Waiting for Richey

I have been reading Neal Stephenson’s The Confusion, the lovely second volume in The Baroque Cycle. But as much as I love historical fiction that takes the “historical” part seriously, I needed a break this week. Not so much the holidays as the fact that I’ve finally finished drafting Enoptromancy and wanted to let my brain reboot for a few days before I start on something else (or, alternatively, go in with the machete and start hacking). Enter a lovely gift I got this holiday season from Reenie—the collected Phonogram, by Kieron Gillen (writing) and Jamie McKelvie (art).

Let me preface this by saying that Britpop saved me from Grunge as a teenager, so it holds a special place in my heart. While my fellows were depressed over Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and the Stone Temple Pilots, I was listening to Oasis, Pulp, and the Manic Street Preachers. This does not reflect intelligence or good taste on my part (I’m rarely accused of either) so much as my inherent inability to express anything but the barest emotional outbursts, not because I’m a tortured genius but because I’m a horribly shallow human being who wouldn’t know deep if I drowned in it. Britpop just let me be unapologetic about it, whereas Grunge was busy apologizing for everything. And I never had the patience for that.

So when I began Phonogram, the first impression came from the head-in-arse main character, David Kohl. I should’ve seen where that was going immediately, since I’m turned off by any and all musical and/or artistic wannabe pretenders only because a little part of me has always been one, and I have the sense to keep it in check and expect others to do me the same courtesy. But since there’s very little I enjoy more than falling in with a despicable character, it was a bit exciting. And rightfully so, as there is some clever character development in store for him, the smug little bastard (and oh, how that phrase encompasses the Britpop swagger…)

The stunning premise: Britannia, goddess of Britpop, has been dead for ten years. The main character, the aforementioned David, is still defined by her.

Hm, aren’t we all. And no, that’s not meant as a question.

You can see where this is going, but I won’t spoil the fun bits. I will say that, as a former teenager also defined by this same goddess in the most metaphorical sense, this was a remarkably entertaining ride for me. It’s not that it offers any fresh insight; It offers instead a brilliant codification of the negligible insight of the mid-nineties musical phenomenon from which it came. Gillen might seem to be attempting introspection and deep thought and failing, but I think knowledge of the material makes it look a lot more Warhol-esque in intention. You look at Britpop, what it was, and you realize that Phonogram is one of those magnificent instances of art reflecting life reflecting art reflecting life that makes pop culture so goddamn fun. The defining quote evidenced being one from, appropriately, Richey Edwards of the Manics. I’m pretty sure he said it after the infamous incident where he carved the phrase “4 Real” into his own arm in reply to an interview question.

He said, “I know I believe In nothing, but it’s my nothing.”

It’s utterly ridiculous. And all it boils down to is “fuck off.” Yep. Defining.

The art is great as well— McKelvie’s simple lines and storytelling are perfect for the urban fantasy vibe here. After a childhood tormented by Rob Liefield drawing the X-Men, I’m appreciative that Jarvis Cocker was so very, very recognizable. And the cover art, each a take-off on an iconic album of the time, is fantastic. Though part of me is disturbed that all that remains of Liam Gallagher on the floor in the Definitely Maybe parody is a chalk outline. You know, the part of me that still makes me go and see Oasis every time they’re in the country. A very, very large part of me, by the way. (Hm, maybe I should take a hint from David Kohl. Ha, just kidding. Not effing likely.)

The whole series will seem indulgently, pointlessly nostalgic to those who don’t care. But enough of us grew up listening to the pertinent music for there to be quite a large appreciative audience out there. My biggest complaint is that the glossary, while probably very helpful to those not in the know, will get absolutely no use. Seeing as those not in the know wouldn’t make it past the first issue, and even if they did it reads like crap nineties rock journalism anyhow; The random subjective tags of good, better, crap, crapper, decent, poison combined with the unasked-for recommendations. But it’s forgivable since he’s pretty much right about all of it. (Well I won’t get into my Kenickie scars, but anyhow.) Still, for those of us who do care, it sings a great song that is rather familiar, whether uncomfortably or not.

That, and it gets Motorcycle Emptiness stuck in your head.

-Katey

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Now playing: Manic Street Preachers – Send Away The Tigers
via FoxyTunes