It is almost twenty four years since I read ‘The Last Stand of Mr America’, the second novel by Jason Flores-Williams. At the time I wrote on my Tangents website that I found it a shade ‘obvious’ in its critique of American popular/ist social and political culture but that it seemed a fine novel and that I was looking forward to seeing what the author might do next. As is the way of such things, the name slipped off my radar and for the following near quarter century (that can’t be right, surely…) the very fact that I had read or written about the novel drifted to the very edges of memory. I dare say that it would have continued to gather dust in the darkness of my brain as neural connections further decayed had it not been for the fact that earlier this year an email popped into my inbox from Jason Flores-Williams himself. It was a very charming message that thanked me for having taken the time to read and think about his novel all those years ago and that, having expressed interest in reading what might come next, would I be interested in reading the draft of a new novel, ‘Chamizal’?
Having for some years been firmly established in the world of broadly mid-20th Century English fiction I admit that the thought of reading something with a contemporary edge and focus was a little daunting. I’m glad that I managed the temporary shift in reading habits though, because I found ‘Chamizal’ to be enormously rewarding. Granted, it’s a pretty unrelenting groove of a book, more a discordant jazz improvisation than a pop song. Lou Reed’s ‘Metal Machine Music’ as opposed to ‘Coney Island Baby’, perhaps. Additionally, there is a degree of intentional confusion to the narrative such that reading the book feels akin to watching, say, ‘Twin Peaks’, in so much as one simultaneously has no idea what on earth is going on but also, on a subconscious level, knowing EXACTLY what is happening. Much of this confusion in ‘Chamizal’ is produced by there often being uncertainty about which character is talking at any one time. Indeed, it feels like a lot of the dialogue is actually the kind of inner dialogue we all of us have with ourselves, which feels entirely appropriate.
Much of the novel feels like it may be autobiographical to an extent, and given that Flores-Williams spent much of the intervening twenty plus years since the publication of that first novel involved in human rights law this is likely true to an extent. The law detail in the book inevitably then feels very solid, honest and real but is never domineering. A degree of self-mocking dark humour also helps to prevent things from dipping too far into potentially alienating detail.
Stylistically there are connections to old American Noir writers, which is fitting for a book which might well be described as a 21st Century legal detective story that subverts its own genre, like Erle Stanley Gardner on acid. A lot of the time too it feels like there is a Chandler voice to the writing, all clipped phrasing and short sharp sentences. Ross Macdonald too. Certainly there is something of Macdonald’s eye for seeing the evil in society and making a concise snapshot, but without making everything overwhelmingly bleak and dark. Sure, the book depicts a dark, existential dystopian nightmare, but there is also a lot of love and light. At times it also brings to mind Georges Simenon’s best works in that there is a similar kind of relish for the blackness and the underbelly. A ravishing darkness, if you will.
I write all this about ‘Chamizal’ with the knowledge that the novel has, sadly, yet to find a publisher. Extracts, however, have been slipping out throughout these past few months in the monthly ‘Alma Asfalto’ journal/newspaper that Flores-Williams has been putting together down in Mexico City. Firmly in the tradition of the radical or alternative presses of the past, it is heartening to see such things continuing in existence, particularly in these times. For those of us who might be slipping out the further edges of middle age into something more advanced there can perhaps be something a little ‘oh this again’ about some of the content, but this is me being particularly grumpy and twisted. And when I give that grumpy old geezer that I see in the mirror a good kick up the arse, there is also much that is ‘new’ to discover: a piece about photographer Tina Modetti (and the capitalist hijacking of her legacy); a ‘reappraisal’ of ‘Easy Rider’; a lovely personal recollection of Gregory Corso. And in particular an interview with Sunny War, a musician whose work would likely have continued to pass me by were it not for stumbling on the interview with her in the October issue. It’s a short piece and fairly bleak, but in many ways that’s the tone of ‘Alma Asfalto’ and of ‘Chamizal’. One key exchange between the interviewer (who I assume to be Flores-Willams) and Sunny War regarding living within the dystopian Trump regime goes like this:
Q: I grew up with a father in prison in the barrio, so nothing about what’s happening shocks me.
A: Yeah. They’ve been terrorizing the whole world for years, and they owned slaves and continue to own
slaves in the prison system. So what am I supposed to expect from them?
Q: How do you personally maintain a sense of meaning in this?
A: I think of life as a jail sentence and death as the release… when I was young I believed in people, but I lost hope in humanity. Now I just think, I’ll wait till I die. I don’t want to be part of it anymore… when you’re naturally empathetic, everything is pain. We’re all supposed to care about each other, but now that’s almost dangerous because it’s
overwhelming how bad things are…. you can go insane thinking about it. There’s guilt – “I need to do something” – but then you feel powerless, and it’s chaos going back and forth in your mind. Now I just think, I’ll wait till I die.
Q: Yeah, I’m 55 now, and the thought that I don’t have to keep doing this much longer actually makes my day sometimes.
A: [Audibly laughs.]
Q: What role does culture play in it?
A: Culture is a way to cope.
I’m not at all sure that I buy into the “life is a jail sentence and death a release” vibe, but I think I understand where it’s coming from. Certainly though this notion of culture being a way to cope is valuable and I think perhaps eternal. Earlier in the interview Sunny War describes herself as ‘just playing folk music’ and that is a great line because it simultaneously deflects notions of artistic self-importance whilst subtly suggesting the vast, important possibilities that lie within the realm of a medium which is inherently conservative, traditional and revolutionary in its scope. The title of Sunny War’s album from this year, ‘Armageddon In A Summer Dress’ suggests this duality and the songs held within deliver in spades. As with ‘Chamizal’ there is a ravishing darkness about the album that is oddly captivating and enormously rewarding. I cannot recommend either enough.
Check out Alma Asfalto on the streets of Mexico City, or online here: https://almaasfalto.com
If you are a publisher or literary agent I encourage you to contact Jason Flores-Williams and to give ‘Chamizal’ the publication it deserves.