chuq@sun.uucp (Chuq Von Rospach; Lord of the OtherRealms) (10/30/86)
OtherRealms
A Reviewzine for the Non-Fan
Where FIJAGH Becomes a Way of Life
Issue #10
November, 1986
Part 1
Why Judge a Book by its Cover? The Art of Paperbacks
Jim Vadeboncoer, Jr.
ABORIGINAL SF MAGAZINE #1
Fred Bals
What I Did on My Summer Vacation - or - WorldCon 1986
Jeff Copeland
IT
Dan'l Danehy-Oakes
Dimensions of Science Fiction
R. E. Webber
Part 2
Pico Reviews
Books Received
OtherRealms Notes
Words of Wizdom
Reviews by Chuq Von Rospach
Part 3
The Ozzie and Harriet
Fiction by Fred Bals
Why Judge a Book by its Cover?
The Art of Paperbacks
Jim Vadeboncoer, Jr.
Copyright 1986 by Jim Vadeboncoer, Jr.
I collect the work of artists who display their art on the covers of
paperback books. It's not a very glamorous gallery. Few bookstores
display all of their paperbacks cover out; fewer still organize their
books by cover artist. Many fine paintings end up facing their own
back cover or get lost in a sea of color; looking, from a distance, no
different than the next one. It is into this haphazard display that a
new artist sends his work, and from which the collector must seek it out.
Why should anyone spend time (or money) finding books with 'pretty'
covers? That's easy. I like pretty pictures (or good art, to be more
sophisticated) and paperback covers are one source of supply. I also
like illustrated books, illustrated paperbacks, comic books, calendars,
portfolios, magazines -- anything that has pretty pictures. I like
them and I collect them. Paperbacks are just another medium as far as
the artists are concerned, so why should I make distinctions where they
do not?
[Ok, time out here! I do read! I read a lot. Mostly I read books. I
prefer good writing to good stories, will settle for either in a pinch,
but generally keep searching for the combination of both. It's often a
long, empty task. It's a lot easier to find good art.]
As in any hobby or collecting effort, there is a great deal of personal
taste involved in deciding what to collect. I won't apologize for mine
if you don't apologize for yours. I like what I collect and generally
collect what I like. If our tastes differ, I hope we can still discuss
the concept without the specifics getting in the way. Should I neglect
to mention one of your favorites, please refer back to this paragraph.
Many fine fantasy artists today are graduates of the paperback cover
school. Frank Frazetta, Jeff Jones and George Barr come to mind as
having done numerous covers in the past but who now seem to have left
the field to the horde of new talent that proliferates the SF and
Fantasy racks of the book stores.
Jim Gurney is such a newcomer (30 covers in three years), and one to
watch. He's recently done covers for the latest reprints of the Jane
Gaskell ATLAN series (following in the footsteps of both Frazetta and
Jones), as well as such dramatic covers as ZANZIBAR CAT (Russ) and
PHAID THE GAMBLER (Farren). You can also find his work in the National
Geographic Magazine where he illustrates articles such as the recent
re-creation of the voyage of Jason and the Argonauts.
Some of the other new talent I've been following include Richard Berry
(GODMAKERS -- Herbert), Richard Bober (MUSTAPHA AND HIS WISE DOG,
SPELLS OF MORTAL WEAVIN -- Freisner), Thomas Canty (COPPER CROWN,
Kennealy), Paul Chadwick (FORWARD - Dickson), Alan Gutierrez
(SATURNALIA -- Callin), Phil Hale (BORDERLAND -- Windling), Alan Lee
(BROKEDOWN PALACE -- Brust), John Pound (The WITCHWORLD Series --
Norton) and Gary Ruddell (THIEVES' WORLD reissues -- Asprin). None of
them was painting covers in the Seventies, and several have only
appeared this year. It's an exciting time for cover watchers.
Actually, it's always been fun for the cover collector. At some point
the first Kelly Freas cover hit the stands (circa 1955). At that time
you could also find cover art by Everett Raymond Kinstler and Norman
Saunders, Rudolf Belarski and Earle Bergey, not to mention the numerous
cover artists for the pulps that were also competing with the
paperbacks of the day. Virgil Finlay, Ed Emsh and Valigursky, Freas
(here, too) and numerous others were available to the cover collector
of the Fifties.
In the Sixties it was another apparent Golden Age. Frazetta did his
best work in this decade. Jeff Jones, Roy G. Krenkel, Virgil Finlay,
Robert Foster, Leo and Diane Dillon, Kelly Freas (still), James Bama,
Gray Morrow, Ed Emsh (again), and dozens of others were plying their
trade for the collectors of that decade.
The early Seventies saw the beginning of the European invasion that had
begun in Jim Warren's CREEPY and EERIE comic magazines. Two of
Warren's top cover artists, both from Spain, found their way to Dell
books and began careers that are still going strong today. San Julian
and Enric (or Enrich) were the first in a wave that was to contain
Jordi Penalva, Segrelles, and Maroto. San Julian did several of the
trade paperback CONAN covers (Ace -- Howard) while Enric is probably
best known for his DORSAI covers (Ace -- Dickson).
Also in the 1970 to 1975 period Jim Steranko and George Barr
proliferated. Frazetta and Jones were still going strong, as were
James Bama (DOC SAVAGE) and Kelly Freas (Laser Books).
The last decade has introduced most of the artists I've listed (and
dozens of others sacrificed to space). The quality of paperback cover
art is at a stage where even the lesser talents are doing good work.
There isn't much in the way of junk on the stands, although several
very slick stylists are covering up a lack of talent and imagination
with superficial rendering techniques. Still, the overall
professionalism of the genre has seldom been higher, nor has the
variety of styles being employed.
There are as many genres or stylistic 'schools' of cover art as there
are of art in general.
o There's realism -- most SF artists fall into this category -- where
people look like people. Whelan, Maitz, Corben, San Julian, Alexander,
Gutenberg, Freas, De Fate, Hildebrandt: all fall within this category
to some extent.
o A sub-category is hyper-realism where Boris and Rowena hold sway. I
do enjoy Boris, but more for his backgrounds and creatures than for his
self-portraits and flesh tones. It's there that he does his best
work. In the same school, Rowena leaves me cold.
o The romantic school often encompasses many aspects of the realists.
In fact, certain artists move easily between the genres, like Don
Maitz. The distinguishing aspect of the Romantic artist is the
stylization of the scene; the intent to capture mood more than precise
form and shape. Leo and Diane Dillon are the definitive romantics,
while the most stylized are Robert Gould and Thomas Canty, both of whom
draw heavily on the English Romanticists of the last century; most
obviously Sir Edward Burne Jones and Dante Gabriel Rosetti. Kinuko Y.
Craft is another multi-styled Romantic who tends towards the Oriental
for her inspiration.
o The surrealists of the cover artists are few. One would think that SF
covers would be the ideal outlet for covers ala Dali -- with
transdimensional space and time warping the images into unfamiliar
shapes. Somehow we don't seem to respond well to such scenes, although
a few artists have managed to make it palatable to us. I classify John
Berkey here. Some may argue that he belongs to the realist school. I
disagree. Another artist, who hasn't done much work lately, but whom I
have always thought an under-rated surrealist, is Robert Foster. He
did the covers for Pangborn's DAVY (Ballantine's 1964 edition) and
Moorcock's BEHOLD THE MAN (Avon, 1970).
o The heroic fantasy school have all studied under Frazetta and, while I
find it difficult to classify Frazetta himself, he does provide a
category for his followers. Ken Kelly heads the list and actually did
take lessons from the master. The early works of Jeff Jones, Boris,
and San Julian were all of this school, but all have graduated to more
personal styles.
o The catchall category of stylist is my cop-out. I don't really know
where to place such artists as Richard Courtney (Varley's TITAN series)
Gino D' Achille (the GOR series), Howard Chaykin (Saberhagen's SWORDS
trilogy), Steve Hickman (Stasheff's WARLOCK series), and dozens of
others I enjoy because of their distinctive and personal styles.
Generally, I tend towards realism and romanticism in the art I like and
collect. I classify Michael Whelan as tops in both as he manages to
blend the two into a coherent whole. Whelan's easy to collect as he's
done so much (over 120 covers) and many of the books for which he's
done covers are still in print. he's now, it appears, the official
Asimov cover artist for Del Rey, having just completed the covers for a
reissue of the FOUNDATION series. He's also the cover artist for the
H. Beam Piper reprints from Ace and the YEAR'S BEST HORROR series from
DAW. As his fame increased, he began to do hard cover dustjackets
which have eventually made their way to the paperback versions: Anne
McCaffrey's WHITE DRAGON in 1978 was the first of over 30 hardbacks for
which he's done dustjackets and occasional interior illustrations.
The other aspect of Whelan's art that really intrigues me is that he
obviously reads the stories before doing the painting, and seems (to
me, anyway) to do his best work on the best stories. I find that I can
generally decide whether or not I'm going to like a book with a Whelan
cover simply by looking at his cover 'synopsis.' For instance: I
found Heinlein's THE CAT WHO WALKS THROUGH WALLS to be a good yarn at
first, but one that dissipated into meaningless drivel towards the
end. If you own a copy of the book, look at Whelan's cover portrayal
of the characters and tell me if you can find the torso of Richard
Ames. He, like the story, fades away into nothingness. The painting
itself is quite fetching, but ends up quite unsatisfying. It's
incomplete -- just like the story. Whelan doesn't lie with his
covers. They are very accurate reflections of the books they cover.
Donald Maitz is another favorite, though he leans more towards the
romantic than the real. Maitz has been associated with several writers
including Anthony, Carter, Cowper, Fisher, Flint, Lee, Lustbader,
Taylor, and Gene Wolfe. Though his people and settings seem real
enough at first glance, the romance of his work continues to thrill me
even after several viewings. Take, for instance, the cover to THE
WORTHING CHRONICLE by Orson Scott Card (Ace, July 1983). The main
design involves a golden figure encased in an underwater device
obviously meant to keep him alive. We know it's underwater because
bubbles are rising toward an unseen surface. They rise past the
horizontal figure and pass in front of a circle of intelligent origin
that also points back towards the source of the bubbles: a space
helmet trailing a torn air hose. Once we're convince of the watery
nature of these surroundings, we notice that there is a fantastic
looking fish chasing a smaller fish towards the left edge of the
cover. Then we notice that the smaller fish is chasing a small school
of yet tinier fish. This prompts us back to the right of the drawing
to see the curved snout of yet an even bigger fish that is about to
catch the first one. And there we are drawn by the curves of this fish
to inevitable notice the bracket that supports the cast of the human is
actually the artist's signature. You can see that there is fantasy,
design and humor to work, even to working his signature into the design
of each painting. But the real laugh came the second time I looked at
this cover and realized that all of the fish, predators and prey, are
swimming into the maw of a gigantic fish at the very left edge of the
cover. We only see the smallest portion of both upper and lower jaws,
and they aren't immediately recognizable as such, but it's a subtle
punchline with which few artists would have bothered. Someday I'll find
another copy and read the story - simply because of the intrigue of
Maitz's cover.
All of the artists I've mentioned display individual talents that
intrigue me, some obviously more than others. Their styles appeal to
my love of the unusual and the beautiful. Some of the images these
artists have created will remain with me forever -- having struck a
chord deep within my subconscious. What more could one ask for in a
hobby? Well, the greatest bonus I've gotten is that I've bought and
read dozens of books I would never have, simply because I dared to
judge them by their covers.
ABORIGINAL SF MAGAZINE #1
Editor, Charles C. Ryan
$2.50/issue bimonthly
Reviewed by
Fred Bals
Copyright 1986 by Fred Bals
E-mail: bals%nutmeg.DEC@decwrl.DEC.COM
ABORIGINAL SF is a new, bimonthly sf prozine published out of Woburn,
Massachusetts in a newspaper-sized format. Issue #1 (October, 1986), 24
pages in length, contains articles, book and media reviews, and four
pieces of fiction. The magazine has a mix of color and black-and-white
illustrations, plus photography.
My first inclination after finishing ABORIGINAL SF (ASF) was to be
tougher on the magazine than it deserves. ASF is professionally done --
the copy, printing, lay-out and color reproductions show a commitment
to produce a carefully thought-out, well-done magazine. Yet, ASF's
editorial staff shoot themselves in their collective foot by the second
page. In a near-terminal act of cuteness, the editor, Charles C. Ryan,
proclaims that ASF is published by an alien who is studying Earth and
has developed a fondness for SF. Hence the magazine's name, as the
alien considers us all to be aborigines. Ryan goes on to earnestly
claim that the alien has tapped into various writers' word processors
and is sending the material to his/her/its home planet. Ryan,
naturally, has tapped the alien's transmissions in turn and is
publishing the results.
Linked with the editorial is a "Report From Our Alien Publisher," which
is as stupid as you'd expect it to be. And of course, boys and girls,
there's also a NAME THAT ALIEN contest that gives us the opportunity to
win a lifetime (ours or the magazines) subscription to ASF! My hope is
that Ryan will come to his senses within the next few issues of ASF and
discard the whole alien publisher idea. Otherwise, the contest winner
may very well outlive their subscription.
Although this silliness effectively sabotages ASF's intent to be taken
as a serious prozine, the magazine is still worth your time to locate
and read. The book review column by Darrell Schweitzer is excellent,
and Schweitzer's opening remarks on the role of the reviewer have
interesting parallels to Chuq Von Rospach's article in OtherRealms #9.
Schweitzer, in my opinion, has always been one of the best of the
independent reviewers, offering good, strong criticism on SF works. ASF
will also be useful to many readers (especially those without
speciality book stores in their area) with its offering of a mail order
service that will provide copies of books reviewed or advertised in
each issue of the magazine.
Equally as good as Schweitzer's piece is Jessie Horsting's media review
column, "The Reel Stuff." Horsting offers facts, rumors, and gossip
from the Hollywood scene as it pertains to SF. She writes well, and her
column makes interesting reading. An overlong article by Hal Clement
called "The Home System," unfortunately deals with the home system of
the ubiquitous alien publisher of ASF. Excusing that, it's a
well-written hard-science piece for those interested in seeing how
Clement creates the backdrops for his stories. And those readers who
like information about authors and artists should be pleased with
Laurel Lucas' "Aborigines" column, which details the doings of many of
the contributors, as well as other notable SF figures. With the
exception of Orson Scott Card's "Prior Restraint," the fiction in ASF
#1 is pedestrian. Card's story is an interesting tale that is both
about, and for, writers. Couched in the plot lies an actual paradox
that all writers must sooner or later confront in their careers. Lou
Fisher contributes a rote story about a man and his robot, "Fixing
Larx," and John Moore puts a SF twist on a standard revenge plot in
"Sight Unseen." John A. Taylor's "The Phoenix Riddle" pulls a MEDEA:
HARLAN'S WORLD by having its setting placed in the "alien publisher's"
home system. I found the story unreadable -- in all fairness, mostly
because I was already prejudiced against anything else that even dealt
slightly with the alien publisher. Editor Ryan promises more stories
set in the "Home System." I can only wonder whether he already has
planned an anthology.
ABORIGINAL SF promises stories by Frederick Pohl, Harlan Ellison,
Connie Willis, and Charles L. Grant in later issues. If you're able to
ignore Ryan's alien publisher conceit and are looking for a
well-crafted magazine that appears to be trying to bridge the fan and
prozine markets, I recommend ABORIGINAL SF to your attention. The
editor notes ASF will only be available in bookstores specializing in
science fiction or through subscription from:
ABORIGINAL SF
Dept. 101
PO Box 2449
Woburn, MA 01888-9989
Six issues for $12, 12 issues for $22, 18 issues for $30. You can
obtain a sample copy of #1 by writing to the same address and enclosing
a check for $2.50 plus .50 cents postage.
What I Did on My Summer Vacation
- or -
WorldCon 1986
Jeff Copeland
Copyright 1986 by Jeff Copeland
E-mail: decvax!mcnc!jeff
My real summer vacation was spent in Atlanta, Georgia, starting at 5am
on Sunday August 31st, and ended a little more than three days later.
But the trip there took nearly a year and was an entertainment all its own...
My wife, Liz Schwarzin, and I counted this year's Hugo ballots and
administered the voting for the 1988 and 1989 WorldCon sites. It was
an interesting challenge, caused me to read about three-quarters of a
million words of science fiction, made us persona non grata in some
circles, was more work than I want to undertake again real soon, and
overall was the most fun I've had with my clothes on since I first read
THE HITCHHIKERS' GUIDE TO THE GALAXY. The point here is to talk mostly
about what happens behind the scenes at a World Science Fiction
Convention, and a little about what I did there.
The work on a WorldCon starts in earnest about a year before the actual
convention. By then, the basic plans have been laid, the guests of
honor chosen, the hotel contracts signed. But once last year's
convention is over, all eyes are turned toward the one coming up. So
Labor Day last year is when we started thinking about the details of
the 1986 Hugos.
This year, the convention organization was divided into five
divisions: administration (finance, volunteers, registration and Hugo
balloting), operations (communications, purchasing), publications
(press relations, program book, progress reports), events (the Hugo
cermony and masquerade), and programming.
So what happens before the convention? The program gets planned.
Panelists are contacted ("Dear Dr Sagan, We would be delighted if you
could be on a panel at WorldCon on large numbers..."). Big events are
blocked out in time and space (for a 6000 person convention, the
masquerade has to be in a room that holds at least 4000; the panel on
sex-and-fandom will probably be large and should be in a room that will
hold 500 people). Progress reports -- the news of how the convention
planning is proceeding -- are prepared and mailed to the membership,
and always, people write in to get memberships. The film program is
planned ("Mutant Tomatoes from Mars is a Hugo nominee, so I suppose
we'd better show it; how 'bout Wednesday morning at 2:30am?")
In July, it all goes into high gear: Memberships by mail close because
lists have to be prepared for use at convention registration. The
program is finalized, more-or-less --- there will be a myriad of
changes at the convention because people didn't show up, for example.
Hugo balloting ends, so they can be counted and the plaques engraved
with the winners' names before the convention. The program book goes
to press, with biographies of the guests, lists of past WorldCons, the
governing documents for the World Science Fiction Society, and so on.
Labor Day weekend, though, it all hits the fan, if you'll pardon the
pun. People arrive from all over the world, and all that planning goes
into play. The program works (or doesn't), there are major events and
presentations, an art show, exhibits, and a lot of parties. With luck,
the convention ends Monday afternoon, and everyone goes home having
enjoyed themselves.
How did this translate to one real department?
The nominating ballot for the Hugos went out in February. By the time
nominating was over on April Fools' Day, 570 of them had been
returned. Then the nominees were verified before they could appear on
the final ballot --- were the fiction nominees all in the right
categories?, had the fanzines published an issue in the last year?, and
so on --- there is nearly a page of these details in the rules that
govern the Hugos. [An aside here, to show you what sort of decisions
have to be made: It was the decision of the Hugo subcommittee this year
that SF-Lovers isn't a fanzine, despite the nominations it received.
Even though some of the Hugo subcommittee reads it, we couldn't justify
to ourselves that it either had a central editor or was generally
available, both of those in our view being necessary to be on the ballot.]
Once we had a list of valid nominees, we called most of them up to make
sure they accepted. Then the final ballot was typeset, then it was
printed and sent out with the site selection ballots. The Hugo ballots
started arriving almost immediately, at the rate of 15 or so a day,
until the last week before the July 15th deadline. That week, we got
260. We tried to enter the ballots into the computer as they arrived.
Time to get the ballots into the computer? About 100 hours altogther.
Total elapsed time for our IBM PC to count them? Seven minutes. Then
off to the engraver to get the plaques made.
Once we were in Atlanta, it got even more hectic. While Liz handled
all the work of managing the site selections (a full-time job by
itself), I took care of the details with the events people, attached
plaques to Hugo trophies, and got press releases written. (If you've
never seen a Hugo trophy before, they are a chrome statue of a rocket,
on a base that varies from year to year. Ben Jason and Jack McKnight
machined the first Hugos in the early 50's based on -- if I've got the
story right -- a Buick hood ornament. This years' bases were white
Georgia marble, and look damned good, if I do say so myself. I'm sure
there will be pictures in the October issues of Locus and Science
Fiction Chronicle, if you're interested.)
After the Hugo ceremony Saturday night, we skipped the parties, and sat
down with 12 folks from the five bidders for the '88 and '89
conventions and started counting the ballots to see whose turn would be
next after Brighton in 1987. That took until about 4:30 Sunday
morning. Which is how my REAL vacation started at 5am. (It would have
been much later, or in a straight-jacket though, if it hadn't been for
a lot of good help. Charlie Martin (crm@duke) and Chris Kostanick
(mongor!chris), for example, deserve heaps of praise for trailing
around after Liz and me and helping keep track of details.)
So why go to all this obvious effort? I once made the observation that
the folks who run conventions are a lot like the folks who do amateur
theatrical productions: they put in a lot of work for no money, under
a lot of stress, mostly for the ego gratification of having done it and
the thrill of watching it happen from the other side of the stage. The
crucial difference is that on a convention, almost nobody does the same
thing two years in a row, and almost never knows what to do until
they're into it -- which is why it's even more of a miracle that
WorldCons work at all. This year didn't prove me wrong. I had a lot
of fun watching the convention from the wings, even though I got to see
a lot of the wings and little of the convention.
The moral of this long story, for those of you who attend conventions,
is that there's a lot going on behind the scenes and in rehearsal (to
keep the theater analogy) that you don't see. And some people do this
almost full time avocational job, in addition to their regular
"mundane" job, as their rather odd idea of what constitutes "fun". Do
I find this paradoxical? No, I don't. But then, this is written by a
man who drafted the program to tally the Hugo ballots with an antique
fountain pen.
IT
Stephen King
[****]
Reviewed by
Dan'l Danehy-Oakes
Copyright 1986 by Dan'l Danehy-Oakes
E-Mail: djo@ptsfd.UUCP
This is gonna sound strange, friends and neighbors, but I swear, it all
happened JUST THIS WAY:
I took a ride to the local drive-in bookstore last Friday, and asked
for the novelization of TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE II. "Not yet," they
told me, "but you might like this one," and handed me a big ol' book --
and people, I mean but BIG!!! How big was it? It was so big I
damn near got a hernia just writing the check to pay for it, that's
how big it was.
So I took this literary anatosaur back to my humble abode, and sat down
to sample the first few pages.
See, this little kid goes out to play with his toy boat. Only it goes
down a sewer drain, and when he looks down to see where it went there's
this clown down there, and the clown rips the kids arm off.
Then it started getting weird...
Next thing I knew, it was Sunday, my fingers were bleeding from turning
pages, my eyes were bloodshot from insufficient sleep, and I was STILL
500 pages from the end.
Heads, arms, and other assorted body parts roll (and some of 'em keep
on rolling long after any self-respecting dead, dismembered body part
would've stopped). There's knife-fu, belly-fu, tentacle-fu, claw-fu,
and too many other fu's to name 'em all. Even THINK-fu! Dan'l says,
check it out.
* * *
Sorry about that; King always affects me that way, a little. But now
that it's out of my system, let's take a look at IT.
To begin with, IT is easily the most complex novel King has given us
to date, written in the third person with six principal viewpoint
characters, numerous characters (including ITself) with brief passages
told from their viewpoints, long interludes told by one character in
the first person, and a passage in a journalistically neutral style.
Furthermore, it follows two separate actions, involving the same
characters but separated by 27 years, in a parallel structure so tight
that the transitions between the adult scenes and the childhood scenes
frequently take place in mid-sentence without feeling forced.
Laid out this way, it sounds a complete stylistic hodge-podge; and
that it does NOT come out a shambles when you read it is a good
indication of just how strong a writer King has become.
As a plain ol' story, this one's hard to beat. For four nights
running, it kept me turning pages, almost obsessively, until I fell
asleep from sheer exhaustion; I would get up in the morning, go to
work, and hurry home to find out WHAT HAPPENS NEXT.
King is at his very best when dealing with child protagonists. This
frequently leads to "clever" remarks about "arrested development," but
it is interesting to notice that the adult forms of the characters in
IT are his best-conceived (adult) characters to date, an honor
formerly held by John Smith of THE DEAD ZONE -- whom we also see as a
child, if only for one scene. Perhaps King needs to think through his
characters' childhoods in detail in order to make them "real" as adults?
There are weaknesses. I will mention only the biggest: the ending.
After the final defeat of the monster and the escape from ITs lair,
the characters are left with one major problem. To go into detail
would be a major spoiler, but suffice it to say that the solution
seems too easy, and too much of a deus-ex-machina for my tastes: this
is what cost the book its fifth star.
Recommended, highly, but with reservations -- primarily that you should
have a lot of free time, and NOT have a weak stomach.
Dimensions of Science Fiction
William Sims Bainbridge
Harvard University Press, 1986, Hardback,
278 pages
Reviewed by
R. E. Webber
Copyright 1986 by R. E. Webber
ihnp4!topaz!webber
The author investigates the science fiction subculture via a survey
completed by 595 participants at the Iguanacon World Science Fiction
Convention held in Phoenix, Arizona in 1978. One might well wonder why
it took 8 years for this information of congeal into a book. The
answer probably lies with the fact that although the author claims to
be closer to the truth because he crunched some numbers, the bulk of
the text is a rather classical history of science fiction done in the
scholarly mode (including 20 pages of bibliographic notes).
The survey consisted of a number of general questions about science
fiction and a section on rating authors. The participants ranked 140
science fiction and fantasy authors (including all Hugo and Nebula
winners) on a range from 0 to 6. The survey instructions requested
that unfamiliar authors be left unranked. 409 respondents managed to
rate more than fifty authors without ranking the two fake names
included in the survey. Of these, 276 managed to rate 75 or more
authors. In descending order, the highest ranking authors (in the
sense of having highest average ratings when ranked): Isacc Asimov,
Larry Niven, Robert A. Heinlein, Arthur C. Clarke, Poul Anderson,
Fritz Leiber, Anne McCaffrey, Ursula K. LeGuin, J. R. R. Tolkein,
Roger Zelazny, Theodore Sturgeon, Gordon R. Dickson, Zenna Henderson,
Raccoona Sheldon, Frederik Pohl, Clifford D. Simak, Robert Silverberg,
and Alfred Bester. Each of these had an average ranking over 4.5.
Isaac Asimov had the highest average ranking with 5.08. Raccoona
Sheldon scored 4.56 under that name and 4.52 under the name James
Tiptree, Jr.
Factor analysis on the rankings of the 276 who ranked more than 75
authors generated 4 orthogonal factors. Factor 1 was most strongly
associated with Isaac Asimov, Murray Leinster, Gordon R. Dickson, Jack
Williamson, Harry Harrison, and A. E. van Vogt. Factor 2 was most
strongly associated with Harlan Ellison, Robert Silverberg, Damon
Knight, Joanna Russ, Philp K. Dick, and Kate Wilhelm. Factor 3 was
most strongly associated with J. R. R. Tolkien, Anne McCaffrey, C. L.
Moore, Fritz Leiber, and Andre Norton. Factor 4 was most strongly
associated with H. G. Wells, Jules Verne, Edgar Allan Poe, H. P.
Lovecraft, George Orwell, and Arthur Conan Doyle. The problem with the
notion that this study is scientific starts with the naming of these
factors as, respectively: hard science fiction, new wave, fantasy, and
classics. The next hundred pages of the text revolve around the claim
that these names are a reasonable interpretation of whatever lies
behind the factors. This is done by presenting the same kind of
material as a traditional presentation of science fiction would (with
occasional cross references to the survey). The less the author is
trying to be "scientific", the more he becomes "interesting".
The author presents science fiction in terms of the history of those
aspects of science fiction that group among the first three factors.
The discussion of each group is a mixture of determining what authors
are favoured by that group and what other opinions are held
specifically by members of that group. Additional authors of the "Hard
Science tradition" are: Clement, Reynolds, Pournelle, del Rey, Smith,
Laumer, Anderson, Niven, Clarke, Simak, Campbell, Bova, Hoyle,
Wollheim, Heinlein, Carter, Pohl, Robinson, Haldeman, Blish, and de
Camp. For our respondents, Space Opera is as strongly tied to
Sword-and-Sorcery as it is to hard science. Of course this observation
is just part of a running discussion of how much science is there in
science fiction. Additional authors of "the New Wave" are: Sturgeon,
Malzberg, Aldiss, Lafferty, Burdys, Tiptree, Vonnegut, Spinrad, Delany,
Huxley, Merril, Orwell, Brunner, LeGuin, Pohl, Davidson, Bloch, Bester,
Bradbury, and Haldeman. The New Wave is presented as emphasizing
"literary and aesthetic values, seeking to create the art of the future
rather than the science of the future". Additional authors of "the
Fantasy cluster" are: Merritt, Haggard, Howard, Moorcock, Lewis,
Bradley, de Camp, Burroughs, Lovecraft, and Zelazny. While the Hard
Science tradition and the New Wave are presented has having activistic
overtones, the Fantasy cluster seems to support the status quo.
The remaining 75 pages of the main text turn to the more general
questions of the survey. The author finds that both science fiction
and fantasy readers have a substantially higher regard for the space
program than the general public. However, while science fiction has
always encouraged thoughts about space flight, the author claims, as
stated in his earlier book (The Spaceflight Revolution, 1976) that it
is doubtful that science fiction has had much pro-space impact on the
general public. Mostly science fiction is viewed as a place where
free-thinkers congregate and are exposed to a variety of ideas. The
educational value of science fiction appears to be in broadening the
reader's horizons rather than in the presentation of science. Indeed,
it is noted that science fiction seldom presents people involved in
scientific research (as opposed to presenting "scientists" performing
various social functions). There is also a discussion of the growing
role of women in fandom (and the possible relevance of Star Trek to
this phenomenon).
Above, I have presented the main themes of this book. Let me stress
that the survey plays a larger role in the above summary than it does
in the actual text. The text is filled with interesting quotes and
citations, for example, Sturgeon's Law was first presented in a book
review for Venture Science Fiction (March 1958) and Heinlein's Space
Cadet became a popular 50's television show: Tom Corbett, Space Cadet.
Thus the text yields to light skimming as well as concentrated study.
OtherRealms is Copyright 1986
by Chuq Von Rospach
All rights reserved
One time rights have been acquired from the contributors. All rights
are hereby assigned to the contributors.
Reproduction rights: OtherRealms may be reproduced only for
non-commercial uses. Re-use, reproduction or reprinting of an
individual article in any way on any media, is forbidden without
permission.
chuq@sun.uucp (Chuq Von Rospach; Lord of the OtherRealms) (10/30/86)
OtherRealms
A Reviewzine for the Non-Fan
Where FIJAGH Becomes a Way of Life
Issue #10
November, 1986
Part 2
Pico Reviews
ANYBODY CAN WRITE: A PLAYFUL APPROACH TO WRITING [****]
by Jean Bryant
Whatever Publishing, Inc. 1985 6.95 ISBN 0-931432-21-9
A must for the beginning writer who is often stymied by the sheer
volume of garbage one often writes before getting anything
"acceptable". It is for those who have tried to capture those
wonderful ideas but have been disappointed to find that they can't
spell, have terrible grammar, are completely disorganized, or just
can't get past their own inner critic. This is a cheerful and fun
approach that involves word play, some suggestions for a solid
psychological bask, and journal keeping. The book is supportive,
irreverent, amusing, and very practical, "for the unwriter, beginner,
and would-be writer." Normally I do not enjoy reading about how to
write; however this book had me chuckling, commiserating and then
writing throughout.
-- Liralen Li
li@uw-vlsi.arpa
CALLAHAN'S SECRET by Spider Robinson [****/**]
Berkley, 1986, $2.95, 172 pages
I didn't find the last story nearly as offensive as Chuq did, though it
did shatter some of my preconceived ideas as to what Callahan's
*should* be all about (hence the ** rating). Other than that, I'd give
the book the first rating. The Callahan stories are beginning to wear
on Spider in this book, though he still has some excellent moments and
puns. But really, one shouldn't give the Macintosh computer, for all
it's positive traits, plugs in a SF book. Come on Spider, you know
better than that!
-- Peter Korn
korn@ucbvax.berkeley.edu
THE CRUCIBLE OF TIME by John Brunner [***-]
Del Rey, 1982, $3.50, 413 pages
Short story type approach to the evolution of a space-faring race (in
the style of Asimov's Foundation trilogy). In the end it's satisfying,
but too little progress is made between the too many story-images that
this evolution is broken up into.
-- Peter Korn
korn@ucbvax.berkeley.edu
DREAMING THE DARK: MAGIC, SEX, AND POLITICS by Starhark [*]
Beacon Press, 1982, trade paper, $9.95
Witchcraft on the anti-nuclear protest lines. Boring.
-- chuq von rospach
EON by Greg Bear [*****]
TOR Science Fiction, 500 pages
This is an exceptional book. With a few slight reservations (too much
stereotyping of the Soviet characters) I would rate this as the best
new SF book I've read so far this year. Excellent. Well worth the
long read.
-- Dave Taylor
hplabs!hpldat!taylor
FOOTFALL by Larry Niven & Jerry Pournelle [****]
Del Rey, 1985, $4.95, 581 pages
Invasion by aliens, with almost every conceivable Earth faction
represented. Complaints: at $4.95 it should have been better than
Lucifer's Hammer -- it wasn't quite; additionally, I wanted more from
the Soviet contingent, which, as it was, didn't really say or do all
that much. But, like all Niven/Pournelle combos, it was highly
entertaining and pretty suspenseful (though again, not nearly as much
as Lucifer's Hammer). How Niven & Pournelle expect me to keep track of
all of their characters I'll never know!
-- Peter Korn
korn@ucbvax.berkeley.edu
GALACTIC CLUSTER by James Blish [***]
NEL, 1968 (first 1960), (English ed.), 128 pages
A collection of some good, some not so good short stories. The last
one, "Beep", is excellent, and worth the price of the book used. The
others are somewhat less than satisfying.
-- Peter Korn
korn@ucbvax.berkeley.edu
THE GAME OF EMPIRE by Poul Anderson [***+]
Baen Books, 1985, $3.50, 278 pages
Touted as the "First new Flandry novel in years", mighty little of Sir
Dominic Flandry is to be found within the many pages of this book.
It's really about a bastard(?) daughter of his, and her adventures and
the part she has to play in saving the Terran Empire from the Merasians
this time. In fact, she does next to nothing, but why should that stop
it from being called a Flandry novel anyway? That aside, it's a tad
slow for my liking, without enough character development (we see the
stereotypes, but not much more than that).
-- Peter Korn
korn@ucbvax.berkeley.edu
GLORIANA by Michael Moorcock [*-]
Questar SF, 1978, $3.95
A 1978 work hitting paperback in 1986. A World Fantasy Award winner,
Michael Moorcock writes Harlequin soft core porn. Someone must have
liked it to win that award, but I found it bad Fantasy, bad Harlequin,
and boring soft core.
-- chuq von rospach
HOKA by Poul Anderson and Gordon R. Dickson [**+]
Tor SF, 1983, $2.95
A fascinating premise: intelligent teddy bears with an imagination so
active they can't really tell where reality ends. Teddy bears with a
ferocious ability to read and adopt Terran literature. Anderson and
Dickson are writing stories that parody various pieces of literature.
the stories are well done, but there is only one joke told many
different ways, and half way through I found myself bored with the
sameness. A book to read one story at a time.
-- chuq von rospach
JACK OF EAGLES by James Blish [****]
Avon, 1952, $0.60, 176 pages
Very few faults in this one. Only it's not a typical SF book. Instead
it deals with PSI, and does a damn good job of it. To those who know
Blish, don't worry; he doesn't wax religious in this book (another
plus). Suspenseful too, with just a touch of Zelazny's Amber series.
-- Peter Korn
korn@ucbvax.berkeley.edu
ONE STEP FROM EARTH by Harry Harrison [***+]
TOR, 1985 (originally 1970), $2.95, 253 pages
Stories all around the central theme of a teleportation device, tracing
it's use and refinements to it over several centuries. I've seen one
of the stories elsewhere -- I'm not sure how many have been published
in separate works. The stories are all entertaining and lively, with
solid plots and characters.
-- Peter Korn
korn@ucbvax.berkeley.edu
ON THE GOOD SHIP ENTERPRISE by Bjo Trimble [****]
Donning Co., 1983, $6.95, 286 pages
A NEAT book! Bjo, (pronounced Bee-joe) relates various stories about
Star Trek (ST) fandom. While she does tend to stray from that central
subject occasionally, the paths she takes are entertaining enough for
me to not really find fault with them. It's a tad egocentric in it's
style (in the literal, and not derogatory sense); but then, she does
say in the forward that all the stores are going to be from her point
of view... but c'mon, having over 1/3 of the photographs of 'fandom'
being shots with the author in them is a tad much! Nonetheless, the
stories are VERY entertaining and nostalgic. If you enjoyed Star Trek,
you'll enjoy this book.
-- Peter Korn
korn@ucbvax.berkeley.edu
THE STAR DWELLERS by James Blish [****]
Sphere Books, 1979 (written 1961), 85p (English ed.), 141 pages
A good Heinlein Juvie if I ever saw one, save that the author's name is
different. Only complaint: we don't get details of the ending battle.
Else, it's hard to distinguish it from a Heinlein.
-- Peter Korn
korn@ucbvax.berkeley.edu
THE STAR FOX by Poul Anderson [****-]
Signet, 1964, $0.75, 207 pages
Good, intricate plot, well developed and told. My only two complaints:
1) too much foreign language [mostly French, with a bit of German as
well], and 2) he doesn't give us a detailed play by play of the final
space battle. Else, well worth reading.
-- Peter Korn
korn@ucbvax.berkeley.edu
SWORD AND SORCERESS by Marion Zimmer Bradley [***-]
Daw Books, 1984, $2.95
An anthology of Sword and Sorcery type books with a twist -- female
protagonists. The stories range from the good ("The Garnet and the
Glory" by Phyllis Ann Karr to pretty bad, with a lot of average
material. I give it a marginal recommendation depending on how you
like this type of material.
-- chuq von rospach
A TORRENT OF FACES by James Blish & Norman Knight [****]
Ace, 1967, $1.50, 285 pages
Reminds me a bit of Harrison's Make Room! Make Room!, without all the
judgemental anger. At times the characters can get a bit confusing to
follow, though it all works itself out in the end. The story's about
the life and times of a couple of characters on a overcrowded Earth,
and what these characters are doing about it. Good ending.
-- Peter Korn
korn@ucbvax.berkeley.edu
VIRGIN PLANET by Poul Anderson [**]
Warner Books/Galaxy, 1960, 65p (English ed.), 159 pages
Dumb idea with a dumber plot and even dumber characters. Cocky, wimpy
guy lands on a planet of only women and, though he tries his hardest,
never gets any. Why waste your time?
--Peter Korn
korn@ucbvax.berkeley.edu
WAVE WITHOUT A SHORE by C. J. Cherryh [***+]
DAW, $2.50, 1981, 176 pages
Could you build a society that *REALLY* believed in existentialism?
Something doesn't exist unless you believe it exists? The problems
this poses, as well as the struggle between art and politics is the
basis of some interesting speculations.
-- John Wenn
wenn@g.cs.cmu.edu
THE WAY OF ZEN by Alan W. Watts [****]
Vintage, 1957, trade paperback, $4.95
A history of Zen Buddhism as well as an introduction to the philosophy
and meaning behind this Eastern faith. A good starting point for the
interested reader.
-- chuq von rospach
WHEN GOD WAS A WOMAN by Merlin Stone [****]
Harvest/HBJ, 1976, trade paper, $6.95
A scholarly study of the older, woman/Nature based religions and how
and Christianity overtook, overthrew, and discredited them. A good
perspective religion as politics, religion as social control. The
Fundamentalists will hate it, as it shows Christianity in a negative
light, but from the looks of things a deserved light.
-- chuq von rospach
THE WORTHINGTON CHRONICLE by Orson Scott Card [***]
Ace, $2.75, 1983, 264 pages
This is largely based on two previous books: "Hot Sleep" and "Capitol".
These three books deal with the earth empire built on controlled
suspended animation, telepathy, the fall of the empire, and its
aftermath. This book is how the entire history is told to a young boy
in a small village of an obscure planet. As with all Card, it is well
written and the story is nice hard SF.
-- John Wenn
wenn@g.cs.cmu.edu
Books Received
Books Received lists copies of books sent to OtherRealms for review.
Since review copies are sent out near the time of publication it is a
notice that these books are now (or will soon be) on the shelves of
your local bookstore.
Avon Fantasy
Dietz, Tom. WINDMASTER'S BANE, 1986, 279 pages, $3.50
Avon Horror
Slonaker, Larry. VOICE OF THE VISITOR, 1986, 227 pages, $3.50
Avon Science Fiction
Anthony, Piers. MUTE, 1981, first publication, 440 pages, $4.95
Arnason, Elanor. TO THE RESURRECTION STATION, 1986, 176 pages, $3.50
Baen Science Fiction
Caidin, Martin. ZOBOA, 1986, 430 pages, $3.50. Mainstream near future
adventure. Exceptionally tacky cover blurb.
Space And Time
[Space And Time is a small press, with limited distribution.
Books can be ordered directly through
138 West 70th Street (4B), New York, NY 10023-4432]
Anderson, Jani. BRINGING DOWN THE MOON, 1985, 251 pages, $7.95 trade
paperback. Horror/Mystery anthology. Very good production
quality.
Gottfried, Chet. THE STEEL EYE, 1984, 151 pages, $5.95 trade
paperback. Science Fiction/Mystery novel, including material
published in IASFM. Not typeset, published from typewriter
copy.
Lansdale, Joe. DEAD IN THE WEST, 1986, 119 pages, $6.95 trade
paperback. Horror/Western novel. Originally published in
Eldritch Tales #10-13, tribute to pulps and Wierd Tales.
Linzner, Gordon. THE SPY WHO DRANK BLOOD, 1984, 127 pages, $5.95 trade
paperback. Science Fiction/Mystery novel. Very good production
quality.
Starblaze Graphics
Asprin, Robert & Abbey, Lynn. THIEVES' WORLD Graphic #1, 1985, $3.95.
graphic novel version of Thieves' World series, published
quarterly.
Asprin, Robert & Abbey, Lynn. THIEVES' WORLD Graphic #2, 1986, $3.95.
Asprin, Robert & Abbey, Lynn. THIEVES' WORLD Graphic #3, 1986, $3.95.
Tor Fantasy
Carpenter, Leonard. CONAN THE RAIDER. 1986, 276 pages, $6.95 trade
paperback. Includes essay "Conan the Indestructible" by L.
Sprague de Camp
Charnas, Suzy McKee. THE VAMPIRE TAPESTRY. 1980, first Tor printing
ctober 1986, 294 pages, $2.95
Cooper, Louise. THE OUTCAST. 1986, 316 pages, $2.95. Second book in
the Time Master Trilogy. THE INITIATE, first book in the
series, is being re-issued.
Shwartz, Susan. MOONSINGER'S FRIENDS: IN HONOR OF ANDRE NORTON. 1985,
first Tor printing, 342 pages, $3.50. Tor Horror
Davis, Maggie. FORBIDDEN OBJECTS. 1986, 276 pages, $3.50
Laws, Stephen. GHOSTTRAIN. 1985, first Tor printing, 314 pages, $3.95
Laymon, Richard. NIGHTSHOW. 1984, first Tor printing, 285 pages, $3.50
Tor Science Fiction
Chalker, Jack L. SOUL RIDER BOOK FIVE: CHILDREN OF FLUX AND ANCHOR,
1986, 350 pages, $3.50
Dalmas, John. THE WALKAWAY CLAUSE. 1986, 253 pages, $2.95
Klaper, Steven. AGENTS OF INSIGHT. 1986, 224 pages, $2.95
OtherRealms Notes
Space is very tight this issue (so what else is new?) so this is going
to be very short. After working with putting together short fiction
for the last few months, I've come to the conclusion that trying to
wedge fiction into OtherRealms is a Bad Idea.
I think publishing fiction is a Good Thing, personally, and I want to
do it, but the current format is doing nobody any service. It takes up
needed page space from OtherRealms primary purpose -- reviews. The
Pico Review section is very short this month because of this, even
though I upped the total page count from 30 to 36. As my article
backlog grows, spending space on anything that doesn't enhance
OtherRealms primary focus is wrong. So, for now, please hold your fiction.
* * *
There was a problem in the attribution of the copyright of the David
Lindsay article in #8. I accidently published the copyright in the
name of the dead author, David Lindsay, instead of the real author,
Gary Allen. Sorry for any confusion and my apologies to Gary for the
screwup.
Words of Wizdom
Reviews by
Chuq Von Rospach
Copyright 1986 by Chuq Von Rospach
Doubleday & Company is a hard publisher to comprehend. They aren't
well known for their SF or Fantasy, and they don't publish much,
despite the fact that their top author is Isaac Asimov. When they do
publish something, it tends to be quite good. Unfortunately, Doubleday
doesn't push their wares very heavily, and you have to watch them or
you'll miss some real gems. The Feist books (MAGICIAN, SILVERTHORN,
and A DARKNESS AT SETHANON) were originally published as Doubleday
hardcovers, and languished on the lists until Feist hit the convention
circuit and the book got published in paper.
They just published another gem, and it deserves better than being
hidden on the midlist. DAGGERSPELL (Doubleday & Company, 1986, $16.95
hardcover) is a first novel by author Katharine Kerr. Kerr is a
contributing editor for Dragon Magazine, the house organ for the TSR
Dungeon and Dragon people.
Kerr has a strong sense of Fantasy. This isn't a D&D game turned into
a novel. There are no unicorns, orcs, trolls, or any of the overworked
characters all too prevalent in Fantasy today. Kerr melds a strong
Celtic mythology (another Fantasy standard on the verge of overuse)
mixed with a theme of reincarnation. Nevyn fails his beloved and his
friends, causing them to die and await their rebirth, but also making
it impossible for them to find their final rest until the unrest in
their souls are resolved. Nevyn vows not to seek his final rest until
he repairs the damage he has wrought -- a vow the Gods, to his dismay,
take upon his word.
The result is a quest through the generations, as Nevyn searches for
the aura's of those he has vowed to protect. Their memories are lost
when they are reborn, but the personality and the problems carry
forward. He slowly untwines all of the tangles he's wrought as we
learn about the society, the people, and about Nevyn himself.
Kerr has charted a dangerous course here. There is a very extended
time line, various characters re-appear under different names over
time, and there is a fine line between the complexity she's built and
total chaos for the reader. A line, fortunately, she walks very
skillfully. This book is the first book in a series, which to me is
good news. I definitely want to see more from this author. At the
same time, it definitely stands alone, and Kerr brought it to a
definite ending, so you don't need to wait for the next books to find
out what happened. I can't recommend this book highly enough. You may
well have to order it, since Doubleday doesn't seem to be pushing it
very hard. It's worth it. In a year with a prime crop of new and
interesting authors, Kerr has earned my vote for the Campbell award. [*****]
* * *
Piers Anthony can be a very good author when he wants to be.
Regardless of how well he writes, though, he's built enough of a market
that anything with his name on it sells quite well. As a result,
everyone is publishing Anthony. In the last month, three books have
been released: Del Rey has WIELDING A RED SWORD, the latest
Incarnation of Immortality, Avon has MUTE, and Tor has brought out
STEPPE (Tor Science Fiction, 1976, 252 pages, $3.50), a 1976 British
book just seeing its first American release.
When Anthony is good, he is very good. With STEPPE, he is awful.
First, the book is VERY short -- my word count shows it to be less than
27,000 words, typeset very sparsely to make it look like a real novel.
It isn't, and its shortness is an advantage because the misery is
finished that much sooner. The plot reads like Conan the Barbarian in
the 24th and a Half Century. Anthony seems to be following Asimov into
the "publishing more is publishing better" end of the genre. He will
probably get quite rich doing so, but he isn't doing his readers any
favors. STEPPE is a bad book in general, and very bad Anthony. He can
do much better, and it is a shame he doesn't bother. [ ]
* * *
On the other hand, Anthony's latest Incarnation book, WIELDING A RED
SWORD (Del Rey, October, 1986, 267 pages plus 30 pages of authors
ramblings, $16.95) is as good as STEPPE is bad. We meet the fourth of
the five Incarnations -- Mars, the Incarnation of War. Satan is up to
his old tricks again, and the new Mars (who happens to be a Hindu and
doesn't particularly believe in Satan OR Hell, even though he visits
there; this was a nice touch) has to work his little tail off to try to
keep up. Barely, in a last minute effort, he outwits Satan. We meet
all of the other Incarnations, but they play very minor roles in this
novel. This is a rousing romp, closer to mind candy fun than serious
literature. I enjoyed the Hell out of it (so to speak). You probably
will, too. [***+]
This series has had problems with very uneven writing. ON A PALE
HORSE, the first book about Death, was wonderful, but the next, BEARING
AN HOURGLASS was simply bad. Anthony has always had trouble writing
decent female characters, which made the third one (about Fate, WITH A
TANGLED SKEIN) awkward. This tendency of his makes me worry about the
Gaea novel, the other female incarnation. Another worry is the fact
that Anthony recently signed for a number of new Incarnation novels
after the fifth and "final" one. I don't think ANY of the Incarnations
are going to be interesting more than once, and I'm sorry that he
didn't let it die when it was good. I don't know how he is going to
continue it (perhaps writing about minor Incarnations, a twist added in
SWORD). Regardless, I expect the series will run down long before the
books stop coming, which is too bad.
Also, I wish Anthony (and all the other authors that commit the heinous
sin of "Author Notes") would cut it out! Anthony's are getting longer
and longer, and more and more boring and offensive. I don't like the
concept of notes to start with (with very rare, scholarly exceptions)
and Anthony's are a waste of some valuable and rare paper pulp. If a
story doesn't stand on its own, there is something very wrong with the
story. I don't expect an actor to interpret his movie for me, so why
should an author interpret his book? Or, in Anthony's case, his life?
Save it for the scholarly press and the autobiography.
* * *
The sequel to R.A. MacAvoy's TEA WITH THE BLACK DRAGON is out.
TWISTING THE ROPE (Bantam, 1986, 242 pages, $3.50) is a frustrating
book, and I find it very hard to describe why. It isn't a Fantasy, for
one thing. MacAvoy puts in a few very tiny hooks to the genre, but the
really have nothing to do with the story, which is a murder mystery.
A group of touring Celtic musicians are in Santa Cruz, near the end of
an eight week tour. Tempers are at an edge, mainly centered around the
perverse nastiness of George St. Ives. The road manager is none other
than Mayland Long, AKA the Black Dragon, who tries to die of a cold
throughout the book.
To nobody's surprise, except the people in the book, St. Ives turns up
dead. One major problem with the book is that he doesn't die for the
first 100 pages, which is much too long for the cast of characters to
walk around waiting for something to do.
Once St. Ives dies, the book picks up, but it is more of a spiritual
sequel to THE BOOK OF KELLS than it is TEA. It looks like MacAvoy had
a contract for a Black Dragon book, had a lot of research left over
from KELLS, and wanted to write a mystery. I can't recommend it unless
you are a real MacAvoy fan. It isn't badly written by any means, I
just found it hard to get interested in anything the book did, because
none of the characters were well defined enough or sympathetic to make
me care.
I find this very disturbing. MacAvoy is a wondeful writer, but after
TEA and DAMIANO, her books seem to be getting less and less
interesting. MacAvoy seems to be writing distance between her
characters and the reader, and the later books are simply not as
engrossing. She is a major talent, but I'd hate to think that her
first books will be her best. So far, though, that has been the case,
and I hope the next book will be better. [**]
* * *
If you are as tired of unicorn Fantasy as I am, then you'll enjoy A
MULTITUDE OF MONSTERS (Ace Fantasy, 1986, 195 pages, $2.95) by Craig
Shaw Gardner. This is the sequel to A MALADY OF MAGICKS and Ebenezum
is back, still searching for a cure to his magical allergy before the
demons of the Netherhells catch up with him. This time, he and his
hapless apprentice Hubert and their entourage (the warrior Hendrek,
complete with rented magical club Headbasher and Snarks, the demon who
got kicked out of the Netherhells for being truthful) run into an
exploding Brownie and the Association for the Advancement of Mythical
and Imaginary Beasts and Creatures. The AFTAOMAIBAC, it seems, has
decided to get equal time on tapestries for all the mythical creatures
in the land (even Bog Womblers!), and they are just about as tired of
Unicorn's as I am.
This is all quite hilarious, and even funnier than the first book. The
story moves along quite quickly, from strange experience to stranger,
and tells a good tale while making fun of all the cornerstones of
Fantasy at the same time. A great change of pace. [****]
* * *
The big disappointment for me this month was THE SUMMER TREE by Guy
Gavriel Kay (Berkley Fantasy, 1984, 323 pages, $3.50). The book has
gotten good reviews, friends have forced copies into my hands, and I
was told nothing but wonderful things about it.
Kay is a good writer, but SUMMER TREE is a melange of half thought out
mythology (mostly a hacked up Celtic pantheon, with traces of Nordic
and Judeo-Christian, with sexes, names and faces re-arranged to protect
the godlings). I found the pantheon he developed half thought out,
incomplete, confusing, and inconsistent.
There are very few characters in the book. Instead, he writes in a
number of standard Fantasy archetypes -- the Aged and Good King (who's
dying, of course). The Eldest Brother and Heir, exiled. The second
brother, Drunkard and Lech, suddenly thrust into an unwanted Heirdom to
the throne. Political maneuverings. Evil Chamberlains. Gandalf the
Grey (actually, Silvercloak the Mage, but what means a name?)
The problem with this is that Guy allows the Archetypes to be his
characterizations. Instead on building upon the base they create, he
makes them the entire character. This is worse than a stereotype --
these aren't people, they are automatons. You know exactly what they
are going to do and why, and they never surprise you. Plot twists and
unexpected happenings simply don't exist in this book.
A major failing in the book for me is the non-character Jennifer.
Early in the book, five Chosen are brought through some kind of magical
time warp from Earth to Fionavar. Four of the five run around, talk,
have adventures, and generally attempt to develop their characters.
Remember Star , you can find the pieces from Mallory, but the pieces
from Kay are missing. The book is 100% derivative, and thanks, but I'd
rather read the original. [*]
* * *
SWORDS AND DEVILTRY by Fritz Leiber (Ace Fantasy, 1970, $2.95) is an
older work that I finally got around to reading. It is the first book
of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, and included the Nebula Award winning
"Ill Met in Lankhmar," the story of the first meeting between the two
swordsman. The other two stories, "The Snow Women" and "The Unholy
Grail" are about Fafhrd and Gray Mouser (respectively) before they meet
up. These characters are the classic characters of Sword and Sorcery
Fantasy, and reading the original will give you an idea of how this
subgenre ought to be written -- the rest of the genre is a pale
imitation. [*****]
* * *
FUTUREDAYS (An Owl Book, Henry Holt and Company, 1986, 96 pages trade
paperback, $12.95) is the first publication of a set of cigaratte cards
commissioned in 1899 to show what the future would be like in the year
2000. The cards have been in a previously unpublished, and they are
printed with commentary by Isaac Asimov.
There are some problems with the book that make me like it less than I
otherwise would have. It is published on high quality stock and all of
the plates are color, so a lot of work went into publication.
Unfortunately, most of the plates are printed so that they use less
than half the space on a page, the rest being left white. Other plates
are reduced and printed two to a page. I would have much preferred to
have them enlarged to page size, as there is a lot of detail to the
cards that can't be easily seen in their current format. Also, the
commentary by Asimov is irritating at best. He seems to alternate
between a superior tongue in cheek tone (admonishing a commercial
artist for not understanding the technology of the future) and being
snobbily superior. His 20-20 hindsight makes it easy for him to
second-guess the artist, but the way he does it was, to me, insulting
to the works he was trying to explain. When you can get it at
discount, buy it for the pictures -- they are good although they could
be better. I wish they had chosen someone more sympathetic to explain
them, though. [**]
* * *
SWORD-DANCER (DAW Fantasy, 1986, 286 pages, $3.50) is the first book
I've read by Jennifer Roberson, and its good. What happens to a male
dominated society when a swordswoman on a quest for her missing brother
comes traipsing into town?
If this sounds like a relatively standard plotline, you're right. But
Roberson writes around it and brings it to life. There are also two
twists that make this book especially interesting. First, it is
written in the first person from the point of view of a male swordsman
who hires himself on to help the woman find her brother. We watch a
male chauvinist come to grips with a woman, someone BETTER than him at
his chosen trade, through disbelief, ridicule and anger to respect and
love and admiration. Much has been written on the problems of male
writers writing believable female characters. Here is a case where a
female writer has taken on a sympathetic and complex male character,
and pulled it off marvelously. Another thing that Roberson explores is
what happens after the quest. When a person focuses their entire being
for a number of years on a single idea, something that comes to pass,
then what happens? Too many books ride happily (or unhappily, as the
case may be) into the sunset, living happily ever after. That just
doesn't happen in Real Life, and Roberson explores the withdrawal and
depression that happens when the one thing that matters in your life
for as long as you can remember no longer matters.
Very well done, the find of the month for me. Highly recommended, and
probably deserves consideration for some kind of award. [*****]
* * *
I'm a sucker for shared world anthologies. The Baen Books anthology,
the Heroes in Hell series, had a lot of potential. The first two
volumes were very disappointing to me, and the first novel, THE GATES
OF HELL by Janet Morris and C.J. Cherryh, carry on the tradition of
slipshod writing and unfufilled possibilities. Heroes in Hell is a
rehash of Farmer's Riverworld, but Morris and friends seem to insist on
playing cutsey. It isn't improving, so I'm pulling it off my reading
list. THE GATES OF HELL is not recommended. []
* * *
News of Note: Owen Lock has been named editor-in-chief of Del Rey
Books. He has been acting in this position since Judy-Lynn Del Rey fell
ill. He won't replace her, but he will, I think keep Del Rey a
powerful and progressive publisher.
OtherRealms is Copyright 1986
by Chuq Von Rospach
All rights reserved
One time rights have been acquired from the contributors. All rights
are hereby assigned to the contributors.
Reproduction rights: OtherRealms may be reproduced only for
non-commercial uses. Re-use, reproduction or reprinting of an
individual article in any way on any media, is forbidden without
permission.
chuq@sun.uucp (Chuq Von Rospach; Lord of the OtherRealms) (10/30/86)
OtherRealms
A Reviewzine for the Non-Fan
Where FIJAGH Becomes a Way of Life
Issue #10
November, 1986
Part 3
The Ozzie and Harriet
Fiction by
Fred Bals
E-mail: bals%nutmeg.DEC@decwrl.DEC.COM
Copyright 1986 by Fred Bals
[This story was a quarter finalist in the 1986 Writers of the
Future contest, and is Fred's first published work. He works
for Digital Equiptment and lives in New Hampshire.]
Everyone knows that Traci Walsh did the best Elvis, but I'm the only
Ozzie who has Joplin down cold. With Traci gone I'm the best Ozzie
left. Of course, the way things are now that might not mean much.
Traci's spectacular pile-in at the walls of Graceland has started up
the whole Ozzie versus MOC debate again, with lots of flaming
editorials in the tapers and intense moaning from the video MOCs too.
No surprise. You really expect a MOC to say, "Give control back to the
Ozzies"? It'd be nice to hear, though. I wish I could finagle just a
couple of minutes with the Net's Cronkite MOC. "Hrhhmm," old Cronk
would say. "And that's the way things were today, December 18, 2052.
Give me back my Ozzie or I'll drop my pants."
No matter what happened to Traci, it's not dangerous being an Ozzie.
You just have to watch your attitude and take basic precautions. I
mean, what was Traci doing in Memphis in the first place? And where
were her people when she drove that stupid, pink Cadillac into
Graceland? Traci always traveled with a crowd. It was part of her image.
Sure, we identify. And Traci got into Elvis more than was safe. That's
why she should have followed the absolute rule for Ozzies. Never, ever
travel anywhere that has bad associations. You'll never see this little
Ozzie in Los Angeles or Port Arthur. In fact, southern California and
all of Texas are directly excluded from my tour. I'd have San Francisco
knocked out too if it wouldn't destroy the profit margin. In its own
way, this city is more dangerous than anywhere else for me.
Well, Janis isn't Elvis, thank the Rock n' Roll gods. When you start
thinking about it, what place wouldn't have bad associations for the
King? And for Traci?
But Janis and I can handle San Francisco. We're already handling it. I
got in this morning.
After checking into my hotel I spent the morning walking what was left
of the Haight, riding the crest of the street's old memory waves. But
my mood rapidly flattened as I watched hoolie street kids shake down
the tourists for spare change. Nobody carries change anymore. So candy,
buttons and pocket lint were falling through their hoolie hands, and
little street sweepers were scurrying around cleaning up the whole
mess. None of the tourists seemed to notice or care. After all, the
illusion was what they were there for, right? If the kids are really
MOC-controlled hoolies, they don't smell bad or get nasty either.
I work with illusions. I prefer reality in my spare time. So I
about-faced for the walk back to my hotel. But a rainbow splatter of
clothes was standing in my way.
"Go away, fake," I said and started to walk through it. But instead of
fading away like a good hoolie, this one bounced off of me and landed
hard on the sidewalk. "What are you, crazy?" she wailed as her
dandelion head-wreath fell askew over one eye.
I started laughing and reached down to help her back to her feet. "I'm
sorry," I said. "I thought you were a hoolie. Let me make it up to you
with a drink?"
She was laughing now too. "You've got a deal," she said.
She wanted wine when we got to the cafe. "So tell me why you were
imitating a hippie hoolie?" I asked.
She twirled her glass slowly on the table. "I'm taking this course on
the counter-culture of the 1960s. I wanted to try to get a feel for
what it was really like for a paper I'm doing."
"And what was it like?" I asked.
"It wasn't like what it was."
I was trying to straighten that out when she added, "It didn't work. Me
and everyone else trying to pretend we were 90 years in the past. I
couldn't talk to the hoolies. They've all got their own programmed
paths, so I had to keep getting out of their way. All the people were
embarrassed when they found out I was real. And then you tried to walk
through me."
I was hardly listening. Somehow, she looked very familiar. She had the
gift of seemingly changing her features at will, becoming beautiful one
moment, plain the next. A tough jaw, long honey-brown hair, gray eyes
that blazed when she was angry. I had already caught the heat from
those eyes once. "I'm Chris Demeret," I said and waited for a reaction.
"Harriet Cisco," she answered. Nothing else. No big eyes or gaping
jaws. Not surprising. Ozzies are known for who they become, not for who
they are. But I'm always hoping.
"They call you Harry?" I asked. And got roasted by the gray eyes again.
"Only when they don't want to see me again," she said. "And I'm late
for class now. Thanks for the wine, and I guess I won't sue you for
knocking me down. Goodbye."
"Wait," I said as she started to her feet. "I'm in town for a couple of
days. Maybe ..."
"Have a great time," she called as she walked out the door. Great. So
much for that. Boy meets girl. Boy flattens girl. Girl walks out of
boy's life.
"Hey," I yelled to the bartender. "More wine!"
* * *
"Hey, idiot," I yelled into the microphone, "get your fat butt out of her."
The mc just stood there like a fool. I swung my arm and watched as
Janis swung in simpatico on the stage. Her fist went through the mc's
face.
"Listen carefully," I said into the mike. "You introduce her, and then
run off stage right. Stage right! Pin a note to your shirt if you can't
remember. She'll be coming in stage left. If you go through her
tonight, you'll be dealing with a real fist." The mc looked up to the
glassed-in Ozzie heaven where I was standing. "Why all this stupid run
in, run out stuff?" he shouted. "Why can't you turn it on right here
like everyone else?"
I'd been using the loudspeaker mike, but now I flipped on Janis' voice.
"Look at me," she screamed in those unique, whiskey-strained tones.
"Look at me when you're talking about me! There's nothing up there
except a dude pulling strings. I'm Janis Joplin, can you dig it? I've
sold this place out for two nights. And they're going to want it as
real as I can deliver when they see me. They don't want some jerk
ruining the dream in the first minute. We do it right or I walk."
He turned away muttering something about Ozzies, but I let it pass. I
turned off Janis' voice, wearily sank down in the control seat and
looked at the chancery parchment Traci had given me years ago taped up
on one of the walls. "PAY NO ATTENTION TO THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN!"
it blazed out in crimson letters.
The scene in Ozzie heaven resembled a cross between a video control
booth and a sound stage, an exact replica of the real stage below me
complete with dummy microphones and the band's equipment. I had spent
the last few hours taking measurements and taping markers to the floor.
A lot of work to get things right, and all too easy to ruin by someone
who couldn't tell left from right.
Turning on the loudspeaker again, I said in my own voice, "Let's try it
one more time."
The emcee finally stumbled through the introduction and exited
off-stage without problems. I pressed the hand button on my remote,
launched the band into Half Moon and raced out to my floor microphone.
Janis paralleled my actions down below. The front and sides of my booth
developed into hoolie projections of the stage and empty hall. I/Janis
grabbed the mike, swung our heads down and I quickly squeezed the hand
control again. Tonight, those who knew what to look for would see
Janis' hand close and know I was letting the song sequence run on
automatic. But the illusion would hold for most of my audience.
I brought the little MOC on line and let it take over Janis' program.
Her digitalized voice, indistinguishable from the real Joplin's, howled
through my booth like an electric banshee.
I checked the MOC's readouts and idly scratched at the receptors pasted
on my body. The band looked fine. It seemed I had cured the lead
guitarist's bug. During my New York show, he had started to project
six inches off the stage floor. In spite of my frantic scrambling with
the controls, he levitated nearly 10 feet off the ground for the rest
of the show. I'd been horrified, but the New York audience, all LSD
revival crazies, had loved it.
Time for the band solo down below, and time for me to show what
separated Ozzies from MOCs. I took over control from my MOC and went
into Janis as she began her, "hey, hey HEY!" lead-in for the guitars.
Janis and I whirled together, flying on the wild wind of the music. The
hoolie musicians came dancing toward us, right on program. But Janis
and I were free, no moves predictable, as the MOC picked up my mad
dance and replicated it in Janis. I grabbed up a real tambourine.
Janis in turn reached for her holo. We leaped into a gypsy rhythm,
spinning around the band like dervishes. The projections in Ozzie
heaven tracked Janis' perspective as we raced around the stage. And I
saw the stage hands grinning out from the wings, clapping along with
the band's boogie.
Rocking. The illusion complete, I had them caught up in the show as
well as Janis herself ever had.
We circled back to the mike stand. What the hell, I thought, might as
well give them everything. Keying out the MOC altogether, I took the
song home myself. My crow's voice audible to me alone in Ozzie heaven,
coming out beautiful in Janis below. The guitars slowly faded into the
ticking of the drums, and we ended, both slumped over our microphones.
Then I looked up in surprise as the applause floated in over the
speakers. Harriet was standing in front of the stage with someone else.
* * *
"The reality behind the dream," Harriet's companion said as I led them
into Ozzie heaven.
"I guess that's how you could look at it," I replied stuffily. My
pleasure in having Harriet appear was tempered by my annoyance at being
caught so wound up in the act. "I like to think it's realer down there
when I'm doing it right."
"Chris, it was great," Harriet said. "It was like she was really here.
The dance looked so unrehearsed. Almost like it wasn't a computer
program at all."
Oh boy. "Let's make a deal," I said. "I won't call you Harry and you
won't tell me that six years of work almost didn't look like a computer
program. O.K.?"
Her features seemed to change again and she looked about nine years
old. "I'm sorry. I was just trying to tell you I thought it was
fantastic programming. I didn't mean to make you angry. I've seen
people run MOCs before, but never ..."
"Damn it," I exploded. "I'm not a MOC programmer. I'm a performance
artist who uses MOCs as a tool. I'm an Ozzie."
"And a great one," Harriet's friend interjected.
"Yeah, thanks." I started plucking the receptors off my skin. "Do you
have a name?"
"That's Mike," Harriet answered for him. "We go to school together. He
wanted to come along when I told him I was going to try to see you again."
"Beautiful equipment," Mike said as he stroked my little MOC's
keyboard. "I'm working on my MOC degree, but I've never seen anything
rigged like this."
"Custom job. Mostly my own work." Maybe Mike thought he was stroking me
too, but I'm not a techie and I don't like people who like MOCs. I
built and maintain the hardware because that's the only way I can make
sure Janis will run properly.
"Chris, I'm so stupid," Harriet blurted out. "I was all the way back to
the campus before I realized who you were. Mike must have told me about
you a million times. He says you're the best Ozzie in the world. I just
wanted to apologize for the way I treated you. And I really do think
you're a great artist."
"Forget it." I finished peeling off the receptor paste, and was about
to ask her out for another drink when the loudspeaker blared.
"If you're set with the sound check, Demeret, can we get back to work?"
I flipped on the loudspeaker toggle and answered, "It sounded fine.
Bring down the lights a little tonight. I could see through the band
hoolies. Except for that we're all set. I'll be back at seven for the show."
"Are you going back to the Sheldon, Chris?" Harriet asked. "They've got
a nice bar there. Maybe I could pay you back for the drink?"
An alarm was ringing insistently in the back of my head, but those gray
eyes were boring into mine. Ozzies, especially male Ozzies doing female
roles, seldom get what were called groupies in Janis' day. But there
are always exceptions. I glanced over at the clock display.
"I've got to do an interview first," I answered. "But we're meeting in
the Sheldon's bar anyway. That should only take about twenty minutes.
Come on along." I looked at Mike. "How about you?"
He was still pawing my little MOC and all but frothing with excitement.
"Do you think I could stay here a little longer and look this over?" he
asked. Normally I wouldn't let the Pope herself near my equipment, but
it seemed to be a good way to be rid of Mike. If he'd rather be with
hardware than Harriet, it was just fine with me.
"If one thing is screwed up when I get back, I'll nail you to a wall,"
I said. "With that in mind, be my guest and take all the time you
want." Like about six hours, Mike, I thought. And then tonight and
tomorrow night too.
Harriet and I walked down from Ozzie heaven and met the producer coming
up the ramp. "Everything right, Demeret?" he asked.
"Give your mc a compass for tonight and everything will be fine," I
answered. And since he was eyeing Harriet, I decided to pull a
superstar trip. "Got a paper and pen?" I asked.
While Harriet was digging through her purse I said, "This is Harriet,
Lou. I want her to have the run of the place while I'm here. Understand?"
"Got it," Lou nodded.
I took the pen and paper and scrawled, She can go where she wants, and
added my signature. "Put your name right under mine, Lou," I said as I
handed him the paper, "and, by the way, there's a guy up in Ozzie
heaven. Leave him alone unless you see him walking off with my MOC."
Lou gave the paper back and I passed it on to Harriet. "There you go,"
I said. "You can't be in heaven while I'm working, but you can get the
view from anywhere else you like. Just flash this if anyone bothers
you."
I got a fast kiss and a nice flash from the gray eyes. Arm in arm, we
walked back to the Sheldon.
* * *
"Where does `Ozzie' come from?"
I tried to resist rolling my eyes and thought about the times I had
been asked the same question. Too many times, I decided as I stirred
the ice in my Jack Daniels. Too many times, in too many bars in too
many cities. And I had seen the same bored look plastered on too many
indifferent faces as reporters plowed through their rote questions. But
publicity kept me working.
"The Wizard of Oz," I answered and tried to manufacture an ingenuous
smile. "A flat screen movie done about 120 years ago. These people went
to find a wizard who turned out to be a little guy running a
projection. Almost like a hoolie. Some joker made the connection and
started calling us Ozzies. The name stuck. Better than being called a
Wizzie, I guess."
My feeble attempt at humor fell flat on the table. I grimaced at
Harriet sitting at the next table and she stuck her tongue out at me. I
was obviously winning my audience over.
"There aren't too many Ozzies left, are there?" the reporter asked.
"We're not exactly dinosaurs," I shot back. "There's the combined
Stones/Who tour. That uses five Ozzies. The Big Rock n' Roll Show is
still going strong with Holly and Berry. I've even heard rumors that
the Beatles are being switched back to Ozzie-run." The last was a lie,
but maybe he wouldn't pick up on it.
He didn't, but the next question was worse. "Still, you're talking
about group acts, where a few Ozzies are running two or three
performers in tandem with MOCs.
Isn't it true that you're the last solo performer now that Traci Walsh
is dead? Doesn't all the controversy about being a solo Ozzie worry you?"
I knew he would ask sooner or later, but that didn't make it feel any
better. I drained my glass before I answered. "First," I said, "if you meet
Jagger's Ozzie I wouldn't tell him you think he's just part of a group ..."
"You're not answering my question," he broke in.
"All right, no, it doesn't bother me," I lied. "There is no proof that
being a solo is dangerous. Traci Walsh's death had nothing to do with
her being an Ozzie. Look, you know I knew Traci. She always drove too
fast. Her antique Cadillac was a nightmare to steer. Traci was goofing
around and had an accident. It could have happened to anyone. The
stories about her flipping out are garbage. I've been an Ozzie for six
years. I do my show five months a year. And I'm in better mental health
than most of the people I see on the street."
But it wasn't enough to make him leave me alone. "You're saying that a
135 mile per hour crash into the real Presley's home was an accident?"
he asked. "No more," I shouted. "That's it. We can talk about my show
or that's it. I've said everything I have to say about Traci."
He sat there fiddling with his microcam and smiling. I hated him for
Traci's sake and for the story I'd see in tomorrow's tapers. Another
example of an Ozzie losing control.
"Another subject, then," he began. "This whole thing about Ozzies
imitating dead performers is rather gruesome, don't you think? And
leading off that question, many experts do believe that identifying
with their roles is dangerous for the performers, whether you
personally agree or not. A MOC could do your show letter perfect right
now without your personal involvement. Most shows are, in fact,
MOC-run. Why not go with the crowd?"
"You're dead wrong," I replied. "And that's not meant to be a joke. I'm
not trying to bring Joplin back to life. I don't identify with her
except in terms of performance. I'm interpreting her and her era.
There's a lot of people who still want to share in the dream even after
it's gone. Do you know that live people used to make good livings from
imitating Presley and the Beatles? Ozzies are their successors, and we
do a hell of a better job. What I find gruesome is that people would
trust a Cronkite hoolie reading the news more than getting it from a
real person."
"But Cronkite is a MOC," he interrupted again.
"And Janis isn't. She needs me to bring her to life! A MOC can't do
that. All the Cronkite MOC does is run a hoolie sitting behind a desk.
So what? That's not performing." "MOCs are capable of handling
performances. You mentioned the Beatles yourself."
I knew that would be back to haunt me. But I was still fighting. "The
Beatles were never a stage act. People don't expect much from their
show except the music itself. Any MOC could handle them.
"But come to my shows and you'll see the difference. The largest MOC in
the world can't handle half of what I do. Every show, every night is
different. I feel what the audience wants and I give it back to them
through Janis. Nobody will ever build a MOC that can do what I do."
"Well, that sounds like a good place to end," he said as he fed a
toothy smile to the microcam. "Go see Chris Demeret's Janis Joplin show
at Winterland II and decide for yourself if he's right. Goodbye and
good news from Walt Blassie."
Blassie's smile switched off with the click of the microcam as he
turned back to me. "O.K., Demeret, fifty dollars for the plug," he said.
"With all the crap you gave me, it should be fifty cents." But I was
already reaching for my wallet. The microcam had recorded the
interview, but Blassie could still stop it from airing. And I needed
the publicity.
"You're stupider than I think if you really believe that," he answered.
"Traci Walsh's suicide is interesting. Ozzies going crazy are
interesting. Walsh is selling more videos now than when she was alive.
Kind of ironic, isn't it? Just like her hero. "What isn't interesting
is talking about how you can outperform a computer," he continued. "I
can get a hundred interviews from the Rust Belt with people saying the
same thing. Nobody believes them and nobody is going to believe you. If
you had any sense you'd use the crazy image rather than fighting it."
"Just make sure the interview gets on the air," I mumbled as I stared
down at the table.
"It will play," said Blassie as he moved away. "No thanks to you. Think
about it, Demeret. Start dressing in drag and work out an interview
act. If it's good, I'd even consider giving you a discount the next
time you're in town."
With Blassie gone, Harriet came back to my table. "You have to pay for
interviews?" she asked as she sat down. "That's awful, Chris."
"That's show biz," I said as I waved for more drinks. "It depends on
the town and who controls the entertainment news. Blassie decides what
gets on the air for his station. And it's the largest in San Francisco.
His station manager could care less whether Blassie interviews me or a
talking dog. No, cancel that. If Blassie found a talking dog, he'd run
it as the lead story. But I'm old news."
"But you sold out your show both nights!"
"Hype. `Sold Out' means anything you want it to mean, and doesn't mean
anything the day after a show. More than half of the tickets are being
run through discount houses. Blassie's station owns one and will run a
promo for it right after my interview. You know, Fanza Productions can
get you in tonight's sold-out Janis Joplin show! Type in your credit
number right now and get your tickets for less than box-office prices!
Blassie will probably get a kick-back on that too. It works out pretty
well for everyone except me. People want to go if they think everybody
else is going. They like it even more if they think they've paid less
than the rest of the crowd. The trouble is the price cut. I'll be lucky
to clear a little over expenses even if I do sell out. Harriet, it
costs a lot to run my show."
"The glamour of Ozzies," said Harriet as she watched me.
"Yeah. The glamour of it all. Listen, I've got a bottle up in my room
and the prices are a lot better than drinking down here. What do you
say about coming up with me?"
She was still watching me. "You've got a show to do," she replied.
"And I've got a lot of time before it starts. Can you think of anything
better to do than drinking?"
"Yes," she answered. "Let's go up to your room."
* * *
It had been a long time since Traci. I never had decided whether we
were more lovers, rivals, or bit-players in a monster movie during our
short, disastrous affair. More the last toward the end, I guess, when
she started to fall apart and I never knew if I'd be dealing with Traci
or the King on any given day. The King wasn't amusing at all,
especially when that nasty ego was packed into a beautiful 14-year-old
who looked like she had stopped playing with dolls only the day before.
The King had finally worn me down and worn me out. And I had canceled
the Nashville performance Traci had talked me into doing with her. And
she had gone by herself. And the day before the show she went for a drive.
I glanced at Harriet, cuddled into my side with her eyes closed.
Someone around Janis' time had written a line about, "if you can't be
with the one you love, then love the one you're with." Good advice for
people on the road. But that kind of sex, and everything leading up to
it, seems to become meaningless seconds after you've finished. Our
performance together had been good, certainly satisfying to me,
apparently satisfying to her.
But performance was the word. We had both acted as if there were a
group of unseen judges with us in the room, silently raising placards
with scores written upon them. 8.5 for technique. 9 for style. 3 for mood.
Harriet murmured and raised herself from the cushion of my arm. "My
God, what time is it, Chris?" she asked.
"You've only been asleep for about twenty minutes," I said. "Listen, I
don't want you to think I'm throwing you out, but I've got to start..."
She was already out of bed and scrambling into her clothes. "I know,
you want to get ready for your show," she finished for me. "That's all
right, I have to go do something anyway. I'm already late." Amazingly,
she was ready to leave. She came back to the bed and gave me a fast
kiss. "That was really nice, love. I'm sorry I have to run. I'll see
you tonight." Then the gray eyes were searching me again. "Chris, do
you really like being an Ozzie?" she asked quickly.
"What brought that up?" I answered. "Like has nothing to do with it.
It's what I do. It's all I've ever done. I don't want to do anything else."
She looked as if she wanted to say something, but then just shook her
head. "It doesn't matter. I just wanted to know. I'll see you tonight."
And she was out the door.
Did I like being an Ozzie? I wondered what Traci would have answered to
that. And I could almost hear her laugh, "What does it matter, Chris?
What other choice have we ever had?"
* * *
The hall was starting to fill up nicely, and I looked out in
satisfaction at a herd of reporters near the stage. It was too late to
hit on me, so it looked like there were still reporters in the City who
weren't on the take. From the number of people I had seen outside even
Blassie's station had done its job. My "sold-out" show might live up to
its reputation.
I headed up to Ozzie heaven and met Lou heading down. "Looks good,
Demeret," he said. "Give them hell." "Good line, Lou," I answered. " I
bet you came up with it all by yourself. Listen, I want the rules
followed. No one on the stage after the show starts and no one allowed
in heaven until it's over. That definitely means the intermission, too.
I don't want to be bothered once I start."
"We'll follow your rules, Demeret," he said. "You know, you're a real
pain in the ass to work with."
"But I'm a star," I said as I started up the stairs. "You take care of
your end, and Janis will take care of the rest."
Heaven looked good. If Mike had done any damage to my equipment, it
wasn't visible. That sort of techie usually treats hardware like gold
anyway, so I hadn't been really worried. I fired up the MOC and started
pasting my receptors back on again. Then I taped the list of songs I
wanted for the night on my console and went to work.
Usually, I let the mc do his intro first and then bring out Janis and
the band. Tonight, I was going to have the band on stage first and let
them work into "Buried Alive in The Blues." When the audience was at
full-tilt, the mc would give the introduction and Janis would charge
out and do the song. I was probably the only one in the hall who would
get the message, but I thought Janis would like having the song she
never finished as her opening number.
I brought down the recorded music, projected the band hoolies
off-stage, and walked them out. There was scattered applause as the
audience spotted them. As I positioned the band I checked behind my
chair to make sure Mike hadn't moved the markers. The last thing I
needed was to have Janis running into the drum set. But everything was
fine. The hall was nearly filled. I decided to give the early audience
a thrill. I started the MOC program on "warm-up, various segments of
music" and watched my band fiddle with their instruments. The audience
cheered as the lead guitarist suddenly ripped into Hendrix's, "Purple
Haze," the ham.
One last thing to do. I hit the red button and the little hoolie popped
up on my console. "So where are we tonight, honey?" she asked as she
took a slug from her miniature bottle of tequila.
"Home, Pearl," I answered. "We're back in the City."
"San Francisco," she cried delightedly. "It's been a long time. Are we
at the Fillmore?"
"Winterland," I said, and didn't bother to add the Roman numeral. It
wouldn't have meant anything to her anyway.
"Just as good," she answered. "Although I would have liked to give
Graham some shit. Well, it'll be a good crowd. They always are in San
Francisco. Are we starting soon?"
"In a few minutes."
Pearl looked around Ozzie heaven and then back at me. "This sure is
weird. Tell me again. I'm dead but you stuffed me in a computer
somehow. And now it's almost 100 years later and I'm not really real
but you and I put on shows together." "That's about right," I agreed.
She laughed up at me. "I don't know about you, but I feel real. And
that's all that matters to me. Let's go out and show these dudes what
rocking is all about."
I hit the button and Pearl winked out. "You're right," I said. "Let's
do it."
I hit the "Ready" switch to let the stage manager know it was time and
keyed the band into "Buried Alive." The crowd began roaring as they
realized the show was beginning. I started hyperventilating as I rose
from my seat and prepared for Janis' entrance. I heard the mc shouting,
"And now ladies and gentlemen, Winterland II presents to you -- JANIS
JOPLIN!!!" Then everything crashed.
The music stopped as suddenly as if the power had been cut. Racing to
the window, I saw all the hoolies wavering. One by one the band flicked out.
"Mike!" I roared as I scrambled back to my MOC. "What the hell has he
done?" Nothing on the box was responding. I had a half-ton, million
dollar paperweight on my hands. Then, as if this were only a senseless
nightmare, I saw Harriet walking out on the stage below me.
"We are the Living Artists Symbiotic Collective," Harriet announced
into the microphone. "We have taken this action to dramatize the
differences between live performers and dead machines. Machines can be
stopped with a turn of a switch. Nothing can stop real art."
"Rather than paying to see a recreation of the dead past, you should be
looking to the future," she continued as booing began to erupt from the
audience. "We are ready ..."
But whatever she was ready for was lost as a security guard finally
appeared and hustled her off-stage.
* * *
I was watching Pearl dance on the console when Harriet and Mike walked
in. Mike was able to interpret the look on my face. "I'll wait outside,
Harriet," he said.
"I thought you were in jail," I said to Harriet as I turned back to Pearl.
"Bail," she answered and dropped a piece of paper in my lap. "We talked
to Lou. He's dropping the charges. That's a check for the damages to
your MOC, plus the loss you took for tonight. Mike's father is rich. Of
course, you can still have us prosecuted if you want."
"The Sheldon," I said, ignoring the check. "You knew where I was
staying. You let me run into you on purpose. How long have you been
setting me up?"
"It wasn't necessarily going to be you, Chris," she answered. "It was
the act that was important, not which Ozzie we did it to. You just
happened to be here at the right time."
I whirled in my chair to face her. "Now I'm supposed to ask, why? What
was the point, damn it?"
"My thesis," she said. "It's on the 60s, as I told you, but I'm doing
an analysis of classic radical protest. I needed a live test to compare
audience reactions between then and now."
"You're telling me that all this," I looked down at the empty theatre,
"all this, was for a term paper?"
"A thesis," she said again. "A lot more important than a term paper.
And I needed the publicity to get a job. There's only a few places I
can go and I need to stand above the crowd."
She reached down and took my face between her hands. "And you needed
the publicity, too. We haven't hurt you. With that," she waved to the
check I had let fall to the floor, "and with the publicity we've given
you you're in better shape than ever. This place will be packed
tomorrow. There's always curiosity seekers after a protest."
I didn't say anything. She looked into my eyes for a long moment and
then sighed and turned away. "I can understand," she said. "It was a
lousy trick. Chris, the other ..."
She hesitated and then began again, "Going up to your room, that wasn't
planned. I knew Mike should have finished by the time the interview
was over. I know it doesn't mean much to you, but I'm sorry."
She turned away. As she reached the door I said, "You kept reminding me
of someone. I finally figured out who it was."
She turned back to me and said, "Who?"
I just kept looking at her. "If it's either one, thank you," she said.
"Goodbye, Chris."
The door closed. Pearl whirled off the console and dropped into my open
palm. She began a new dance. I sat, a king in his heaven, and watched.
"Just you and me, babe," I whispered. "Just you and me."
* * *
OtherRealms is Copyright 1986
by Chuq Von Rospach
All Rights Reserved
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