Monthly Archives: September 2012

New Pulp Fiction: THE LAST DETECTIVE AT THE END OF THE WORLD

The Last Detective @ the End of the World

Here’s another excerpt from my serial novella Grave Digger Blues. Click on LAST DETECTIVE below, and the story will open as a PDF file.

LAST_DETECTIVE 9.24.12

Unless otherwise noted, all photos in this chapter are by Mona Pitts/Neon Beige Photography. The book cover image in the PDF is by Ricardo Acevedo. An audio version of this chapter, with an original noir music soundtrack by Johnny Reno, can be downloaded here. Alternately (that’s French for “Or”) you can play it on my big bad hardboiled noir blog jukebox here:

THE LAST DETECTIVE 2

Click for last week’s installment, STARS IN HER HAIR.

Follow Mona Pitts, photographer / model extraordinaire, femme fatale of the world of Grave Digger Blues.
Follow the awesome Todd V. Wolfson, who shoots stars in Austin.

Follow Ricardo Acevedo, photographer/artist/poet, dangerously talented, floats like a butterfly stings like a bee.

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New pulp fiction: STARS IN HER HAIR

STARS IN HER HAIR: A new short story
By Jesse Sublett

[Photo: Mona Pitts]

In those last seconds before her body imploded in the vacuum of outer space, did she think about him, or one of these other guys?

THE TRUTH isn’t always beautiful, and an ugly truth usually stays that way no matter how you try and dress it up. He was an artist and he understood. You’re not supposed to kill the messenger just because you don’t like the message. But what are you supposed to do when somebody rips your guts out, delivers them right to your doorstep in a Federal Express box and says, Here, sign your name next to the X to acknowledge delivery?
He kept seeing her face, the tricky light in her eyes and her long, red hair, full of glitter and sparks. Every night she floated through his dreams, using the Milky Way for a head scarf. She belonged to the sky now, but she’d always had stars in her hair, even the first time he saw her.
She was an astronaut, a crew member on the space shuttle. One last mission. They had an argument the night before. He woke up late, she was gone. Her cosmetics and all that exotic jungle of body care products and stuff in the bathroom, all gone. Her side of the closet empty as a bucket. A note in the kitchen:

I don’t love you. I’m not coming back.

So that was the day the shuttle blew up. Happened right after entering orbit. Probably about the time he was reading her note.

It was the day the space shuttle blew up. [Photo: Mona Pitts]


Irony.
Quiet morning, but later, he remembered the walls shaking, magnesium flash, smell of sulfur, shriek of torn metal and bodies hurtling through space.
In those last seconds before her body imploded in the vacuum of outer space, did she think about him, or one of the other guys she’d been fucking?
He thought about her at night. He’d look up to the sky and say, Hey, how’s it going up there?

His heart ached like a motherfucker. [Photo: Ricardo Acevedo]

Time passed slowly, like an infected wound, until it was the last summer before the end of the world. Everybody and everything was going to die, so a little thing like unrequited love shouldn’t be a big deal. Still, his heart ached like a motherfucker.
“Why’d she hate you so much?” asked Biff the bartender.
“No idea,” said the artist.
“It’s like a sickness with some people,” said Biff. “They hook up just so they have somebody they can treat like dirt.”
The artist stared balefully at the bottom of his glass, watching his distorted image drown in amber as Biff poured him another shot. When the whisky reached the rim, the artist raised the glass and tilted it toward his lips, nibbling his face, letting the whisky burn as it slowly seeped down to his heart.
Biff said: “You ever watch a cat kill a mouse or lizard or something? They’ll play with it for a while, let it try to escape, catch it and drag it back, torture it some more, bite the head off or something, then push it around, playing with it, pretending it’s trying to escape.”
“It’s cruel and weird,” said Biff, “but you can’t hate ‘em, it’s just the way they are.”
“She had these soft lips, I could kiss her all night long. I think maybe she sucked my brains out of my skull.”

“I drink surrealism,” said the artist. [JS]


“She never mentioned a reason for doing you like that?”
“Said I was an asshole.”
“Hmm. That could be a hint.”
The artist shrugged and drank some whisky. “At first she used to call me ‘an elegant loser.’ I thought it meant she liked me.”
“Elegant loser? What’s that mean?”
“She was taking notes on me, along with all the other guys she fucked.” The artist threw a little black book on the counter. “Check it out.”
The book was flayed open like an autopsy subject, the incriminating page like gut-shot entrails spilled out on the table.

ARTIST: fucked him twice, then moved in. Elegant loser.
REFRIGERATOR REPAIRMAN: fucked him on the kitchen counter. Hairy-chested romantic.
FOLK SINGER: blow job in back of Alibi Lounge. French kisses like no tomorrow. Paper-thin troubadour.
SOLDIER: fucked three hours straight in turnpike motel, beard stubble rubbed me raw all around the crotch. The face invader.
TAXI DRIVER: saved money on the fare from south side of Liberty all the way to South Town and back, all it cost was three minutes in the back seat. Alligator wrestler.

Biff skimmed the list, careful not to actually touch the book. “How’d you find this thing?”
“NASA packed everything up from her motel room,” said the artist. “There was a knock on the door, some asshole from Fed Ex. Blue eyes, good teeth, broad shouldered, boots that looked too small for a guy his size. Like a Spanish cowboy.”
“Is this the guy?” said Biff.
“No,” said the artist.
A man walked into the bar. Tall, wearing a uniform. Badge and a gun. The other two waited by the door.
The artist grabbed his drink and threw it down his throat. He raised his hands, tilted back his head and said, “Baby, you’ve got stars in your hair.”

&&
In a small room at police headquarters they asked questions.
“How many did you kill?”
“Just four,” said the artist. “Bought a snub nose 38 for fifty bucks. It came with five bullets. That was all I needed.”
“So you went and killed the guys on the list who fucked your girlfriend?”
“Basically, yeah. Except for one. The cab driver, the alligator wrestler. I couldn’t do it.”
“Why’d you let him off?”
“I guess I started feeling bad about killing everybody.”
The detective nodded and called for an assistant to transcribe the artist’s statement. While he waited, he took another look at the list:

ARTIST/elegant loser
REFRIGERATOR REPAIRMAN/ Hairy-chested romantic
FOLK SINGER/paper-thin troubadour
SOLDIER/face invader…
TAXI DRIVER/alligator wrestler

“Wait a minute,” said the detective. “You’re the artist, and if you didn’t kill the cabbie, that’s only three victims. You said four.”
The artist shrugged. “The last guy isn’t in the book. I found a note she wrote about him in the trash.”
“Some random guy she fucked or what?”
The artist turned his face away, not answering. “I don’t feel like talking about it anymore.”
The sound of the detective’s open hand hitting his face rang like a snare drum.
“Fuck you.”
The impact of a closed fist.
Cough, gasp.
A tooth ejected between torn lips.
Blood painted a map of a red country on the artist’s white shirt.

The impact of a closed fist. [JS]


A girl wearing an eye patch appeared and began reading from a pink notepad:

“Remains of Fed Ex driver located. Identification verified despite rodents having eaten victim’s face.”

“So that’s number four,” said the detective. His lower lip swollen, a smirk that wanted to become a grin.
“Excuse me.” The girl with the eye patch held up the note as if it were a penalty flag.

“Cause of death loss of blood gunshot wound region of genitalia 38 caliber.”

The detective let out a low whistle. The smirk was gone. “Well?”
“She used to fuck him on Friday nights,” said the artist. “I had a weekend job at the carnival in Pallettville. She always said she was taking care of her sick mother.”
The detective bowed his jowly head as he scribbled some notes, a stubby yellow pencil scratching in a little pocket notebook. When he finished, he put the book in his pocket, then put both hands in his pockets and, still looking down, cleared his throat.
“Uh, one more thing,” he said.
It was probably unnecessary, but the question loomed there between them, like a stranger in a dark room or an unidentified smell.
“Let me guess,” said the cop. “Overnight delivery?”
The artist looked up, his red-rimmed eyes meeting the cop’s dark gaze. “No.”
“Well.” The detective sighed. “Doesn’t matter, anyway.”
Oversize package,” said the artist. “Deliveries use rear entrance.”
The girl interrupted again. “Affirmative, Lieutenant, having viewed the body of the deceased and I can describe victim’s penis as abnormally large, estimated length being approximately–”
“Luisa,” said the detective, “how about getting Sgt. Reyes down here with a typewriter so we can get this young man’s statement filed?”
“Yes, sir.”
As the sound of her footsteps receded down the hall the air pressure in the room slowly returned to normal.
The detective sighed and stared at the floor. He wondered how he ever ended up with such big feet. Shoes like a pair of tug boats. Vaqueros and bull riders would’ve laughed at him.
“Kid, I’m sorry,” he said. “Let me get you some ice for that lip.”

The End… but more to come. If you like this story, let me know. If you don’t, oh, well.

[Note: This is actually a new chapter in the novella serial I've been writing this summer called Grave Digger Blues. So, until we decide what to do with the novella, here's a little teaser, from the POV of one of the second tier protagonists. Big thanks to Mona Pitts and Ricardo Acevedo for letting me use their incredible photos.]

Follow Mona Pitts, photographer / model extraordinaire, femme fatale of the world of Grave Digger Blues.
Follow the awesome Todd V. Wolfson, who shoots stars in Austin.

Follow Ricardo Acevedo, photographer/artist/poet, dangerously talented, floats like a butterfly stings like a bee.

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Filed under Books & other writing by Jesse Sublett, NOIR & TRUE CRIME

New Pulp Fiction: STARS IN HER HAIR

Hi there, this story has been moved to a new post, here.

[Photo: Mona Pitts]

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Filed under Books & other writing by Jesse Sublett, NOIR & TRUE CRIME

WAR: THE ULTIMATE CRIME NOVEL

There’s a lot of great writing about war, but there’s never been a good war.

For yesterday’s post I wrote about Kevin Powers and the signing event at Lambert’s for Kevin and his new war novel, The Yellow Birds. I bought the book based on the laudatory reviews, the association with Jim Magnuson and the Michener Center, and the quickest perusal before purchase, just picking out a phrase or two here and there. I figured it would be pretty good.

And last night before bed, I picked it up and read the first page and was totally hooked. Man, this guy can write. He’s not only a very lyrical writer, but has a great eye for meaningful detail. I’m glad I have a print copy instead of just an eBook, too, because this is a keeper.

The book opens September 2004, at Al Tafar, Nineveh Province, Iraq. That was eight years ago, in case you weren’t counting.

THE WAR TRIED to kill us in the spring. As grass green the plains of Nineveh and the weather warmed, we patrolled the low-slung hills beyond the cities and towns. We moved over them and through the tall grass on faith, kneading paths into the windswept growth like pioneers. While we slept, the war rubbed its thousand ribs against the ground in prayer. When we pressed onward through exhaustion, its eyes were white and open in the dark. While we ate, the war fasted, fed by its own deprivation. It made love and gave birth and spread through fire.
Then, in summer, the war tried to kill us as the heat blanched all color from the plains. The sun pressed into our skin, and the war sent its citizens rustling into the shade of white buildings…

So the book, narrated by a soldier named Bartle, begins. A few pages later, at daybreak, the platoon has just cleared a building when the interpreter, Malik, steps out on the roof:

I’d often asked him to help me with my sparse Arabic,trying to get my pronunciation of this or that word right. “Shukran.” “Afwan.” “Qumbula.” Thank you. You’re welcome. Bomb. He’d help, but he always ended our exchanges by saying, “My friend, I need to speak English. For the practice.” He’d been a student at the university before the war, studying literature. When the university closed, he came to us. he wore a hood over his face, worn khaki slacks and a faded dress shirt that appeared to be ironed freshly every day. He never took his mask off. The one time Murph and I had asked him about it, he took his index finger and traced the fringe of the hood that hung around his neck. “They’ll kill me for helping you. They’ll kill my whole family.”

It turns out that the patrol is in Malik’s old neighborhood.

“Mrs. Al-Sharifi used to plant her hyacinth in this field.” He spread his hands out wide and moved his arms in a sweeping motion that reminded me of a convocation.
Murph reached for the cuff of Malik’s pressed shirt. “Careful, big guy. You’re gonna get silhouetted.”
“She was this crazy old widow.” He had his hands on his hips…

Malik goes on, oblivious to the warning by Murph and the others. “It’s a shame you didn’t see those hyacinths,” says Malik, and those are his last words.

And then it started. It seemed as if the movement of one moment to the next had its own trajectory, a thing both finite and expansive, like the endless divisibility of numbers strung out on a line. The tracers reached out from all the dark spaces in the buildings across the field, and there were many more bullets than streaks of phosphorescence. We heard them tear at the air around our ears and smack into the clay brick and concrete. We did not see Malik get killed, but Murph and I had his blood on both of our uniforms. When we got the order to cease fire we looked over the low wall and he was lying there and there was a lot of blood around him.

I didn’t think about Malik much after that. He was an incidental figure in my continuing life. I couldn’t have articulated it then, but I’d been trained to think war was the great unifier, that it brought people closer together than any other activity on earth. Bullshit. War is the great maker of solipsists: how are you going to save my life today? Dying would be one way. If you die, it becomes more likely that I will not. You’re nothing, that’s the secret: a uniform in a sea of numbers, a number in a sea of dust.

Like I said, this guy can write.

Here’s a clip of “The Cannon Song” from the 1931 film adaptation of “Threepenny Opera.” Just to remind you that war is gruesome and when you’re in the middle of one, the gruesome becomes normal. Yes, a jaunty German tune by Kurt Weill about being on the front lines and eating human hamburgers. Lyrics follow.

Cannon Song, from the Pabst version of Threepenny Opera
PS, here’s a clip of Stan Ridgeway performing “The Cannon Song” from Three Penny Opera.
"The Cannon Song" from Threepenny Opera

Cannon Song (aka Army Song)

(Kurt Weill/Bertolt Brecht/Marc Blitzstein)
As performed by Stan Ridgway and the Fowler Brothers
John was all present and Jim was all there
And Georgie was up for promotion
Not that the Army gave a bugger who they were
When confronting some heathen commotion

    CHORUS

The troops live under the cannon’s thunder
From Sind to Cooch Behar
Moving from place to place
When they come face to face
With a different breed of fellow
Whose skin is black or yellow
they quick as winking chop them into beefsteak tartar

Johnny found his whiskey too warm
And Jimmy found the weather too balmy
But Georgie took them both by the arm and said,
“Don’t ever disappoint the Army!”

The troops live under the cannon’s thunder
From Sind to Cooch Behar
Moving from place to place
When they come face to face
With a different breed of fellow
Whose skin is black or yellow
they quick as winking chop them into beefsteak tartar

John is a write-off and Jimmy is dead
And Georgie was shot for looting
And young men’s blood goes on being red
While the Army just goes on ahead recruiting

The troops live under the cannon’s thunder
From Sind to Cooch Behar
Moving from place to place
When they come face to face
With a different breed of fellow
Whose skin is black or yellow
they quick as winking chop them into beefsteak tartar

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THE WORDS THEY CARRIED: KEVIN POWERS’ THE YELLOW BIRDS

This is as close as I’ve ever been to being in the army.

Just came back from a cool book event sponsored by Texas Monthly & Texas Book Festival, one of the better writers that they have spotlighted in a while, Kevin Powers, a veteran of the Iraq war, a poet, and Michener fellow. Powers’ new novel, The Yellow Birds, is based on his own combat experiences. The event was at Lambert’s downtown, so the drinks were flowing and a good crowd filled the room. In fact it was impossible for at least half the attendees to actually see the author as he read and answered questions by Texas Monthly editor Jake Silverstein. Jake did a good job and everyone was sold on the book, if they weren’t already before they arrived. I mean, with that swell NYT review by Michiko Kakutani, hey, why be cynical? It was good to see Michener Center big daddy-o James Magnuson (also an author and Hollywood writer of note) beaming with pride. Powers joins an esteemed fraternity of book writers who have seen the beast in all its horrid glory, and to his credit, he answered one question about how his combat experience informed his writing about war by saying, in effect, “If you’ve been in combat, you can’t help but be anti-war.” I might have added something edgier, like, “unless you’re a moron or a monster,” but then again, that’s just how I roll. And he seems like a really polite, modest guy, and I’m a little rough around the edges.

One of my favorite anti-war stories is Homer’s The Iliad. Yes! Sure, ostensibly it’s all about the glories of war, and the Greeks were very much all about both (glory & war), but if you read it deeply, you can’t help but see it’s all about the folly, stupidity and moronic futility of war. I mean, think about it: While there certainly IS a good deal of fighting in it, a good deal of the narrative is taken up by Achille’s extended temper tantrum, refusing to fight because his HONOR has been slighted. If you don’t believe me, check out The War That Killed Achilles by Caroline Alexander. Great book. Read that, then reread The Iliad. You’ll see. Here’s the NYT review of that book.

Back to Kevin: It was a big day for the author today, as he was also featured on NPR today, along with Brian Castner, as a member of the new breed of war writers, but then again, I imagine he’ll have lots of big days in the near future.

More cool news: I asked Magnuson if there was anything new with a favorite writer of ours, Denis Johnson, and he said Denis will be here for an event soon, before the Texas Book Festival. That’s something I really look forward to, every time it happens. If you’ve never seen Denis Johnson speak, you are really missing something. And if you’ve never read a book by Denis Johnson, not even Jesus Son, Nobody Move, Train Dreams, Tree of Smoke, or Fiskadero, or any of his anthologies of poetry, man, I don’t know if I even wanna talk to you. Denis Johnson, by the way, is not army material, however, his Tree of Smoke is undoubtedly one of THE great novels of the Vietnam conflict.

As you can see above, I’m a pretty serious fan of The Iliad. OK, not THAT SERIOUS. I’m not in a Trojan War reenactors club or anything. I bought the helmet during the aborted staging of my play, titled MARATHON, which is a retelling of the Minotaur myth but set in Marathon, TEXAS, not in the Grecian Isles. I withdrew my script for the play after a disagreement with some of the other principles. There is still, maybe, some sort of musical theater piece or monologue with music or so called “Marathon Song Cycle,” but that is a different project. Long story, not a pretty one.

One of my songs in particular seems appropriate for this post. It was demoed with GarageBand, here at my tiny desk studio in South Austin. The second song, also recorded here with my GarageBand set up, isn’t necessarily appropos, but the cover art fits. The song is also a story in my new novella, which is shopping around for some lucky book publisher at present. And then there’s number 3, GIRL FROM ARMAGEDDON. A real cracker, an atom blast of metallic anti-war snarl. But you gotta sample that one on CD Baby. Sorry, baby, but it’s worth a buck, seriously. Check it out here.

STONES IN THE COFFIN

Headless Supermodel.

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HIGH WATER

Here’s the best I’m able to do on the Charlie Patton song “High Water Everywhere Part 1″ at present. You can play it on the music player on this page, or click on the title below.

As mentioned previously, I’ve been working on it, but I’ve got some health problems that have ravaged my voice. Short explanation — remember how I had throat cancer 14 years ago? Well, it’s gone, I’m pretty sure, but I’ve got side issues. The last three years I’ve been dealing with mysterious immunity problems, getting infections about every six weeks, and this summer I got hit by like this cement truck, and then my voice started resembling Joe Cocker but on a bad day, after gargling with Draino. So, anyway, voice is shot and my abilities for playing Delta style open tuning like Charlie Patton pretty limited, I’ve been determined to learn this song anyway, or a reasonable facsimile.

OK, so remember, these are GarageBand demos. Click on the title, or use the EXFM music player.

High Water Everywhere Part 1.1

BLUE BLUE SKY (August edit)

Johnny Heartbreak Blues

I really love this song. So happy to have belatedly (OK, much belatedly) gotten hip to Charlie Patton. I’m digging my way thru his repertoire, and loving it.

At the same time, I’m reading a book on the history of bullfighting, Bullfighting: A troubled history, by Elisabeth Hardouin-Fugier, translated from French, which is, well, pretty astonishing and to many of you, probably pretty gross. It’s gross to me, and I am really interested and fascinated with bullfighting. I love Hemingway’s Death in the Afternoon, despite all the weirdness, and I’m really fascinated by the various bull-cults throughout history. But this includes stuff that is pretty shocking, even considering the depths we know that humans can descend to. I mean, coating bulls with gunpowder and setting them on fire? Stuff like that, in addition to all the other more established and well-known tortures of these creatures in the traditional bullfights. Will work on a full blog on this later. But the other book that has kind of blown away everything else for the time being is Ulrich Haarbürste’s NOVEL OF ROY ORBISON IN CLING FILM. I gotta tell you, this is good. It’s like, best thing since sliced bread good. I found the “Roy Orbison in Cling Film” short stories online many years ago, like, before Netscape even, and I was writing a character based on Ullie in my new novel recently and then thought, well, I wonder what happened to Ullie and his cling film thing. What has he been up to? He published this novel in 2007, that’s what! If this interests you even slightly, you should check it out. The book, that is, not the cling film fetish.

PS I’ve added a couple more murder ballads to the music player as well, to make up for the Draino voice.

Cheers,
Jesse

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WHAT THEY SAID ABOUT ME

pulp fiction, james ellroy, jesse sublett, david goodis, jessesublett.com

“Grave Digger Blues is a dark fever dream that’s part noir, part stand-up. Sublett’s writing is as apt to scare the hell out of you as it is to make you die laughing.” – Reed Farrel Coleman, three-time Shamus Award-winning author of Gun Church

Grave Digger Blues is a nasty, raunchy, rude-boy romp that I totally loved. In its sinister way it is very, very funny. The exquisitely rendered visuals and other enhancements are great. You’ll love it, especially if you hate the Beatles.” W.K. Stratton (Chasing the Rodeo, Boxing Shadows, Floyd Patterson: The Fighting Life of Boxing’s Invisible Champ)

“If I didn’t already know that Jesse Sublett was musical, I’d likely start to suspect it while reading Grave Digger Blues. Not so much because music is a big theme in this multi-media serial novella, but because there’s an unmistakable rhythm and hooky turn of phrase to Sublett’s writing that only someone with a good ear can pull off. For the record, I think the story could stand on its own as a traditional novel — I mean, noir at the end of the world? Come on. They go together like peanut butter and jelly, and Sublett’s snappy, dark prose is the bread holding the whole thing together. The musical clips and illustrations are like a tasty bag of chips on the side — they make the experience more enjoyable, but without the main course, it wouldn’t be a meal.” Minerva Koenig (author and blogger)

You may have seen all these comments before. I had them on a separate page, but I’m streamlining, so this will appear as a new post.

Los Angeles Times FAVORITE BOOKS OF 2005
The riveting “Never the Same Again: A Rock n’ Roll Gothic” (Ten Speed) by Jesse Sublett, bass player for the Austin, Texas-based Skunks, starts with the murder of his girlfriend when he was 22, ends with his battle with throat cancer a couple of years ago and goes to some wild punk shows in the middle. Hard to put down.
Marion Winik (author of First Comes Love)

WINNER – BEST of AUSTIN 2004: Best Rock Lit Luminary
It’s been a good year for Jesse Sublett. After reading his latest book, Never the Same Again: A Rock ‘N’ Roll Gothic, you’ll think he’s entitled to a couple. The scorching memoir details his early days as one of Austin’s punk pioneers, before his life was derailed by the murder of his longtime girlfriend. Suspected of the crime, he then proves instrumental in uncovering her killer’s identity. Picking up the pieces, he rises to prominence as one-third of the Skunks, Austin’s premier punk band, and pens a series of rock murder mysteries before being diagnosed with a normally terminal form of cancer. Thank God, as evidenced by our opening line, Sublett beat this too, and turned all this turmoil into one hell of a read. Delving into the past must have awoken long-dormant memories, as a reunited Skunks can be seen gigging around town, and 2004′s Austin Music Awards featured longtime Chronicle family member Sublett, with his throbbing bass backing the Class of ’78, a supergroup of survivors from Austin’s punk heyday.
–(The Austin Chronicle 2004, CRITICS Poll, Politics and Personalities)

June 2004 Texas Monthly
“Sublett examines his life through the dual prisms of survivor’s guilt and a survivor’s ethic. Along the way he culls wry anecdotes from his eclectic résumé as not-quite-famous musician, hard-boiled mystery novelist, documentary screenwriter, and now-emotionally rehabilitated husband and father while leavening the raw sadness with honesty and optimism.”

Press Release from Boaz/Ten Speed for Never The Same Again: A Rock ‘n’ Roll Gothic
Never The Same Again recounts the extraordinary life of Jesse Sublett, bass player, singer, songwriter and crime novelist. It’s a road trip through a landscape of rock ‘n’ roll dreams, murder and disease, told with candor and a hardboiled sense of humor.
As a musician, Jesse had what it takes. He quit his day job in the late 70s, and, together with Eddie Muñoz, Jon Dee Graham and Billy Blackmon, created the Skunks, a new wave rock ‘n’ roll band that was instrumental in establishing Austin, Texas, as the live music capital of the world. In his star-studded memoir you’ll find cameo appearances from Patti Smith, Debbie Harry, Elvis Costello, Carla Olson, Rolling Stones, Go-Go’s and more.
In the late 1990s Jesse was diagnosed with stage IV cancer, with less than 9% chance of survival. “Depending on how you look at it, chemotherapy and radiation is either a great way to start off your new year or a rotten one. I’ve decided to assume that it’s going to save my life, so it’s a damn good way to kick off 1998, starting at eight a.m. on the first Monday of the year.”
Jesse came to understand that the cancer that enrolled his family, his doctors, and his friends in a monumental effort to save him, was somehow connected with his past, with the hardscrabble life he endured growing up in the Texas hill country “LBJ country” and the self-absorbed life of a rock ‘n’ roll star on the road and on the run.
But no matter how fast he ran as a young artist, no matter the booze and pills, no matter the glitter and adoration, no matter the poetry, no matter the magnitude of sexual titillation, Jesse couldn’t outrun that awful memory. He couldn’t obliterate the day in 1976 when he returned home from an out-of-town gig to find the body of his longtime girlfriend, Dianne Roberts, murdered in their bed. And he couldn’t escape the tormenting thought that he could have done more to prevent her death.
Heartbreak spurs song; hardship steels resolve. In Jesse’s songwriting you’ll notice, no doubt, the influence of the murder and its aftermath. But, in his memoir you will observe a fierce resolve, a determination to bore into the past to examine the interconnectedness of things. Jesse faces down his demons and gains, if not victory over, then, perhaps, detente with memory and the past. [Buy the eBook on Amazon, or print copies always available at BookPeople in Austin]

James Ellroy + Jesse Sublett

Testimonials
Never the Same Again is a harrowing, wrenching, spellbinding work of great candor and soul. Read it, think with it, dig it.”
 James Ellroy (Author, L.A. Confidential, American Tabloid, The Black Dahlia, The Cold Six Thousand)

Never the Same Again is an important work. Jesse Sublett’s pursuit of his dreams — undaunted by societal standards of success and failure — is the true chronicle of a generation. Making choices, taking chances and then facing the consequences, however bizarre and unexpected they may be, Sublett takes us on a ride through life that is crazy, funny, and sometimes deeply tragic, but ultimately, an inspiring and always highly readable survivor’s tale.”
Michael Connelly (Author, The Black Echo, The Lincoln Lawyer )

“Jesse’s odyssey of growing up in a small Texas town with a head full of big ideas, and his relentless drive to take them in the direction of his artistic intuition, is a moving story that captures an important cultural moment. Having grown up in Huntsville, Texas, I can really relate. Surviving the horrible murder of his girlfriend in 1976, and going from punk rock to fatherhood, his story becomes a universal one, and he makes it sing with authenticity.”
Richard Linklater (Filmmaker, Slacker, Dazed & Confused)

“Jesse Sublett has been a valued contributor to the pages of Texas Monthly … He’s funny, fast on his feet, a great stylist, and the rare journalist who connects immediately with whichever audience he’s writing to. He’s been a pleasure to work with, and I give him my highest recommendation.”
Evan Smith (Editor, Texas Tribune)

“Jesse Sublett’s hard-rocking portrait of the creative life is solid gold proof that good guys don’t always finish last. Jesse was always my favorite Texan punk rocker.”
Jake Riviera (President, Stiff Records and Riviera Global; Manager of Elvis Costello, the Damned, Rockpile, and Nick Lowe)

The Skunks 1979

“Maybe you were actually there to see the Skunks at Raul’s. Maybe you weren’t hitting the local clubs then, but remember hearing their songs “Cheap Girl,” “Earthquake Shake,” and others in rotation on KLBJ-FM in the early Eighties. Maybe you’re only familiar with their work through the Sons of Hercules’ perennial cover of “Gimme Some.” Or maybe you’re just hearing the Skunks for the first time now, via the live performances at Max’s Kansas City in New York and Austin’s Back Room on the just-released Earthquake Shake: Live. Whatever the case may be, chances are if you like loud music and live in Austin, you’ve been influenced, at least in some small way, by the Skunks.
 After disbanding the Skunks, Jesse Sublett went on to form the bands Secret Six and Flex before moving to Los Angeles in 1987 and becoming a published crime novelist and screenwriter. Sublett reunited briefly with Violator/Go-Go Kathy Valentine in a band called World’s Cutest Killers, then played and recorded two albums with the Carla Olson/Mick Taylor Band before returning to Austin. The better part of two decades later, the Skunks’ legacy lives on.”
Ken Lieck (Author, “Young, Loud, and Cheap: The Skunks, the Band That Broke Austin Out of the Seventies”; Austin Chronicle, 12.08.00)

“Jesse Sublett is one of the few of my generation to actually run the thread through the eye of the needle and be able to tell me what it’s like. He defined punk in Austin, Texas, the future Live Music Capital of the World, when everyone else was still trying to figure out how to walk properly in cowboy boots so they could get next to Willie. By the time newcomers bearing guitars, drums and big ideas started flooding the city to cash in on its music scene, he’d ditched his axe and his band the Skunks for a typewriter, and, using Austin and music as his canvas, painted a picture as black as any Lou Reed ditty as a rock and roll crime writer, living vicariously through his character, Martin Fender. When that turned boring, he wrote scripts and screenplays, playing on his vast knowledge of Texas and the American West. Then he got cancer right at the cusp of forty–the trendsetter was once again get ‘way ahead of the curve–and has written about the Big C and the inevitability of aging and death in a manner far more chilling and dark than any bad ass Skunks’ rant, his novels, or any of his retellings of the how the west was really settled. It’s powerful stuff, mainly because he keeps reminding me, he’s one of us. He just got here quicker than we did. Reading is believing.”
Joe Nick Patoski (Author, Selena, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Willie Nelson: An Epic Life)

“On a cold and otherwise unremarkable Austin night in February 1978, something happened in a campus-area club called Raul’s. The first punk show was scheduled, featuring the debut of a band called The Skunks.
 Bassist and lead singer Jesse Sublett was handsome and erudite, brimming with piss and vinegar. His vision of the band as an apolitical garage-rock trio manifested during the punk explosion. Its attitude and energy fueled his desire to make rock ‘n roll that mattered, a dream that came true at Raul’s: The Skunks, quite literally, helped put the cosmic cowboy kingdom of Austin on the rock & roll map.
 That evening was a turning point in Austin’s musical history. Dozens of bands came in The Skunks’ wake. The sounds and scenes shifted from punk to New Wave to hardcore to cow punk and back but always The Skunks blasted away with unrestrained defiance. They were the premiere recording and touring band of the first wave of Raul’s bands and their music still pulses with the lifeblood of that era. The authentic sound and skull-rattling vibrancy of their music, however, was never successfully documented on vinyl, however, making the recent discovery of two dusty cassettes (one in Sublett’s closet, the other in that of friend, photographer and long-time fan, Glenn Chase) a chance to address that gap in the band’s permanent legacy for posterity and, not inconsequentially, in a digital format.
 The Skunks’ classic lineup was well in place by the time these Back Room and Max’s Kansas City shows were recorded. Sublett and original Skunks drummer Billy Blackmon hit a groove when guitarist Jon Dee Graham joined in early 1979, evident in every track. Its 15 potent songs of love, angst, and other matters of the young heart form a gloriously exuberant soundtrack from the days when rock ‘n roll could save the world with three chords and a lotta volume.”
Margaret Moser (Rock Critic and Author)

The Violators 1978, clockwise from top, Jesse, Carla Olson, Kathy Valentine, Marilyn Dean.

“Jesse was a great help to me in my formative rocker years. As a 16 year old struggling musician, I was enthralled to meet a real live rock guy who looked just like he stepped out of the Faces or the Stones. He was so damn good-looking he scared and intimidated me. He was already living the life I had only dreamed of so far. By befriending me and accepting me, Jesse gave me the fuel to keep the idea lit. He supported my first feeble attempts at becoming a pop star, turned me on to Lou Reed and the New York Dolls, tried to make me appreciate Patti Smith, showed me how to play the riff in “Shake Appeal” by Iggy Pop, and helped launch my first credible band, the Violators. 
Jesse also inspired my early songwriting a lot. He was one of the few musician pals I had who was actually and prolifically writing his own songs instead of only banging out covers. His songs were clever; the humor and intelligence in the lyrics reminded me that you don’t have to be Elvis Costello or Ray Davies to write great, cool songs.
 Jesse and I stayed in touch over the years, and after the Go-Go’s broke up, he participated in my first identity crisis band, the World’s Cutest Killers. It was LOTS of fun, and we almost got a record deal, but then we didn’t. The songs we wrote together during that period have provided material to plunder for almost a decade now. I still call Jesse up periodically and say, “Hey, Jesse, remember that tune we wrote? I’m thinking of reworking it…”
When Jesse got cancer, he was unknowingly taking on another inspiring role model job. If I ever have to go through a similar experience I only hope that I would do so with the grace, courage and humor that he showed me during the whole ordeal. My admiration and respect for Jesse is very nearly boundless — as a songwriter, as a musician, as a story and essay writer who actually found and writes with his own voice, and above all–as a human. The way he has pursued his passions and interests have made his life an excellent example of how to get by in the world with style and substance.”
Kathy Valentine (rock star)

Jesse’s first three crime novels, Rock Critic Murders, Tough Baby and Boiled in Concrete are all available as eBooks via Amazon. Rock Critic Murders is also available as an enhanced iBook for iPad, with music, video, etc. Buy at the iBookstore or iTunes.

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Filed under Books & other writing by Jesse Sublett, NOIR & TRUE CRIME

Randomness + Charley Patton

A page from Charlie Whitman’s daily journal, right after he started at UT in the fall of 1961.


A page from Charlie Whitman’s daily journal, right after he started at UT in the fall of 1961.

The summer continues on its brutal path here in Austin. Small talk with friends and strangers alike often includes this exchange:

“You making it through the summer OK?”
“Yeah. It’s horrible, but at least it’s not as bad as last summer.”
“That’s a fact. A few degrees really makes a difference.”
“Yeah. There’s a big difference between 100 and 108, 109, etc.”

Proof that our brains were not completely fried last year, or in previous terrible summers here. Why do we live here? This question is never more pertinent than in the months of June, July and August.

I often think of the Tower Shootings on August 1, 1966, during the summer, because heat does strange things to you. I remember how hot it was that day. The heat and the incomprehensible images on TV seared the memory in my mind forever. We lived in Johnson City and we didn’t have air conditioning, so I remember sitting there, watching the massacre unfold, sweating.

But anyway, it’s summer in Texas. Life goes on, oddly enough, like a drunk weaving his crooked path down the alley, teetering, stumbling, but never quite falling down.

I’ve been learning Charlie Patton’s great song “High Water Everywhere.” Charlie was a force of nature, one of the black songsters from Mississippi in the early 1900s who is a blues legend today and who inspired many of the monumental performers of the blues, including Robert Johnson, Howlin’ Wolf and Lonnie Johnson, just to name a few. His style of finger picking, open tuning, percussion (slapping the body of the guitar like a drum, snapping the strings, hitting pinch harmonics, etc.) is still a revelation to behold.

A page from R. Crumb’s brilliant graphic biography of Charlie Patton.


I don’t know this song escaped my attention for all these years, but I’m making up for lost time now. Elijah Wald has written brilliantly about Patton, check it out here. The graphic biography, written by Stephen Calt and Gayle Wardlow, with fine illustrations by R. Crumb King of the Delta Blues: The Life and Music of Charlie Patton is highly recommended, if you’ve got the money to buy a copy. Apparently it’s been out of print for a while and tends to run about $100 or more. Crumb’s home page offers direct links to many other “Crumb Products” including R Crumb’s Heroes of Blues, Jazz & Country.

You can hear Charlie’s version of “High Water Everywhere Part I” on this youtube clip.

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Filed under BLUES, MURDER BALLADS & OTHER COOL RACKET