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Heartbreak
Hotel: A Tribute to the King in Verse
Jeremy Reed
London: Orion Books, 2002.
£12.99, 250 pages, ISBN 0-75285-159-4.
Georges-Claude Guilbert
Université de Rouen
I first stumbled across Jeremy Reed in one of the English / American
bookshops of the left bank in Paris. The novel was hidden away on
the bottom shelf of a dusty bookcase and its title caught my eye;
it was called Diamond Nebula (1994). I quickly found this was
an author after my own heart: postmodern without being hermetic, with
obvious enthusiasm for David Bowie, Marilyn Monroe, Andy Warhol, and
mostly J.G. Ballard. I dont mean the regrettably mainstreamed
Ballard of recent years, the Ballard of the somewhat banal Empire
of the Sun (1984) or the boring Super-Cannes (2000), no,
I mean the good old Ballard of such subversive jewels as The Atrocity
Exhibition (1970) or Crash (1973). Go back to the
books, dont trust the movies adapted from his worksthough
David Cronenberg is perhaps more commendable than Steven Spielberg
in that respect (in the same way, Philip K. Dicks work back
in the fifties and early sixties was light years ahead of its time
and immensely powerful, now hes constantly plagiarized in American
and European movies and sometimes adaptedBlade Runner,
Screamers, Confessions dun barjot, Total Recall,
Minority Reportbut dont trust the movies, get the
books).
The voice connected with her as David Bowies Sound and
Vision, one of the elliptical montage-effect lyrics from his
mid-seventies Berlin period. [
] Cindy couldnt locate
the source of the music. There was no indication of a human presence.
[
] Inside, her eye was arrested by an open photograph album.
[
] David Bowie at the Rainbow Theatre, 1972; at the LA Forum
in 1976; Hiroshima, 1973; LA Amphitheatre, 1974; Wembley, 1976: the
images seeming to have been chosen for their visual diversity and
metamorphoses. Over the page were weirdly angled shots of Ballard
getting into his car at Shepperton after the publication of Crash;
and then the publicity photographs of him that had appeared on the
jackets of High-Rise and Myths of the Near Future, together
with a series of solarized images in the manner of Man Ray, in which
the writers head was superimposed on Brancusi sculptures. Cindy
flicked through the obsessive preoccupations: Warhol screened by black
glasses on a couch at the Factory, and then seen filming Edie Sedgwick
and Gino Persicho in Beauty 2; and a few pages on, isolated,
filming Chelsea Girls.
Of course, it helps if you know exactly what Reed is talking about.
Presumably, people like me, who share most of his obsessive
preoccupations, will find his fiction more congenial than, say,
people who listen to classical music exclusively and favor Turner
over Lichtenstein.
After Id read Diamond Nebula, I bought some of Reeds
previous books. He is an extraordinarily prolific author; does this
man ever get any sleep? In Delirium (1991), he interprets
Rimbaud; the sort of perception which Rimbaud would have recognized,
wrote Robert Nye perceptively in The Guardian. In When the
Whip Comes Down (1992) he interprets the Marquis de
Sade. In Isidore (1991), Reed interprets Lautréamont.
Lipstick, Sex and Poetry (1991) is a suitably-named autobiographical
piece about his early days. But Reed has also published at least eight
poetry books (often well-received and prize-winning), including the
very unusual Red-Haired Android (1992), about aliens, gender-bending
and rock n roll; if the title immediately makes you think
of Bowie in the early seventies, youre on the right track. Reeds
Red Eclipse (1989) features the imaginary notebooks of Charles
Baudelaires mistress Jeanne Duval. His Dorian (1997)
is an interesting sequel to Oscar Wildes The Picture of Dorian
Gray, absolutely not to be mistaken for Will Selfs recent
Dorian (2002), which is a perplexing rewrite of the same. His
Sadean erotic novels, such as Sister Midnight (1997) dont
impress me so much, admittedly, but they are not without merits, as
such things go.
Moreover, Reed has written fine rock biographies of Brian Jones, Scott
Walker, and Marc Almond. In The Last Star: A Study of Marc Almond
(1995), he elevates the art of biography to rare idiosyncratic levels,
like Wayne Koestenbaum, whose books have been reviewed in Cercles,
and whom Reed actually quotes (great minds think alike):
[
] Almonds version of Eartha Kitts spiky narrative
of revenge, The Heel, also saw him adopt a womans
role to convey the songs classic tale of jealousy and betrayal.
The exercise in gender transference had never sounded so authentic.
Almond was heard committing hedonistic regicide in order to adopt
a divas tragic identification. Disturb gender, and you
disturb temporality; accept the androgyne, and you accept the abyss,
Wayne Koestenbaum tells us in The Queens Throat.
Almond and Reed share many passions: David Bowie, the Marquis de Sade,
Jean Genet, Oscar Wilde, Georges Bataille, J.G. Ballard, Derek Jarman,
Scott Walker, Jacques Brel, Charles Baudelaire, Arthur Rimbaud, Federico
Garcia Lorca, Jean Cocteau, and especially J.K. Huysmans. What
is it like to be a torch singer?, asks Reed, Is it so
very different from being a poet? At any rate, this particular
poet and this particular torch singer often plunge their readers /
listeners into the same sleazy delectable Camp. And incidentally,
Almond has also published very acceptable poetry, in addition to a
gripping autobiography, Tainted Life (1999).
Elvis Presley, however, gets no mention in Tainted Life, and
as far as I know Almond has never slipped any Presley number between
a Juliette Greco song and a Charles Aznavour cover. But in Heartbreak
Hotel, Reed shows unbounded enthusiasm for the King. Or perhaps
enthusiasm isnt quite the right word. Reed knows
a monumental pop culture icon when he sees one. This book is hard
to classify; it is a biography as much as it is a novel or a collection
of poems. I suppose it could simply be called a book about Elvis in
verse, without the semi-playful allusions to the surrealists of Reeds
previous poetry (the dust cover announces a tribute to the King
in verse). I wonder how his faithful British poetry-loving readers
will react to it. I myself would without hesitation recommend it to
anyone wishing to celebrate the Kings deaths twenty-fifth
anniversary in style; it makes a superb present for inconsolable fans.
Reed notably celebrates (sometimes in the first person singular) Elviss
endearing white-trashiness, his bad taste, and his raven black pompadour-styled
hair. He evokes each key episode of his career, from the humble beginnings
to the Las Vegas excesses, via the mythic Sun Studios; he conjures
up his dead brother, his mother, his entourage in general. He also
pauses now and again to take a stroll with James Dean, John Lennon,
the Rolling Stones, even Liberace (who had much more in common with
Elvis than many diehard Elvis fans are willing to acknowledge), or,
unsurprisingly, David Bowie (Major Toms cremated ashes
buried in deep space).
Here are some samples:
Dust as the Souths ubiquitous dry surf,
Arkansas, Nashville, a pink Cadillac
sidles with schmaltz ostentation across
a ranch-gapped landscape. When a tyre pops,
a mean hood in silver-spurred bikers boots,
his Clairol-black pompadour part-collapsed,
moons by the car, holding a teddy-bear
won at a local carnival. [
] [8]
Stage-dressings a two-hour ritual,
doing his hair makes inroads on ennui,
hes suddenly all hes got,
narcissistic about a wicked pimple,
learning to do thin-highwayed eyeliner. [10]
Well meet each other the B-side
of lifehell be my guardian at the end,
grabbing my hand to cross the one-way bridge. [12]
Here are some characteristic poem titles: Five Fan Letters from
Elvis to Jesus Christ, Elvis Eyes a Jam Donut, Boredom
as Big and Blue as the Sky, Dancing On Hot Red Lips, My
Love, Elviss Anti-Ageing Policies, Freaky
Obsessions, Elvis Does Some Coffin-Testing. The
whole book is at the same time a contribution to and an examination
of Elviss legacy. The King has, after all, changed the face
of pop cultureif not the worldforever.
Cercles©2002
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