found there’s something universal about writing, and it applies no matter what media or genre you’re attempting. Writing is just articulating thoughts on paper. Sure, the conventions change based on the constraints of who you’re writing for or what you’re writing. But the basic act does not.

Did you always envision yourself as a novelist, and if so, was journalism a training ground?

In the back of my head, there was always this idea that, after a long and successful career as a journalist, I would transition into writing crime fiction as a semi-retirement career. Then the newspaper industry started going into its death spin, so I skipped the “long” and “successful” parts of the plan and made the jump about two decades earlier than originally thought. That said, I always knew journalism would be great training for whatever I did next. Working for a daily newspaper forces you into so many good habits as a writer and, for that matter, as a learner. You are constantly put into a position where you have to quickly master a subject and condense what you’ve learned into a concise, coherent narrative. That’s a rare skill in this world. I can’t recommend journalism enough for any young person who wants to have some kind of future with words.

Did you keep notes during your journalism career of things you might be able to use in fiction later?

Not in any organized sense. (Nothing about me, it turns out, is very organized). Mostly I rely on memory. And if it turns out that memory is slightly flawed? Well, what the hell, I write fiction now.

By setting your books contemporaneously, you have created a character whose profession is going to change drastically over the next decade or so. At the same time, you have already completed the next two Carter Ross books. Do you ever fear your writing might be outpaced by events?

Carter Ross is a reporter who is given time to flesh out longer stories and do the heavy lifting often required in serious investigative journalism. And, yes, I fear that means he is already being filed in the “Historical Fiction” part of the bookstore. But, at least for the moment, newspapers seem to have stabilized, albeit at a new normal that is something less than what they were. Hopefully they can stay there for a while. But if they really all do go over the cliff – and it won’t take much more than a strong breeze to send them toppling – well… did I mention I write fiction now?

You seem to have embraced the promotional duties that come with being a writer today. Frankly, you seem like a bit of a ham. Has the career change allowed you to indulge that more, or have you always been like that?

“Ham” is a much nicer word than the one most people use: “whore.” Either way, yeah, this is who I am and have always been – for good or ill. It’s not like I became an author and then suddenly started bursting into song everywhere I went. (Some of my ex-newspaper colleagues, who have shared a newsroom with me, have suggested I sing so much it’s more accurate to say I burst into speech). And  I know it’s popular for authors to gripe about having to promote themselves, but I actually sort of like it (does it show?). The writing is what I really love, of course, but I only get to keep existing as a writer if I sell enough books. So I might as well enjoy that part, too.

You aren’t going to be named honorary chair of the Newark Convention & Visitors Bureau anytime soon. Do you feel you’re fair to the city in your depiction? Have you received feedback about it?

I have yet to hear one bad word from anyone in Newark – and, trust me, Newark is the kind of place where folks aren’t shy about voicing their thoughts. The fact of the matter is, I walked those streets for a long time and know the city intimately. Anyone who shares that level of familiarity would know my depiction of Newark is dead accurate. I mean, yes, I’m writing crime fiction. But guess what? There’s crime in Newark – just like there’s crime in most places. If anything, one of the goals of my fiction is to humanize (as opposed to sensationalize) that crime. In Faces of the Gone, one of the victims is a prostitute. Be honest: If you hear “hooker killed in Newark,” do you give that story a second thought? Probably not. But in Faces, you meet her best friend, her mother. You hear about her life. She becomes not just a faceless victim but a real human being. Maybe that’s not going to make me Grand Marshall of any parades in Newark anytime soon, but I’d like to think I present a compassionate view of the city and its people.

The knock against free jazz (or avant garde or creative music or any other nomenclature) is usually that the listener doesn’t “get” it. The lack of a definable rhythm or melody challenges the listener to such a degree that, rather than put in the time to find a way in, he instead takes a powder, opting for something more easily digested.

That’s fine; there are times where three chords and a heavy backbeat are all I need. But other times, I want to work at my music, knowing the rewards will be that much greater. That’s why I have spent so much time with the music of Matthew Shipp.

I first heard Shipp on 1999’s DNA, a duo album the pianist made with bassist William Parker. I recognized both from David S. Ware’s Wisdom of Uncertainty, the first non-traditional jazz album I purchased. A fawning review of that album made me take the leap at a time in my life where I craved something more than I was getting through the usual channels. I’ll admit that I still don’t fully understand or appreciate that album 14 years on, and I certainly haven’t figured out the dozen-plus Shipp albums I have acquired since that first.

But I have discovered enough; more than enough. A new Shipp release is an automatic purchase for me (or thanks to the largesse of the Thirsty Ear publicity department, a highly anticipated promo arrival), because I know it will enlighten, engage, challenge and delight. Whether he is playing solo, performing in various acoustic configurations or collaborating with electronic artists on some melding of hip hop and jazz, I know I’ll take something away each time I listen.

His new album, The Art of the Improviser, is a landmark of sorts. Shipp turned 50 in December, and his long-time label, Thirsty Ear, clearly wants to use that occasion to reintroduce the artist to the masses. It’s a double-disc set, with one CD capturing a solo performance, the other his trio with new bassist Michael Bisio and longtime drummer Whit Dickey. He tackles newer songs like “4D” and older tracks like “Circular Temple #1,” as well as oft-covered standards like “Take the A Train.”

It doesn’t fully capture Shipp’s oeuvre, but nothing short of a boxed set could. What it does offer is a snapshot of the artist today, a constantly striving artist who is increasingly able to bridge the distance between lyrical classicism and questing exploration.

And no, I don’t write that as someone who “gets” everything Shipp does. Far from it. But I get enough to keep me digging.

TIRBD: The press materials for your new album state that “for the better part of fifty years, Matthew Shipp has been on a tireless journey to innovate a musical language…” At first that brought a chuckle, thinking of you in diapers nearly 50 years ago trying to “innovate a musical language.” But then I stopped and wondered: At what age did you actually start playing music, and at what age do you feel you began creating a musical language of your own as opposed to recreating that of others?

MS: I started at 5 got serious at 12 – with classical, started jazz at about 14. As far as really trying to find myself on an instrument, that started around 18, but I love the image you have of being in diapers and trying to innovate a musical language. At 18 my style was part McCoy (Tyner)-part Bill Evans, but I was cognizant that I was looking for myself even though I used that style to do regular gigs

This release offers two sides of your performing persona: solo and as part of a group. Do you prefer one over the other? What does each afford that the other does not?

No – I do whatever is before me. My focus will be on the trio though, for that is a direct link to the jazz tradition – even though I have said some things that could be construed as anti jazz trad, I am looking for a way to fit in that tradition believe it or not. I love solo also because as a pianist there is such a great tradition of solo keyboard work including Bach, Chopin, Debussy, Tatum, Monk’s beautiful solos, Cecil, etc., etc.

What did you take away from your work curating the Blue Series for Thirsty Ear? From the outside, it seems to have afforded you the opportunity to expand your sonic palette considerably.

It takes me outside myself, which as an artist it is so easy to be completely self absorbed – but bringing in other people and having a hand in some CDs is very gratifying because it reminds you that there is a whole big world of music out here and it’s not just about you. And it’s easy to think it’s just about you because it’s so hard to survive as a jazz musician that that mindset kicks in just as a defense mechanism. And also, yes, it’s giving me a chance to explore how others deal with organizing sound in a way that I would not if I was not as involved.

Having explored those sounds, you have returned to more organic, acoustic settings on recent albums. Did anything in particular motivate that shift, and do you foresee ever venturing again into more electronic-based music?

I am open to doing collaborative electronic projects if an artist comes up that I would want to work with – and of course they would want to work with me – but at the end of the day, I am a jazz pianist and I am actually very comfortable with that idea.

I had the pleasure of seeing your “Boxing and Jazz” performance in Minneapolis several years ago. Do you still follow the sport? Do you take similar inspiration from any other extra-musical interests that you can see manifest themselves in your work?

Oh yes, I am a boxing fanatic. I follow it very close and I find it a very interesting subculture in the way that jazz is an interesting subculture – or at least used to be. I get most of my inspiration from metaphysics though, for what I explore in music is mind – vibration-pools of language fields of  intelligence and process – and all that could be summed up in the stupid word of god.

You have played with a wide array of people. Is there anyone left, either in the world of what is considered jazz or beyond it, with which you would like to collaborate?

I would love to do a collaboration with Ikue Mori. I think she is a laptop genius.

Musicians talk about recreating the music they hear in their head, and I wonder what you hear when you are thinking about music. Have you been able to capture that in your recordings and performance, or is there an ideal that you still seek?

Well, Cecil once said if you hear it, why play it – what you hear is memory – but I do have a field of language that I “hear” that I push against.