2007-09-10 - 11:41 a.m.
Wow, sad news about Lydia Tomkiw.
It was a new sound for me--dark spoken word poetry over Casio bleep-bleeps--not melodramatic and incantatory like Patti Smith, but clipped, terse, intoned in Tomkiw's flat-affect, world-weary, Chicago-accented twang that spoke of a world that I knew nothing of at the time. I can still hear her exact intonation in my mind, the way she quietly spat out "This ain't no screwball romp..."
Although the beach-paperback season has unoffically ended, I am continuing my summer-reading program of trashy pulp fiction provided by these guys.
The latest gem is by Richard Aleas, and it's corny but sort of aware of its own corniness (I think). It also has the added value of being set in my work neighborhood, with amusing references to local joints.
Ah, moody British crooning will never fall out of favor at IHoP HQ. Check out the song "Rivers" by young Londoner Markland Starkie, a.k.a. Sleeping States.
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