September 23, 2024 (copy) • Buttondown

October 2, 2024

Last week’s New Yorker, week of September 30

“(Best Christian album in the Portuguese language, for example)”

I know this newsletter is by far the last it’s ever been, but I have reason to believe that I actually have enough free time on school days (plus transit time that I can use to read) that once I get into the flow is there, it should also I can maintain my regular publishing schedule. Appreciate your patience during the adjustment period.

“Rhythm Collector” – Daniel Alarcón stretches the elastic of Latin American music. A personal appreciation for a ‘genre’ so broad it can barely be captured, and a review of a group that tries to capture it anyway. Alarcón makes a home in the songs he covers and lets us in; he is a warm host and this is a cozy space. The length is just right (the expansion from the usual music reviews, however small, makes a huge difference in how far the piece is able to carry its ideas) and Alarcón’s prose brings the necessary poetry to the describing sound (“the basslines that spread across the songs like dark ink seeping across a canvas”) but is otherwise simple, which is perfect: two or three instruments, that’s all you need for intimacy.

“Come to life” – Oliver Sacks licks envelopes. Various correspondence from Sacks’ early Parkinson’s research, including letters to his parents, a hated boss, Robin Williams, and so on. These are the first few letters to his parents Real excellent – they are a portrait of a hard-working spirit, communicating Sacks’ character and his intense focus, yet making time for the needs of the family. (“Before I forget, thank you, Mom, for the motorcycle leather that arrived a few days ago.”) The letter to “a former lover,” John, is lighter but no less precise, and the contrast between Sacks’ personalities is compelling – it’s so hard for writers to capture when we feel like we’re being watched. The inner nature of correspondence is still hidden, but closed in a different way. The middle bounces around a bit – it’s sketchier, there’s less dramatic focus, but it’s still eminently enjoyable to feel the steam rising from Sacks’ intelligence. Only the ending falters – the film adaptation is simply not Sacks’ work; he is less involved and more impressed.

“Intangible girl” – Jia Tolentino praises the transcendent star Sophie. The first part is a well-written but clear overview of the career, with nothing new for anyone generally familiar with the artist. The actual album review is a bit tight at only three short paragraphs, but they’re great and provide context and vivid description (one song is “a spider’s web of hard filaments, a million strands in every direction, each of them vibrating to the beat”) and a legitimately moving ending. This may be a one-off, but if Tolentino is on the pop music beat now, we’re in good hands.

“near” – Helen Shaw sings big housesmall house, back house, flop. The housemate, a barren star vehicle, is not a particularly interesting failure; Family is particularly notable for its location-specific staging. Shaw makes a lot of that thin gruel, building respectively to a sharp point about the “cunning artificiality” that powers star vehicles, and a madcap meditation on the author as viewer. Still too much repetition in terms of the incoherence of the first show, and not enough room to do much more than dismiss the last. But Shaw is Shaw.

“Tattoo Caucus” (Talk About the City) – Charles Bethea knows from family lines. Totally ambitious – just a bunch of fun anecdotes about inked wrists. It works!

“The Escape Artist” – DT Max says mafia? They will hardly know her… whereabouts. No sense of propulsion; Despite the high stakes, the story meanders from one case study to another without urgency. Father Ciotti’s job has nothing to do with secret identities or espionage; he’s just a charismatic middleman with a moderate appetite for publicity. He is sympathetic and his stories are compelling, but his interiority does not go beyond ‘doer of good’. (Perhaps there isn’t much behind his forceful helpfulness.) Max sticks close to him, and the story has corollary flaws: following an activist’s work without criticism risks feeling like he’s advocating their cause, which is how should therefore be avoided. how valuable is that thing. It’s also perhaps a little strange to follow a man’s work so closely in a story that focuses primarily on the female victims of abuse—not to say that Ciotti isn’t a figure worth investigating, just that you don’t feel like within a system full of actors – everything feels like his idea and his execution, which couldn’t possibly be the case. Max can write, of course, and despite the slackness of the broader structure, each of the case studies is individually visceral and tense. But perhaps the position could have been less Catholic and more Catholic.

“Briefly noted” – Both non-fiction books sound poignant, both fiction books sound wonderfully bizarre.

“Unbound” – Andrew Marantz knows pushing Democrats left could be hit-or-Michigan. I appreciate that Marantz, without directly stating his opinion, manages to make it quite clear how he feels about the pro-Palestinian protest through the historical analogy he patiently draws: “Even if the anti-war movement has contributed to Nixon’s victory, it may hasten other developments in American life, such as ending the draft, that may have been just as important.” Even Marantz can’t understand the calculus behind the Democrats’ refusal to use a Palestinian American at the Convention as a platform, which is really just an optic for Biden’s continued support of Israel’s genocidal actions (an approach that appears to be works great for all involved). The opening and closing sections here suggest a focused and fascinating deep dive, but the piece itself is very scattered and overlong. The political chatter of Michigan Muslim organizers in a hookah lounge is moderately interesting, but hardly touches on strategic issues; they only discuss how they personally will vote, which is essentially irrelevant. It also contributes to the idea that the only voters whose minds will be changed by the Palestinian issue are literally activist Muslims, an incredibly cynical view (although I don’t think Marantz is deliberately trying to push this). Significantly worse is the long digression on RFK supporters, which appears to have been copied from another document – its relevance to something different here is neither articulated nor understandable (RFK isn’t even in favor of a ceasefire), and yet the section isn’t nearly fun enough to work. Whether that spoils the piece will depend on whether you’re contractually obligated not to skip any sections – if you leave it out (it starts with “Many voters in Michigan…”) it’ll probably jump to a mid-window shop . Tip tip.

“Players Only” – Giles Harvey finds Our evenings foreign. There is something frustrating about considering a writer I have only vaguely heard of, but who, according to Harvey, has “the best body of work by any living writer of English prose,” in which virtually everything we hear is couched in critique or criticism. backhanded compliment. First we take an in-depth look at Hollinghurst’s highly questionable treatment of race, followed by a new book that seemingly attempts to atone for these sins, but introduces new problems in the process. Not knowing Hollinghurst, I would like to see his genius instead of just telling about it. The review of the new book is well written word for word, but I had little idea of what Harvey’s experience of reading the book was like – it’s more of a formal analysis, which is fine, but a bit dry. James Wood, for example, excels at both things at the same time. Harvey leaves us halfway.

“Family style” – Inkoo Kang says the family that walks the runway together stays together. A mixed review of a fashion soap should certainly provide ample opportunities for humor, but Kang doesn’t really find any; this is very simple. The usual – no frills.

“Sensory overload” -Rebecca Mead chewing up eyeballs, oh oh oh oh. The connection between annoying didactics and “art” by a chef who doesn’t even have a background in art is incredibly off-putting, and Mead takes the bait. This kind of thing plagues every artistic field, because large parts of the audience like to have their food chewed beforehand, but literal Food has been granted some immunity so far, because refined tastes still have a relatively low barrier to entry – and often what is considered “refined” is actually just strange. From what Mead says (although it’s very clear she’s not a food critic), it sounds like there’s little refinement of taste at Munk’s place, just small bites with hacky and overbearing themes. I have no problem with political messages around food, but there’s no need for grand metaphors; do eat literal politics; there are all kinds of ways to make your restaurant reflect values (sustainably grown food, union staff, fully accessible design) without actually serving the lesson on a plate, complete with a video of the intended atmosphere. Even the famous eyeball is just a giant sticky board with a small round bowl on top. Not only is the emperor naked, he’s waving his cock around.

“Move to Trash” -Louis Menand has a weak constitution. A gloomy lecture you already received in tenth grade social studies class. One paragraph literally starts with ‘As everyone knows’. More importantly, Jill Lepore wrote literally the exactly the same piece two years ago, but with considerably more detail, humor and style. There’s even a parenthetical reference here to a related project, so it’s not like Menand can claim to have skipped that part. Menand’s lobotomized portrayal only shows bits of life when he criticizes the books he reviews; even then, he quibbles over misleading data points rather than really putting the issues into the broader picture. (His late reference to the terrible move towards a right-wing rewrite of the Constitution is bizarre – has he nothing to do with that?) say about that?) This is pointless and boring – I think That truth are self-evident.