I
told Mr. Charles Joseph that I would review a chapbook that he half-wrote. But
I’m a procrastinating prick and simply never got around to it as much as I
wanted to. The dull, meaty tentacles of “I really should get that done” have
been wrapped around my head ever since. So here it is, my first review of a
chapbook.
To those of you who don’t know what
a chapbook is, I’ll explain quickly and to the best of my ability, that
chapbooks have their roots in the penny pulp pamphlets sold by peddlers to an
increasingly literate public before the dawn of the paperback novel and the
newspaper. They were usually political rags or full of poetry, ballads, and
parables. They were cheap and easy to read. The literature of the street. And
even now, when they’re almost exclusively the territory of poets waiting for a
payday, they still retain the quality of their roots. It’s a rough-hewn
literary tradition of the none traditional.
“Old School Monsters” written by
Charles Joseph and John Dorsey features an introduction by Adrian Manning and shokushu
goukan-esque cover art by Janne Karlsson. As its title might suggest, just
about every title and piece within contains refence to the offbeat, eclectic
B-films of matinees and midnight features seen in the late movies and seedy,
ticket booth theaters of the bad old days.
I’m not about to examine each and
every poem –there are twelve– and I’m not prepared to pick-about nouns and
sentence structure for the sake of a masturbatory exercise in literary
analysis. I am, however, going opine about my own take on the objective item
and its themes.
“Old School Monsters” is a really good piece of work. Especially given the fact that it’s co-authored. The quality of my copy, at least, is fantastic. Published by Indigent Press, the tiny book’s construction is far above rag, and the cover art is luridly sinister and, frankly, top notch.
“Old School Monsters” is a really good piece of work. Especially given the fact that it’s co-authored. The quality of my copy, at least, is fantastic. Published by Indigent Press, the tiny book’s construction is far above rag, and the cover art is luridly sinister and, frankly, top notch.
Each piece in “Old School Monsters”
makes reference to the movies mostly forgotten but always at home on Turner
Classic Movies where we phony fifth-column snobs watch and analyze them for the
sake of sex with the dolls of intellect and “culture”. However, each piece is more
than a one-off about “Dracula”, “Angels with Dirty Faces”, “Creature from the
Black Lagoon”, and so on. No… instead each piece is about life where the
monsters and heroes are the same and the horror is the very real, very creepy
banality of the passing year, the bad relationship, the death toll of a mostly
forgotten war. The titles are even misleading in the best possible way.
“Nosfaratu” leads us to maternal love, “Revenge of the Creature” puts us
face-to-face with the most awkward thoughts in the cold heart of some no place
in America, “Abbot and Costello Meet Cleopatra” reaffirms the cultural
destitution of an Armenian Princess from Los Angeles, “Angels with Dirty Faces”
–and I admit my bias for this one– pulls us into the chasm between old lions
and young cubs.
“Old School Monsters” has a
disjointed, disorganized arraignment that I just can’t make-up-my-mind about.
Is it an inclusion? Or is it perfect? As a sucker for harmony I feel bewildered
reading it sequentially form cover-to-cover. But as one who has discovered the
calamitous cacophony of life, I feel like it’s perfect. Reflection and ponder
is one scattered mess of a mental exercise.
To conclude, I will summarize my take on “Old School Monsters” by saying that it’s very well executed. It’s an enjoyable and rewarding read, especially when read more than once. A short burn with a long payoff. I would certainly recommend it.
To conclude, I will summarize my take on “Old School Monsters” by saying that it’s very well executed. It’s an enjoyable and rewarding read, especially when read more than once. A short burn with a long payoff. I would certainly recommend it.
