Bathymetry album review

As the sun, or indeed the moon, sets across the sea the surface shimmers and flickers with a magical road to…. where? There’s no map, nor any guide to the dark depths that walking that road will surely lead you to.  That road is a trap, or maybe a dream path to an unconscious reality. 
And so it is with the debut album from north west based band Bathymetry.  It shimmers, with golden harmonies, across the darkling ripples of something familiar, something just off the edge of the map. You’d know it if you could find it again, but it’s gone, replaced by its near twin, its next iteration. 


I’ve listened to album opener and single ‘Goblin Fruit’ a dozen times or more, and I swear that twinkling percussion is new this time. And is that a child-like giggle at the start of ‘Liliput’?  As Ariel sings though, there’s something disturbing in the sweetness.  ‘she sucked until her lips were sore’, ‘she smiled then she laughed at me’, the way the apparently innocent line ‘I’ll be waiting down below’ is sung as the guitar drops away to leave Emily’s creeping bass line, all have an edge of concealed menace.
There are moments when, if you don’t listen closely, Bathymetry’s songs float by, gorgeous dream pop psych folk.  All chiming, wavelike guitars, and sweet female harmonies with a hint of swing.  But ‘Honey dripping off your tongue’ according to ‘Sweet Tooth’ leads into ‘hiding rotten gums.’

The calm sea conceals the jagged reef, and can change in moments to a tempest. The songs on this album are laden with hooks to pull you in, and barbs to cut you deeply.  Bathymetry move seamlessly from reflecting 60s psych pop to early New York New Wave.


Ariel’s guitar has hints of Marr & Quine, a flavour of acoustic folk picking, maybe a shoegaze nod or two. Her voice, innocent and wild eyed at times, becomes desperate and decadent on a chord change. 
Emily, who also sings, and whose voice matches Ariel’s throughout, is the undercurrent. Her basslines not just a pinion for the rest, but the lead at times, holding the road where the map is ambiguous.  They’re fluid, that edge of swing I mentioned, teasing out an impish dance.  Drummer Dave meanwhile is almost unnoticed at times, playing superficially simple roots for the rest. Then suddenly you realise that magical glimmering tone is his delicate work. 
The word dream-like is overused, but Bathymetry’s songs are awash with allusions to sleep, to dream, to the astral plane, whilst the music has that disconcerting knack of being utterly familiar and totally strange simultaneously.


45 minutes, 12 tracks, more ideas per track than many careers.  And my favourite track? Could be any one of five or six. Let’s say ‘Evil Leather Jacket’ right now for its catchy, jazzy riff, and that disturbing cackling in the middle. And ‘Goblin Fruit’F is sublime, in the full blown Romantic sense, for me.
But it could be ‘Clementine’ with its nursery rhyme rhythm breaking out into rocking midsection. Or ‘Doldrums’ or… Well, that’s why Bathymetry might be the best band you’ve not yet heard.  Go off map, explore the depths, follow the moon road. Float, dive, swim, drown, absorb yourself in the best debut album of 2015 maybe in years.

You can get the album from Bathymetry on their website or at a gig. They’re charming live too. 

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Jessica Hopper — The First Book Of Criticism by a Living Female Rock Critic

The thing about critical assessment of criticism is the near inevitable meta nature of it, the way our response is both a response to the critic and the subject.  We admire, because we feel validated by, the critic who shares and articulates our views.  Jessica Hopper, writing as fan and pro separately and together, hints at recognition of this as she interprets art, packaging of art, marketing of art and personal/group response to art in one review after another. 
The pieces collected in the admittedly hyperbolic, misnamed but justified banner raising The First Collection of Criticism by a Living Female Rock Critic appeared first in venues as diverse as Punk Planet, Spin, Pitchfork, The Chicago Tribune, and Hopper’s TinyLuckyGenius blog.  They cover the likes of Kendrick Lamar, MIA, Springsteen, Pearl Jam (then and now), Rollin Hunt, Chief Keef and Mecca Normal.  The approach, style and subject matter varies therefore but, for most of this collection there is a consistency of theme and developing worldview on show.  The title stresses a feminist aspect typified by a scathing without ranting assessment of the male dominated emo scene and references to Guyville and Riot Grrrl, but equally crucial in this is that titular Living.  A long quote from the blog post “You Know What?” lays out both Hopper’s attitude and her credibility:
    “Older-generation female rocker ladies making uninformed judgment calls about women making music today, and how no one is angry anymore, how the ‘90s were so much better, when we had Liz Phair and Hole and Belly and L7 on MTV (a.k.a. the blinded nostalgia trope of the aging rock ‘n’ roll feminist) IS REALLY FUCKING UNPRODUCTIVE. It also shows they are not digging deep enough, or seeing the forest for the trees. If you think “angry women in punk” is a faction that has somehow receded, or that L7 in its day was some how better than the generation of women now in all manner of metal bands, you’ve gotten too far removed from the action. Go browse the 7” new arrivals like you did last in 199X and you’ll see a lot more women in the bin now than you ever did then. Spend 11.4 minutes online and catch up. It never disappeared, we just missed it because we were so busy clinging tight to copies of Guyville; we refused new ideas as relevant or good enough. Riot-grrrl wasn’t the end result, it was the catalyst. That’s what it was supposed to be, that’s what it was meant as— not a static thing. It didn’t have to stick around forever to count as successful— movements come in waves— it did its job perfectly. So much is different post-RG, so much permission and power and inspiration was funneled down steadily— whether it’s to the league of young girl shredders, or rock camps, or queer show collectives whose tether to RG was simply catching the tail end of Sleater-Kinney. Feminism has to move on, salute new icons, be excited by the varieties of archetypes of women in music that are self-directed, self-produced, not operating under the shadow of a Svengali hand. To not appreciate the difference in agency, or appreciate the different struggles of women now, turns it to a game of radical one-upsmanship. Our battles are not to be hung on the necks of the new waves of girls like an albatross.”

For me that is where Hopper is strong, when she writes with a controlled passion for her subjects.  Occasional pieces here are overly descriptive, insufficiently evocative and slightly less weighted insight.  Given the glossier commercial venues commissioning here some compromise may be expected as the price of getting 17 year old rapper Chief Keef into the Tribune, perhaps.  Mostly though Hopper writes with an edge that is personal and feels genuine.  Her punk roots are openly displayed as she questions the ‘community’ of Lollapalooza and large festivals, a sort of Woodstock myth shared with Glastonbury in the UK, and contrasts a range of gigs with double digit attendance.  She challenges yet another Nevermind reissue with the cutting lines
“if you squint, you can see the “Heart-Shaped Box in an Actual Box Shaped Like a Heart 25th Anniversary Boxset” and “Nevermind in Mono” galloping this way on the horizon.”
“Revisiting Nevermind is like flexing a phantom limb made up of Nirvana records that never were. That’s all it means now, all that’s left— fantasy. The tomb is empty; let the dead buy the dead.”

Hopper revisits her early years in the punk scenes of 1990 with clear eyes and humour.  An aside on her early school crushes notes that one boy was unsuitable because of his subtly wrong choice in music:
“[He] wore a Jane’s Addiction T-shirt; he thought All Shook Down was the best Replacements record— making him a no go”

Rock criticism, the good stuff, tends to a few strands, the more rarefied almost academic sociological analyses of Greil Marcus, the rants of Lester Bangs, the personal depth of the great Paul Williams, and the sensational biography of, well, too many really.  Jessica Hopper at her best combines Williams ability to convey how music you’ve never heard feels, with a mainstream awareness of trends and commercial pressures. She can deconstruct Lana Del Rey  and M.I.A. and provide context for Springsteen and Mecca Normal alongside more personal perspective on Eddie Vedder. 

The First Book of Criticism by a Living Female Rock Critic is uneven, unsurprisingly so given its chronological range and sources, but is frequently stimulating in its politics, its evocation of new to me music, and its new insight into the more familiar.  Mainstream rock criticism is frequently bland but by maintaining feet in several camps Jessica Hopper remains interesting and this is a welcome volume. 

Note: Thanks to former Willard Grant Conspiracy/Walkabouts/ Transmissionary Six guitarist Paul Austin for pointing this book out on Facebook. 

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Josephine Saxton

Let me put in a plea, not just, as is sometimes necessary with Fantasy and Science Fiction, for a suspension of disbelief, but for a suspension of strictly labelled parameters.” (1)


Thus Josephine Saxton prefaced her collection The Travails of Jane Saint and Other Stories.  What she didn’t say at that point was that she herself doesn’t exactly suspend disbelief.  Saxton’s novels frequently take wild flights of fancy yet treat this in a thoroughly realist manner. 

Both Jane Saint and Magdalene Hayward, the eponymous Queen of the States partake in Gothic quests through their subconscious and the Collective Unconscious looking at the real from within.
Magdalene explains it to her psychiatrist Dr Murgatroyd at one point:

“As a doctor I can’t really encourage you in what are clearly fantasies.”
“Not fantasies, modes of existence. I move from one existence to another, on several planes at the same time. I am a traveller in time and space. I suppose the nearest you could get to it in your ideas would be to call it a metaphor.” He looked alert and scribbled.
“A metaphor is not an actuality.”
“To me it is. I’m very intense you know, it makes everything more real.” (2)

There’s a knowingness there that, as well as stressing the real, stresses the meaning.  Magdalene is in a psychiatric hospital, Jane has been brainwashed as punishment. Magdalene may have been kidnapped by aliens, Jane may be exploring a blank landscape.  They are, at this point, both the madwoman in the attic placed there by men.


Gwyneth Jones notes that Saxton (along with Angela Carter and Tanith Lee) ‘build their fantasies in full recognition and acceptance of male/female, masculine/feminine archetypes’ (3) but Saxton explicitly states her use of Jungian archetypes reacts against his idea of a ‘completely different canon of symbology for the interior psychological landscapes of a woman from those of a man.’ (4) So Jane progresses through the Collective Unconscious with new friends, including Simone de Beauvoir and Joan of Arc, archetypes carefully selected to challenge the Anima/Animus divisions. Saxton makes her points further when Jane meets a philosopher’s dog called Merleau-Ponty. Jane comments on the name and finds her own name queried back for its implications of ‘the mate of an apeish type in the jungle.’ The charm of these encounters is a layering of unsubtle satire and deep allusion and nuance.  Witty, pacey dialogue and introspection and analysis entwine comically as the down to earth, determined and intelligent red haired Jane completely fails to match the stereotype helpless ‘dumb blonde with enormous titties.’ She is a mother of three grown children, that rare middle aged SF heroine, and very much her own woman seeking to improve the lot of women but not representative of all.  As she develops awareness she expands on this “Maybe if she met the right archetypes she could do something about overthrowing the oligarchy.”

Magdalene too is questing as a woman, though at least superficially hers is a personal question of self-identity as she translates through states of being defined by others, Dr Murgatroyd, her haplessly unfaithful husband Clive, the aliens and others.  There’s an element of Housewife SF in Magdalene, albeit 70s middle class housewife. I’ve noted before that she is best imagined as Wendy Craig’s character Ria in the sitcom Butterflies rather than a working class heroine of the revolution. Magdalene has no children but like Jane she is a middle-aged woman, a challenge to existing SF characterisation of women.  Both women ultimately reject their definition by men to assert theirselves. 


Virginia Woolf famously said a woman needed ‘A Room Of Her Own.’ Josephine Saxton has taken two women shoved into an attic metaphorically by men and allowed both to make from that not just their own space, but crucially expanding on Woolf, a room of their own devising.  Perhaps the strictly labelled parameters she said she wanted suspended were not merely of genres, but of genders and roles.  Certainly this is an area explored when Jane returns in Jane Saint and the Backlash. Now Jane has a boyfriend, a ‘New man’ and is drifting, until she realises the battle and the quest aren’t done yet and returns to The Collective Unconscious for more travels and travails.  Progress doesn’t have an end point and Jane must regroup and strive on. Again she meets significant archetypes, including the return of Mr Rochester the cat and Agatha Hardcastle the witch of Heptonstall.  It is Agatha who in the end openly disputes the necessity of male/female attributes.
Without male and female there can be no Alchemy.”
“So bleedin’ wot. I’ve been practicing Alchemy for thousands of years and where has it got me.” (5)

There’s a great comic streak throughout these short novels again despite Saxton referring in an introduction to ‘how funny women were viewed.’ It’s as though she’s exploring and challenging the assumptions of society, SF, philosophy and psychiatry all in one glorious free wheeling romp, and yet inside is a careful, thoughtful, analytical structured approach.  Fantasy rooted deeply in the reality of our minds.  “Time, unlike truth, appeared to be relative.” Jane thinks. Truth is the realism here, the fantasy highlights that.

1 The Travails of Jane Saint and Other Stories, The Women’s Press 1986 preface
2 Queen of the States, The Women’s Press 1985 p88
3 Deconstructing the Starships, Liverpool University Press 1999 p124
4 Jane Saint and the Backlash, The Women’s Press 1989 p2
5 Jane Saint and the Backlash p163-4

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BREED – K T Davies (Fox Spirit)

This novel stinks. 
KT Davies’ second novel is foetid with ordure and miasma and Davies revels in it.  Breed is a fantasy novel, A Novel of the Fantastical as the cover has it, but as the eponymous Breed curses inventively through sewers, dragon vomit and worse, the first author that comes to mind is Iain M Banks and scenes in Consider Phlebas. Later we will see explicit echoes of Tolkien and even Bond movies all taken somewhere new and ultimately Breed (the novel) becomes a remarkable, vivid, filthy and violent post-apocalyptic comic grimdark novel.
Several hundred years after some magical war called the Schism, in a criminal underworld Breed (the character) is heading home to the grotesque Mother Blake with several problems, not least of which is the demon unwittingly freed whilst Breed fled the dragon with stolen jewels.  Mother sets Breed a task to assassinate her big rival, Pork Chop Jing, to get back in favour.  It’s a set up that goes further wrong for Breed resulting in a rigged trial and a sentence to the calthracite mines.  Unfortunately the aforementioned demon has put a geas on Breed to acquire the legendary Schism-era magical weapon the Hammer of The North, and then the mysterious priest Brother Tobias buys out Breed’s sentence as a magically bound indentured slave. 
Confused yet?  It gets more complicated, whilst Davies’ witty prose keeps it all perfectly clear.  Breed wisecracks into and sometimes out of trouble,  The full-pelt plot progresses through accident, diaster, crises and more than one demon ex machina.  Breed (book and character) is brutal and impetuous. Davies knows fantasy and is gleeful in her evisceration of trope after trope, conniving demons, magic weapons, mysterious stalking characters (this novel’s Gollum is the delightfully named, by Breed at least, Tosspot.)  and plotting, feuding clerics.
This isn’t a perfect novel, whilst the breakneck pace works, the occasional slower episodes are less effective and disrupt the dynamic rather than enhancing it.  The worldbuilding isn’t a major aspect here but even so there are gaps.  I would like to know more about the assassin Sebastian Schiller, the demons and Schism but there’s room for a sequel.  On the other hand, Breed is a hugely memorable, grotesque character with a superbly fruity vocabulary.  Davies isn’t shy about cursing, abusing, and insulting her characters through Breed’s foul mouth, but she maintains a pattern to it that fits the character and contributes to the pace and the humour.  The post-apocalyptic element is possibly undercooked, but the comic grimdark plot and exuberant filth can’t be understated.  The unlamented CleanWrite app would have a meltdown bowdlerising Breed. 
KT Davies first novel The Red Knight is more straightforward epic fantasy with a memorable, powerful but not always self-confident heroine who fights and fucks with equal need and commitment, and anguishes about doing right for her knights and her nights as well.  Breed pares the epic down to basics, the squalor of the sewers, the vindictiveness of Mother and Jing’s feud (and I’m reminded too of The Wire here), the raw demotic language, the abrupt, random violence and regardless of the rich scatological comedy in this, produces a grimdark that is more real in its common lives than all the court feuds and throne wars of certain big names. 
Breed the character is an assassin, amongst other, fouler things, and remains, largely, selfish and unrepentant throughout.
Breed stinks and that is very refreshing.

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Notes From Elsewhere

I’ve not posted much here recently, most of my blogging has been specific to my column at SF Gateway.  A couple of people (Hi Leigh!) asked about links there though, so I thought a post tying things up might be useful.

The column, for those who have not yet seen it, focusses on SFF by wiomen, particularly those who have been neglected by history and critics.  Called From The Attic it runs approximately monthly.  The first edition set out my stall, and highlighted some of the issues surrounding women’s unduly low profile in genre.

After that I began with a couple of authors already part of the SF Gateway stable, one a particular favourite of mine the brilliant Pat Murphy, the other the hugely successful but rarely analysed Connie Willis.  Shortly after the Murphy piece, which I think of as my best so far, I found that she had a new collection out, Women Up To No Good.  Come on, how can you resist that title?

Next up was a look at a hugely underrated novel Michaela Roessner’s superb and unique post-apocalypse tale Vanishing point  before I ran a piece picking out Seven titles I felt needed a UK edition.  Two days later Gollancz announced a deal with one, Elizabeth Bear, and a couple of weeks later another, Judith Moffett.  I’m delighted to note that my comments prompted several long, warm and interesting emails from Moffett.  

This year’s Nebula Awards had a pretty good mix of genders, ethnic backgrounds and sexual orientations, so having already read a couple of them, I took a look at the women on the Best Novel Shortlist  I picked the wrong winner, as you probably know Ann Leckie is winning everything going for her Ancillary Justice, whereas my strong preferences was for the gorgeous prose of Sofia Samatar’s A Stranger In Olondria.

One past Nebula & Hugo Winner who gets forgotten is Vonda N McIntyre so hopefully the column on her work will draw attention.  Twitter comments already point out great looking series by McIntyre that I have so far missed.

That, for me, is a large part of what it’s about.  Spreading the word, getting feedback, new ideas, new authors, and growing further.

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Mary Diana Dods

Mary Diana Dods was a footnote in the story of Mary Shelley until Betty T Bennett started investigating.  The story she unveiled is a remarkable one.
Seeking to fully annotate her edition of Shelley’s correspondence Bennett became, in her words, irked that she could find no details on three figures. The writer David Lyndsay, the mysterious Walter Sholto Douglas and Miss Mary Dods.  So she dug deeper.

This book Mary Diana Dods, A Gentleman and a Scholar skillfully reveals the true story entwined with a surprisingly gripping description of how Bennett undertook her research.  Original letters were compared, sources cross-referenced and intuitive leaps led eventually to the realisation that Dods was responsible for the works published as by Lyndsay.  Not an unusual 19th century scenario but still a secret for 150 years. 

Meanwhile Mary Shelley had made friends with a young woman, Isabella Robinson.  History records that Robinson married Walter Sholto Douglas and lived in Paris where he held diplomatic roles, and the couple mingled, via Shelley’s introductions, with Merimée and Stendhal. 
The shock came, for Bennett and for us, with the researcher’s discovery that Douglas and Lyndsay were the same person. And with that the realisation that Isabella Robinson was ‘married’ to Mary Dods. 

Gradually Bennett pieces together how these two women became involved. Dods was in her forties, Robinson 20 or so at the time.  They met, probably, at a party but what developed was clearly less public.  Eventually they needed help, which is where Mary Shelley comes in.  A plan is hatched, Dods has already had a career as a male writer, and descriptions of her as looking misshapen particularly alongside the beautiful Robinson suggest disguise wasn’t difficult.  With references from Mary Shelley a passport and other documents are produced for Walter Sholto Douglas. 

Suddenly this mere footnote becomes an intriguing figure in Mary Shelley’s post-Percy life. A period often glossed over as less interesting has it’s own secret drama.  The conventional wisdom of a more conservative Shelley after her radical husband’s death is questioned.  Bennett casts light on a secret life, but also on the subtle ways in which social constructs allowed it to remain a secret. So secret that it took 12 years research to uncover it.
From there the story follows the Douglases in Paris going forward, but also back through Lyndsay’s career. Letters to the publisher Blackwood hint at a secret. One reveals that Lyndsay was known to Charles Lamb (but who wasn’t?) “under a different name.” The mature ambiguous Dods was the insecure one, sharp, young Robinson against stereotype the conspirator.

Betty T Bennett has written a detailed
account of academic historical research, a haunting Romantic mystery and a revealing addition to the life of a major literary figure in one deeply absorbing volume. 

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A Sense Of Shadow — Kate Wilhelm

Frequently in Kate Wilhelm’s best fiction memories and dreams become entwined with and are influenced beyond the norm by the protagonist’s social environment. The reader familiar with these stories will recognise much in A Sense Of Shadow (1981) that was previously seen in ‘Somerset Dreams’ for instance. At the same time as Wilhelm’s story is familiar her development of tension makes A Sense of Shadow an effective psychological mystery.


When the dying patriarch John Daniel Culbertson summons his estranged children to his wealthy and sprawling Oregon ranch it is to inform them of his will and condemn them to his final psychological torture. Each child must undergo EEG recordings, then on Culbertson’s death they must remain in the house for seven nights before further EEG recordings are to be compared. One will ‘pass’ the test and inherit all, or none will and the ranch will go to the university. Almost immediately after this Culbertson does die.


The four children, all full grown (if not exactly mature in some cases) are joined by the youngest son Lucas’s wife Ginny and research psychologist Hugh Froelich. Culbertson has become intrigued by a paper Froelich wrote about brain waves and has taken these ideas a grand and despotic further step. For the next week they are effectively trapped in the house by the ruling of a crazy old man and their own issues.


The gothic haunted house aspect of this short novel is it’s initial strength, as Wilhelm delicately hints at doors mysteriously closing, lights being turned on and so on, without explicit supernatural involvement. Without overdoing descriptive passages she creates a brooding environment in which her story plays out. In contrast the deaths of each of Culbertson’s three previous wives in manners that seem to point suspicion back at him seem slightly contrived. That each death was witnessed by one or more of the children, but never clearly, may account for some of their individual and collective psychological damage and their feeling haunted in the old house, but it also raises questions of what is really happening now by querying what previously happened.


Froelich’s theories are the SF element here, there is brief discussion of chemical process and electrical impulse in axons causing synapses to fire, leading to his repeated assertion that there is ‘no mechanism for possession’ that true metempsychosis is scientifically impossible. However he also observes later:


Bluebeard’s sons, he thought with a shudder. They were all in a state of heightened suggestibility. Not hypnotized, but so suggestible that any stimulus, even self-induced, made them react. And their reactions were not their usual ones, but what they believed his would have been. (p126)


As the novel reaches its inevitable climax the characters are rapidly overwhelmed by their fears and apparent memories. The penultimate chapter flashes through an explosion of multiple distorted viewpoints as Culbertson’s influence seems to peak with potentially tragic consequences.


A Sense of Shadow is both evocative in its physical descriptions and intensely creepy in its playing reality and imagination against each other. Whilst the differences between the characters can be hard to see, particularly older brothers Conrad and Mallory, there’s a growing realisation that maybe Wilhelm intended that. The daughter Janet is similarly indistinguishable, although self-defined by her body image perhaps, and even outsider Ginny increasingly is absorbed into the coalescent group. The power of the patriarch to discomfort, to influence and to enforce conformity are the heart of a disturbing feminist short novel on the fringes of SF, Horror (in this case more accurately, Terror) and the literary mainstream.


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