“Ya Wanna Do It Here Or Down The Station, Punk?” Mark O’Sullivan

Yep, it’s rubber-hose time, folks: a rapid-fire Q&A for those shifty-looking usual suspects ...

What crime novel would you most like to have written?
DARK PASSAGE or THE BURGLAR, both by David Goodis. On the surface, his style was typically noir – hard-bitten, compact prose; taut, streetwise dialogue. But that’s just his kicking-off point. The writing is lifted with a quirky take on life, on logic and occasional surrealist touches. A character, for example, can be obsessed with the colour orange – clothes, furnishing, car – to such an odd extent that the novel begins to feel like some kind of surreal hand-tinted noir. Another character has a three-page conversation with a bloodied corpse. And, for me, the last chapter of THE BURGLAR can’t be beaten. An extended metaphor that sums up of all that has gone before, that’s in no way pretentiously literary, and is cinematic in its visual and visceral power.

What fictional character would you most like to have been?
Bernie Gunther in Philip Kerr’s superb Berlin noir novels.

Who do you read for guilty pleasures?
Football bloggers, particularly those devoted to the team I support, Fulham FC – like
HammyEnd.com. We never win anything but we’re philosophical about the true value of failure and the illusory nature of success (especially Chelsea’s success).

Most satisfying writing moment?
Ruth Rendell has said that ‘the writer’s job is to stay confused for as long as possible’. It’s nerve-wracking but staying confused is the only effective antidote to predictability and lazy writing. The moment when that cloud of confusion begins to lift is more than satisfying – it’s a kind of ecstasy (without the thirst and the hyperactivity).

If you could recommend one Irish crime novel, what would it be?
To be perfectly honest, I’m not sufficiently up to speed on the new Irish crime-writing wave to answer this one – or the next. I very much look forward to playing catch up though.

What Irish crime novel would make a great movie?
As above.

Worst / best thing about being a writer?
Worst thing – If I was a plumber, I can’t imagine anyone arriving at my door and asking me to come take a look at a job they’ve just completed and how they might improve it – for free. Best thing – For some reason, a line from Leonard Cohen’s ‘Going Home’ occurs to me here: ‘He’s a lazy bastard living in a suit …’

The pitch for your next book is …?
A missing Goth girl, a hacker, a Libyan rebel fighter, a gangland casualty, a West Belfast Armenian, a woman betrayed, a mother seeking revenge – and the accidental nature of life and death. Confused? DI Leo Woods is too – but he’s working on it.

Who are you reading right now?
As always I’ve got too many books on the go. Right now I’m re-reading Michael Dibdin’s Aurelio Zen series, which I love. I’m also nearing the end of Edward St. Aubyn’s AT LAST – the final Patrick Melrose novel. The only real freedom is the freedom from delusion, he concludes. Too right. In between times, I’m dodging in and out of John Gray’s STRAW DOGS – forget existentialism, this is real noir philosophy, stark but compelling and best taken in small doses.

God appears and says you can only write OR read. Which would it be?
If I can write, I can read, but not vice-versa. Your move, God.

The three best words to describe your own writing are …?
I’ve read worse.

Mark O’Sullivan’s CROCODILE TEARS is published by Transworld.

On Mozart, Crab Cakes And Literary Snobs

I had that conversation again last week, the one that many crime / mystery readers and writers are familiar with when the topic turns to books and a certain kind of reader feels the need to assert his or her literary credentials. It included the phrase, “Oh, I don’t really read that sort of thing …” and contained a class of a sighing smirk between the ‘Oh’ and the ‘I’, and just the featheriest of light emphasis on the ‘I’, all of which was designed to promote the idea that said person was above all that robbery and murder and rape, but – in the interests of harmony – too polite to remind me of their innate superiority.
  I genuinely feel sorry for these people. I mean, it used to bug me. Now I just feel sorry for them.
  The reason why crystallised about forty minutes later, on the bus heading home. I’m on a bit of a classical music binge at the moment, and was listening to some Schubert on the iPhone, and it occurred to me that anyone who says they read only literary fiction – crime, romance, sci-fi or whatever being beneath them – is akin to someone saying they love music, but only listen to classical music.
  Now, I can understand why someone might say that. You could spend a whole lifetime listening to Mozart and Beethoven and Schubert and Chopin and Rachmaninov, et al. The music is fabulous – beautiful and awe-inspiring and heartbreaking and everything music should be.
  And yet, if you confined yourself only to classical composers, you’d miss out on The Stones and Dylan, The Beatles and Hank Williams and Dusty Springfield and Leonard Cohen and The Smiths and Antony and the Johnsons and Rollerskate Skinny and the Sex Pistols – well, you see where I’m going. And that’s without getting into soul, the blues, jazz, etc.
  Or what if someone was to say to you, “I love art, but only the impressionists. That Renaissance stuff is all a bit gaudy, isn’t it?” I mean, you’d be entitled to believe they simply didn’t know what they were talking about, wouldn’t you?
  And on it goes, in virtually any realm of the arts you want to choose. How could you call yourself a movie fan, say, if you confine yourself to a single genre?
  Ironically, anyone who tells you that they read only literary fiction is also conveying a subtext relating to their superior intelligence. That their sensibilities are so delicate and refined that only the finest of prose can tickle their fancy. The truth is a little more prosaic, and rooted in ignorance.
  The brain, that very fine organ, is a selfish bugger. And it’s in its best interests to make you as much of a moron as it can. That’s because the brain is designed to conserve energy at every opportunity in order to prolong its longevity – this is why humans are creatures of habit, slaves to routine and schedule. The brain hates it when we encounter new scenarios, thus forcing it to map new paths through the maze, get a whole heap of fresh synapses fusing. The brain much prefers it when a reader, say, sticks to a particular kind of book, a distinct kind of storytelling. And if the brain needs to persuade the reader that sticking to that kind of book means that he or she is a superior human being, well, the brain only needs to map out that particular path once.
  Personally, I’m of the opinion that life’s too short to read only one kind of book, or listen to only one kind of music, or eat one kind of food, or look at one kind of art. I’m a bit greedy that way – I want a taste of everything. I’ll be a long, long time dead, and I’d hate to be out there drifting in the vast, trackless wastes of eternity thinking, ‘Crap, I should’ve tried the crab cakes, just once.’

Tea And Oranges, All The Way From China

There are better ways of spending your Bank Holiday Saturday evening than in the company of your brother (right) watching Leonard Cohen perform at Lissadell House, the spiritual home of WB Yeats, but last Saturday evening, I couldn’t think of any.
I grew up in Sligo, way up there on the northwest coast of Ireland, during the 1980s, with a love of reading and books, and a love of writing - homework essays, for the most part.   When I was 14, someone - I think it was an aunt - gave me a copy of Leonard Cohen’s greatest hits. Suzanne sounded like the kind of interesting girl we never saw in Sligo - half-crazy, living down near the river, with those tea and oranges all the way from China - but it was the second verse that blew me away:

And Jesus was a sailor / When He walked upon the water /
And He spent a long time watching / From His lonely wooden tower /
And when He knew for certain / Only drowning men could see Him /
He said, ‘All men will be sailors then / Until the sea shall free them.’ /
But He himself was broken / Long before the sky would open /
Forsaken / Almost human / He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone … /

  Until then, I didn’t know you were allowed write like that, or sing songs like that. Hell, I didn’t know you were allowed to think like that …
  I’ve had plenty of musical love affairs since I was 14, anyone from the Pixies to REM, Dylan and the Tindersticks, Mozart and the Stones. The one constant throughout has been Leonard Cohen.
  I even got to interview him once, albeit on the phone. Despite my star-struck babbling, he was lovely.
  (A few minutes before the interview was due to start, I rang up a mate of mine for a chat, just so I could say, when the office receptionist rang through, “Sorry, mate, have to go - Leonard Cohen’s on line five.”)
  I’d seen Leonard Cohen live a couple of years back, at Kilmainham here in Dublin, and wonderful it was too to see him in the flesh - laughing, humble, dark and funny. He does a mean live show, too - three hours plus, with most of the ‘greatest hits’ thrown in.
  The gig on Saturday night was virtually identical to the one I saw in Kilmainham, which was a little disappointing, and there’s way too much jazzy noodling and virtuoso solos. He did cut loose in the second half with a brilliant version of The Partisan, and the second half was tighter all round, but I’d have loved something rawer, like Avalanche or a good old-fashioned blast of Please Don’t Pass Me By.
  I guess the man is entitled at this point to do whatever he wants to do. Gavin hadn’t seen him live before and pronounced it all terrific, so there you go.
  Anyway, it was fantastic to see him in the Lissadell setting, where I spent so many Sunday mornings on family breakfast picnics, with Benbulben away to the north and Queen Maeve’s grave atop Knocknerea away to the south across Sligo bay. Idyllic doesn’t come into it. Even the rain stayed away until the very end.
  Leonard gave a nice little spiel to about Lissadell in the fading light, and two girls, both wearing silk, one a gazelle … and how he’d learned those verses fifty years before in Montreal, and never thought his steps would take him to Yeats’s spiritual home. Apparently he even requested that he sleep in Yeats’s bed on the Saturday night. All told, it was all very sweet.
  Above and beyond all else, though, was how incongruous it all was. If you’d told me at the age of 14 that I’d be watching Leonard Cohen play Lissadell, that he’d sing Suzanne into the fading light still haunted by those young girls wearing silk … well, it was as likely as the possibility of seeing him play on the moon.
  I haven’t a doubt in the world that I wouldn’t be a writer, wouldn’t be who I am today, if I hadn’t heard Suzanne at the tender age of 14, hadn’t had everything I’d thought and known and believed blown away in the space of a single song.
  Maybe, being from Sligo, I should pretend that it was WB Yeats who first inspired me to pick up a pen. Why pretend, though?
  It was just very, very nice to be sitting in the serried ranks on Saturday night while Leonard paid homage to WB Yeats, and in my own half-assed way, just by being there, pay homage in turn to Leonard.
  Roll it there, Collette …

Uptown Top Rankin

It’s been a busy couple of weeks, certainly, what with all that Bristol malarkey, but there’s still no excuse for us allowing this little nugget to slip under the radar. Colin ‘Master’ Bateman (right) takes up the story:

“Hi there – Thought maybe you should mention for anyone in Dublin and surrounds that I’ll be interviewing Sir Ian Rankin on the stage of the Gate Theatre – as opposed to the dressing room, or the bar, obviously – on Sunday night as part of the Dublin Writers Festival. I have no idea what we’ll be talking about but we may touch on the subject of Rebus, and the fact that I actually created the character for television which he has since ripped off in a series of moderately successful books.”

If Sir Ian’s interview with Peter Guttridge at Bristol is anything to go by, it should be a very entertaining night indeed – although, if Ian starts a joke with “Two paving stones walk into a bar,” plug your ears immediately or you’ll have bad-pun nightmares for weeks after. All the booking details can be found here, although the Grand Viz won’t be able to get along, sadly, as he has longstanding plans to be worshipping at the feet of the other genius gracing a Dublin stage on Sunday night. If you do get along to The Gate, feel free to drop us a line and let us know how it went …

BLOODSTORM Und Drang

Yon Sam Millar’s (right) BLOODSTORM has been making a commotion of late, with the elves eager to point out that for once they’ve been off the Elf-Wonking Juice and on the case (see here and here). The Village Voice in particular caught the eye this week by describing Sam’s writing as “cheerful as a Leonard Cohen song on a wet night,” that being the kind of praise the Grand Vizier would gladly give his left kidney for, especially as he has booked front-row seats for Laughing Lenny’s giggle-fest in Dublin this coming June. Anyhoo, less of that and more of this:

“Irish author Sam Millar’s writing has been compared to Nick Cave’s. His books are as cheerful as a Leonard Cohen song on a wet night. It is easy to see why. Millar is prime-placed to write the dark and disturbing crime novels that he does because in his past he has visited some very dark places indeed. His latest tome, BLOODSTORM, keeps well within that dark tradition with a heart-stopping thriller … a relentlessly dark, page-turner of a book …” – The Village Voice, New York

“Belfast crime-writing giant Sam Millar’s controversial new book, BLOODSTORM, is the first in a new series of crime novels. This is not a novel for the faint of heart or the weak of stomach, but those with a strong stomach and a penchant for crime novels are advised to pick it up, for a taste of a true, Belfast original. BLOODSTORM opens cinematically, pulling no punches, warning of the darkness that lies in wait for the reader who carries on from here … this is an ambitious and gripping piece of work and Millar lays the groundwork here for a series which looks set to be addictive. Roll on the sequel.” – Verbal Magazine

“BLOODSTORM is a disturbing, page-turner of a book, keeping you on the edge of your seat right to the very end. Highly recommended for those with a strong stomach …” – Belfast Telegraph

“From the very first line to the last, BLOODSTORM grips your hands and refuses to let go, taking you on the darkest, scariest ride of your life. This is a compelling story of revenge and murder with an original voice worth dying for. Those with high blood pressure should avoid BLOODSTORM – and indeed all of Millar’s books. The rest of us can only wait for the next one to arrive …” – Irish Herald, San Francisco

Hmmm. Sounds like Sam’s just chucked down the gauntlet at Ken Bruen’s feet for the title of Prince of Darkness. Ding-ding, seconds out …

“HR Pufnstuf / He’s Your Friend When Things Get Rough …”

… especially when we have to write those blummin’ trumpet-blowing puff-pieces. Happily for us, we keep the boy Pufnstuf chained up in the basement of Crime Always Pays Towers and force him to work his magical puffery for us, evil swine-elves that we are. Over to you, HR:

“Ahem. Thank you, evil swine-elves. Well, first off, the ever wonderful Critical Mick is hosting an interview with Chief Evil Swine-Elf Declan Burke, most of which seems to be a load of old cobblers about sharks, Spartans, Francis Wilson reading the Sky weather reports, trading karate kicks with Westlife, interviewing Leonard Cohen, the joys of DIY publishing and how his wife won’t let him have a cat because she’s secretly jealous of them. Then there’s Pulp Pusher, bless their cotton socks, who for some reason best known only to themselves have posted up a piece by the Chief Evil Swine-Elf where he talks a lot about toilet brushes and the difficulty in flushing rejection letters. I ask you, is this literature? Back in my day, we had real writers. And they didn’t talk about toilet brushes. Except maybe that DH Lawrence. And James Joyce liked poo-stains. But other than them, it was ….”

Erm, yes. Cheers, HR - now here’s a hookah, go away and do what you do best …