Softcore Uproar
The vibrant and colourful energy emitting from Softcore is, from the beginning, utterly charming, and one cannot help but be instantly seduced by it. Such feelings might soon wear off, however; Zolghadr does, on occasion, cross the line between playfulness and irritating hyperactivity. The persistent namedropping, which tries hard to be achingly hip and subversive, ultimately feels like unbearably pretentious student irony.
Charlotte Stretch reviews Tirdad Zolghadr‘s debut Iranian complex political detective story, Softcore.
London’s Steamin’
The legendary Marc Zermati, who organised the 76-77 Mont de Marsan punk festivals and founded Skydog Records, is bringing an exhibition by the Musulmans Fumants to London. London Steamin’ will run from 4-29 September at Subway Gallery, located in a pedestrian subway below the Edgware Rd/Harrow Rd crossing. The Musulmans Fumants were a prominent group […]
A Modern Girl
She didn’t mind the trains, quite the opposite. She wasn’t one of these mindless objectors; she knew that nuclear power was the future. The trains made her feel plugged into that future, made her feel modern and forward-looking, while everything else in her life seemed to belong to the past. The trains were on a journey to tomorrow.
By Mark Howard Jones.
Madonna Never Sent Me A Book On Kabbalah
I’ve followed the JT Leroy saga as it has played out over the last year. I had read “his” short stories and been affected by the gritty subject matter. I didn’t adore the writing but I sympathized with the author’s background. Another lost child.
When I later learned that the author was not who “he” claimed to be — a street smart former drug abusing hustler — but rather a fragile, middle-aged woman from Brooklyn Heights with childhood issues of her own. I wasn’t angry or shocked. I understand that fiction is a trick done with mirrors.
Bob Thurber on the fallout of the J.T. Leroy saga.
Excerpt: Cat Life
I lit up a cigarette and went to the window. Ladies and gentlemen, to your left, the ocean. Holy fucking shit, the ocean. Rio, you seductive slut you, you won’t let me go. I gotta go, honey, kiss me, look me in the eye with the waves crashing pure white on the sand, let the sun get to my bones, give strength to my fucked-up body, give strength to this old lady of twenty-two. My fucked-up body was totally fucked-up, it’s done, my liver was giving up on me after all the rides we had.
Read an exclusive excerpt from the new English translation of Brazilian author Clarah Averbuck‘s Vido de Gato.