Books
One of the fears of poets and, I imagine, all writers, is that you’ll reach a certain age and you’ll run out of gas.
If Charlie Harmon’s story jumps around a bit and reads rather like a series of diary entries, it’s at the very least engaging and, for the most part, entertaining.
While Beth Genné proffers a terrific take on dance and its social context, she exhibits a shaky grasp of musical-theater history.
Deborah Eisenberg’s stories pull you in and imitate life in an uncanny way.
Despite its occasional confusions, this is poetry I will return to — to re-experience A.E. Stallings’ wit, wisdom, and word-smithing.
K.K. Downing does not trash Judas Priest or its legacy, but he gives, from his perspective, an honest and believable assessment of the group and his role in it.
This slender memoir reads like a rambling conversation with a literary stranger you meet on a train.
Given what Olga Tokarczuk is curious about, it is not surprising that her book serves up its share of goofy humor.
Summer Cannibals’ main virtue is its keen transmission of psychological warfare in families.
Arts Commentary: The Author of “The Jazz Bubble” Responds
“What is new since the ’70s is a much broader ideological shift in the business world itself, and the way in which it came to approach the jazz world as a result.”
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