Marcel Proost to review Hallelujah Junction

So I run into Marcel Proost this morning at Schreiner’s Tool and Repair Shop in Anchor Bay. They are talking about the forthcoming abalone season. Ed Schreiner just bought a new neoprene wetsuit and he had it hanging on a clothesline by his dog kennel. Marcel was admiring it.

Ed used to be County Sheriff, but now he’s semi-retired. Although he’s sixty-eight he still dives for abalone in the tricky, dangerous surf along the coast here. And each year he and his wife go on a big game hunting expedition. On the wall inside his garage are snapshots of him standing with his gun over all sorts of poor, dead animals.

Marcel looks at me and gives me one of those “size you up” smiles, which of course suggests that he knows something that will make me uncomfortable.

“I see your book just came out in paperback. I just got my review copy,” he says to me. “Gonna write it up for the ICO.”

Marcel, as I think I’ve mentioned, has just started writing a music column for our local paper. He’s a very severe critic, a fan of Brian Ferneyhough and Credence Clearwater Revival, but unfortunately he is not an admirer of my music.

“Yeah, so what do you think,” I ask him, wondering if his take on “Hallelujah Junction” is going to ruin my career as a writer.

“I give it two stars outta five.”

“Ah, Marcel, you just want to be like those London reviewers with their dippy one-to-five star ratings.”

“Well, John, the book could be better. To begin with, there are no musical examples. It’s clear you wrote it for the general reader, dumbing down the complexity of the musical issues.”

“Come on, Marcel, you can’t even read music, for chrissake.”

“On the contrary, John, that makes me eminently qualified to pass critical judgment on it.”

“Well, it’s a memoir, an autobiography.”

“Yeah, well, there are some very fishy anecdotes in this book that I find highly suspicious.”

At the mention of the word “fishy” I see Ed Schreiner is suddenly listening.

“What is this story about them finding a human skeleton in the attic above your bedroom when you were a little boy, back there in New Hampshire?”

“Honest, Marcel, it’s the truth. The chimney cleaner found it hidden in the eaves. I ain’t making this up.”

“And, another thing, John. You take issue with The Man—the great scholar and musicologist. How dare you respond in print to his trenchant analysis? His vast historical perspective, implacable certainties and extremely loud voice ought to make you bow down in respectful silence. As a music critic myself, it is my duty to genuflect before him.

“He certainly gets worked up over you, John. How do you feel when you read what he says about you?”

“How does it feel? Not great. Historians are well-equipped with hindsight, but more often than not they prove clueless when it comes to judging the present. Furthermore, he’s got a hare up his ass when it comes to the political stuff. He even goes after his own cash cow, old Igor. I see even the New York Times doesn’t invite him to grace their pages anymore.”

“Well I grant you that. But we music reviewers go faint and drop to our knees at the mere mention of his name. You better watch out, or your place in history will be forever besmirched, John, if it isn’t already.”

He flashes that knowing, devilish grin at me, and I am reminded that Obamacare doesn’t include dental insurance.

“And ah…this story about the beagles being hired to sniff out termites in your house. You gotta be dicking with your readers here, John.”

“No, that’s the truth, too. I swear.”

“Well, I’m going to have to tell it like it is in my review. But first I’m heading down to Los Angeles to cover a few of those West Coast/Left Coast concerts there at that swanky new Disney Hall. I hear they got Paul Dresher and Leila Josefowicz on the same program.

I know Marcel thinks Leila Josefowicz is extra hot, especially when she gets out her six-string electric violin and wails on it. Marcel is even willing to sit through “The Dharma at Big Sur” just so he can watch her play.

“See you there. I’m gonna take my Harley down Route 101. Stop at Big Sur and check out the view and see if indeed your musical evocation of it has anything going for it. Got my copy of Kerouac to read on the way.”

I can see that Ed Schreiner is taking his elephant gun down off the rack to show it to Marcel, so I say goodbye. As I leave, I am wondering whether I might be able to intercept all the copies of next week’s edition before people can see Marcel’s review, which promises to be a scorcher.