A Trip to Pluto

HarperCollins, 320 pp., April 29

Louise Erdrich’s new novel, The Plague of Doves, depicts the rise and fall of Pluto, N.D., a speck of a town near an Ojibwe reservation. We enter Pluto’s history through the eyes of young Evelina Harp, just as her grandfather decides she’s old enough to hear about the 1911 lynching of three men falsely accused of slaughtering a white family. Erdrich then shows generations of families in Pluto, who are either related to the mob, or know the true killer. Half the fun is learning who’s related, and how, and whether or not they know.

Erdrich sifts the complexity of these families’ lives to offer tender and terrible truths about what it means to be stuck every day facing such brutal history. Each character reveals secrets about the town’s past — from a kidnapping plot to a religious cult — and no one’s immune. As one character says, "[What] is the difference between the influence of instinct upon a wolf and history upon a man? In both cases, justice is prey to unknown dreams." Using a shifting perspective and multiple points of view, she delves into the minds of men and women, American Indian and white, giving each a distinct voice. They all ring so true individually that it’s amazing just one author created them all.

Whether describing pioneers curled together under buffalo skins during a blizzard, or the soulful power of violin music, or the way clouds stack before a thunderstorm, Erdrich’s lyricism propels the story. In rich and powerful language, she gives a beautifully honest account of the townspeople’s lust and mysticism, pain and bleak humor.

Reading this story yields more wisdom and poetic entertainment than classics twice its size. And on top of that, Erdrich tells who the real killer is, too.

"Why do you guys do that?" a deadpan Bret McKenzie asked the sold-out Tower Theatre crowd when a guy screamed what is inevitably screamed at any concert hushed enough to allow for audience contribution:

"FREEBIRD!"

Surely, McKenzie and partner Jemaine Clement — better known as Flight of the Conchords, "New Zealand’s fourth most popular folk parody duo" and stars of the tremendously popular TV series of the same name — have heard a douchebag express ironic lust for the Skynyrd standard at a show before. In fact, it probably happens every time they take the stage. But in many ways, a politely conveyed unfamiliarity with American life is the third member of the band — they crack us up because they act like they don’t "get it." But as soon as Clement busted into what he called his "American Idol version" of the tune — complete with pained finger-in-the-ear vocal runs — it was clear they "get it" more than we’ll ever know.

After a nice bit of prop-driven stand-up from opener (and occasional Conchords guest star) Eugene Mirman, the pair sauntered onstage and right into "Inner City Pressure," a synthtastic ode to urban living that Clement spiced up with the predictable but appreciated addition of a line from the Fresh Prince theme song. McKenzie apologized for the slight delay in start time, claiming they were sitting around backstage and had no idea they were supposed to be on until they heard cheering. The crowd promptly roared. Saying sorry isn’t supposed to be funny. But then that’s the key to their appeal — the Conchords’ bumbling back-and-forth with the audience is crafted so meticulously that it doesn’t seem even remotely meticulous.

The pair performed a slew of songs recognizable to fans of the series, many of which began as live standards pre-HBO/Sub Pop — "Hiphopopotamus vs. Rhymenocerous," "Business Time," "Albi the Racist Dragon," the robot anthem "Humans Are Dead" and the bizarre mistaken-identity piece "Jenny" among them. They also tested out some new songs, including one about Clement’s ex-girlfriends that came off like an ass-backwards version of Paul Simon’s "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover" ("Britney hit me … Mona, you told me you were in a coma … Bruce, you didn’t tell me you were a man").

The duo was even so bold as to launch into post-song banter lifted directly from their small-screen scripts, save for a few geographical personalizations. (After the amazing "Bret, You Got It Going On," which devolves into Clement admitting to McKenzie that he once put a wig on him while he slept to curb touring loneliness, Clement insisted that "I put a wig on you" is established Philly street slang.) On paper, it sounds lazy, like a comedian rehashing gags from his television special during a club date. But it worked. Everyone anticipated the punchlines, but you could tell that the laughs ran much deeper than the fleeting gratification that goes along with, say, reacting to a popular catchphrase. It was almost like people were relieved that Clement and McKenzie are the same in real life as they are on TV (which you’re meant to believe is the same way they are in real life).

Of course, the Conchords run the risk of wearing out their self-deprecating, loveable losers schtick — jokes about crappy motels and playing to crowds of one tend to dry up when two dudes on acoustic guitars are able to sell out mammoth ampitheaters on a multi-city tour. But judging by the group’s surprisingly varied fan base — seats were filled with everyone from underdeveloped packs of high school freshmen to fathers and sons to distinguished-looking touch-of-gray older couples — that’s not going to happen anytime soon.

I don’t think I approve of this game," my father said as I slaughtered an entire hospital wing with a shotgun simply because I could.

Grand Theft Auto IV dropped for the PS3 and Xbox 360 recently, and it’s scenarios like this one that sum up what you might have been wondering about the game. Yes, it’s violent. Yes, you can make poor life decisions on a whim. And yes, it’s pretty awesome.

Players take on the role of Niko Bellic, a Serbian veteran of the Bosnian War. Filled with anger and regret after being betrayed by a fellow officer in the conflict, Bellic tracks the traitor to America — home to good ol’ Liberty City. After meeting up with his cousin, Roman, Niko proceeds to make several acquaintances — and a few enemies — in the game. Who he befriends and kills is entirely up to you, the player, as the storyline is much more open to alteration than previous GTA games.

Compared to the hyper-anal cops of GTA: Vice City and the ridiculous character details of GTA: San Andreas, IV seems modest in both regards, making it the true sequel to breakthrough installment GTA III. Enemies are easier to combat — some can be felled in a mere two punches — while the character’s customizability isn’t so ridiculously in-depth that one has to watch when he eats and sleeps. Other than switching up his clothes for dates (homey gets laid a lot), Niko is a rock-solid kind of guy.

GTA IV has been in development for almost four years, and the detail shows. The maps, based off of the New York City boroughs, are expansive but, thanks to Niko’s GPS, not as overwhelming as in previous Rockstar efforts. While the game’s in-story is interesting, simply riding around in a yacht through the game’s lushly crafted oceans is a gorgeous experience. Plus, you can hop from boat to boat capping rich people.

But despite the hype and positive reviews, GTA IV is not a perfect game. Glitches abound. Some are small, like the when the GPS messes up your position or when you end up inside a building/vehicle without meaning to do so. Then there are the mid-level ones. If you’re sharing the game with other players, you’re going to be frustrated when the auto-save feature keeps trying to erase your buddy’s file instead of picking a new slot. And then there’s the granddaddy of all console faux pas — the screen freeze. Just like Rockstar’s Bully re-release from earlier this year, GTA IV will freeze from time to time. And it will suck every time.

Get past this discouraging glitch, though, and there’s a good game in store. While the GTA formula isn’t close to trailblazing at this point, it’s still an awfully fun one. Especially after you get your first gun. Oh my word does it get sweet then.

Go, TypeRacer, Go!

Dear secretaries and kids in high school in the 1950s, I am happy to report that the Internet has finally created a game just for you.

TypeRacer takes everything you love about typing and adds cool-looking cars to it. Not since my parents bought me Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing (go Google her! She’s still around!) for my old Tandy computer have I been pounding the keys so furiously. In the game, you’re given a sentence to type and you compete against up to six other people for the title of ultimate nerd. Your car will progress across the screen a la The Price is Right, so you can see how you’re matching up.

I had a few good races in me, topping out at 60+ words a minute, but then I got smoked on a lyric from Pink Floyd’s Time when some other person cranked out 148 words per minute. I’m pretty sure I was playing againshttp://criticalmass.blogs.citypaper.net/blogs/mu/wp-admin/post.php?action=edit&post=831t this guy.

Go see how fast you can type here.

I hope they realize this is their last goddamn chance…

Pity the poor South Street goth. No longer is there a gum tree for them to deface, nor is there Philly Deli for obtaining cheap cloves, nor is there Digital Ferret retailing music and wares (though, really, we all know that place has been in decline since it changed its name from Digital Underground). And, after this Tuesday evening, nor is there Al Jourgenson shrieking up a storm and turning the TLA floor into a mob scene. Supposedly. Click For More »

An Insider’s Tale of the Rise, Fall, and Rebirth of West Coast Hip-Hop

Ballantine, 161 pp., March 25

OK, the writing in Bruce Williams’ celebrity tell-all Rollin’ with Dre is laugh-out-loud awful. The chronology is a mess. But on every page, you never know, there might be some cool detail to keep you reading.

Overall, there’s a decent payoff. You get some pretty good dirt on Andre Young, aka Dr. Dre, founding member of pioneering gangster rap group N.W.A., as he becomes a legendary hip-hop producer and brings up superstars Snoop Dogg, Eminem and 50 Cent.

Williams’ story goes from his days in the Army to the years he literally held the keys to Dre’s West Coast rap kingdom. As Dre’s friend and manager, Williams shows how tiring it was to keep his boss focused on the music. Tiring because their one-time business partner, the infamous Suge Knight, does everything he can to crush their spirits through alleged bad deals and violence. As Williams tells it, even Dre had trouble getting his cut of the insane profits generated as record sales and media attention made hip-hop a cultural force.

Along the way, Williams hangs out with more than 15 years’ worth of major rap talent, from The D.O.C. to The Game. There are countless women, some bit movie parts, rap beefs and finally, marriage for them both. You’d think all this would be fun to read about. But there’s no energy to it - just one-liners and anecdotes stuck together under chapter titles. Also, Williams can’t get over how all his hard work for Dre stifled his own acting dreams.

By the time it was over, I was tired, too. And this is a short book. After the endless parties and beatdowns, and painfully rendered attempts to explain just how street knowledge spawned a worldwide industry (an important question), you kind of wish you could just sit back, cue up The Chronic, and let the music speak for itself.

The discomfort of strangers

photo | aly semigran

Mount Airy resident Katonya Moseley proves that awkward silences aren’t always a laughing matter.

The awkward pause has made quite a comeback over the past few years. Ricky Gervais set the gold standard for uncomfortable silence with "The Office" and "Extras," but some of our fellow Philadelphians have had equally squirm-worthy moments.

Now celebrating its second year, First Person Arts’ Story Slams allows regular folks to share various stories (the theme changes every month). The storytellers have five minutes to tell their tale and are graded on theme and performance value.

This being my first Story Slam, I decided to sit on the sidelines (a move I later regretted, as I have some truly horrific awkward encounters under my belt) and listen to what painful moments others have endured.

The evening featured some profoundly good storytellers (it was a mix of First Person veterans and newcomers) with tales of unfortunate last names, mistaken sexual identities, inappropriate first-date requests and drug trips gone terribly awry.

My personal favorites came from Michael McCarry, whose story of a groin injury and a cruel prank was so sharply funny you’d think he was a pro, and Katonya Moseley (both pictured) from Mount Airy, who stopped the crowd dead in their tracks with a painfully truthful tale of racial divide.

The most telling thing about the whole evening, though, was the camaraderie among Slammers and listeners. The space is far too small to host all the people who show up, but it feels just right. Nothing awkward about it at all.

—Aly Semigran

Can’t stop the rock

Ok, so I like to think of myself as a pretty dexterous person. I was pretty good when I played baseball, and I’m way into rock climbing, which required subtle hand work. When it’s come to the guitar, I just have never been able to make it work. I actually own a stratocaster knock off, but it’s been collecting dust for years in the corner of my apartment. Whenever I’ve tried to play, it really just winds up looking like I’m strangling an ostrich.

That said, I’ve shied away from the Guitar Hero franchise. I love music, but I’ve been terrified of looking like an ass in front of friends. So, high on the Flyers putting away the Capitals tonight (I hope Ovechkin knows the rules of golf! So long, caveman-looking jerk!) I retreated to my office to try my hand at Super Crazy Guitar Maniac Deluxe Three. After faring well after one song, I realized I am awful at anything music related, save for listening to it.

Much like Guitar Hero, you mash buttons corresponding to notes as they reach a certain point on screen. You get points for doing so and bonuses for linking a bunch in a row. I was never able to get past the “cool” level, so I can’t tell you what comes next, sadly. One of the neat things about the game is that it features original music and links you to the band’s site. It’s not my type of music, kinda new metal-ish, but I suppose that’s what’s needed for rockin’.

Check it out here.

Errors and graces

Viking, 242 pp., April 11, 2008

Keith Gessen’s debut novel, All the Sad, Young, Literary Men, is a 242-page look at three guys from the current generation of self-obsessed intellectuals. They are (together, not all) Jewish, Harvard graduates, one’s married, the other two aren’t, and they’re in and out of grad school and New York City pursuing sex and publication as they stumble into their 30s and — gasp! — delayed adulthood.

Gessen co-founded highbrow lit mag n+1, but he keeps things light here. Yes, his characters obsess over Hegel, Israel and their own places in history, but hey, check out the funny photos in chapter one. The writing is compressed and breezy, with the dry, self-effacing humor you’d expect from a book named after F. Scott Fitzgerald’s short story collection All the Sad Young Men.

Likewise, this novel has sections, one per character. The result is a little awkward. We see Keith (the author, thinly veiled), Sam and Mark grumbling, blogging and half-loving various women, including former students. Their experiences blur together. The conflicts are 99 percent mental, and this gets boring. Strangely, the three guys never meet.

The central joke is that even Ivy League grads surf online porn, prefer younger women, fret about sex, don’t like office jobs, and know that law school isn’t a bad option. It takes Gessen 200 pages to get to a so-so punchline, when the guys begin to change.

The standout chapters are “Isaac Babel” (Keith sees a mentor — and one possible future — crumble in a well-written scene) and “Jenin” (Sam’s visit to Israel and Palestine dissolves his grad school pretensions). Mark’s future is a mystery, though on the eve of defending his thesis in Russian history, he discovers, “Ultimately these historical parallels were of limited use in figuring out your personal life.” The joke being, well, duh.

Gessen gets points for making fun of himself. Hey, intellectuals act like idiots, too! Sad? Yes. Funny? Sort of.