46. Roberto Bolano (redux)

Me on Roberto Bolaño's The Skating Rink at The Cadaverine. (Note: the covers of the new Picador editions of Bolaño's works are pretty repulsive.)

45. John Cage

Me on the retrospective exhibition of John Cage's visual art, Every Day is a Good Day in The Boar.

44. Lydia Davis

Me on The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis in The Boar.

43. This is England '86

Me on Shane Meadows' This is England '86 on the Boar website.

42. B.o.B.

Previously unpublished, written originally for The Boar.

B.o.B - ...Presents: The Adventures of Bobby Ray (Rebel Rock/Grand Hustle/Atlantic)

In which T.I. protegé – read 'deformed auxiliary organ' – B.o.B completes the colonisation of hip-hop by Rock 'n' Rote mediocrity (see: 'Empire State of Mind', Lil' Wayne's Rebirth, the last Akon single, etc.) From the Coldplay-earnest milk-water piano of opener 'Don't Let Me Fall' to the obligatory guest-spots from Rivers Cuomo and Whatsername-from-Paramore – curdling already-flat indie-whines – it reconstructs the hip-hop LP as a frictionless, gurning Jools' Hootenanny, a courting-gift to Respectability, a dead dame hip-hop never cared about. The live instruments that form the basis of most of these songs are deployed as a signifier of Authenticity, the dubious virtue of chaining the form to the sub-standard exertions of Real People – my heart sank and bile rose at the moment when the acoustic guitar and bongoes enter on 'Lovelier Than Thou', the most disciplined, the most inhumanly exciting of genres finally swallowed by the hippy jam.

Rock works as part of hip-hop's omni-tongued sonic language – cf. Public Enemy's 'She Watch Channel Zero' and 'Brothers Gonna Work It Out', Mos Def's The New Danger, Outkast's 'B.O.B.' (ha!) – not as the worn-out body of a halfway-house form that satisfies no-one. The production – clogged and constipated, over-compressed and sluggish in tempo – driven particularly by clumpy rock-kit percussion, and swerving into knuckle-dragging guitar-riffs on 'Magic' – only make it more apparent that B.o.B. has nothing urgent to communicate. The best performances are in fact delivered by guests – a laconic, slithering Lupe Fiasco on 'Past My Shades' (whose subject-matter calls for whomping hyphy production, but receives a soulless boom-bap rhythm only slightly lightened by guitar-squeals) and the master, T.I., relentless and sinuous as ever on 'Bet I'; B.o.B.'s own flow stays stilted, staccato as Big Boi circa Stankonia, but without the ideas. Like most mainstream rappers these days, his idea of affect consists of auto-tuned R&B croons – but even here, he lacks the machine-seduction Prince exhalations of The-Dream, or the alienation-effect auto-tune became on Lil Wayne's 'A Milli'. Once or twice, the fog clears and the production corrects itself – on 'Fame' and 'Fifth Dimensions', where the beats shift into shuffling layers, invested with propulsive energy, and 'Bet I', in which invigoratingly material concerns are matched to airy blasts of electro-texture, wonky synths and a carriage of bare-bone kicks and snares. Otherwise, the entire enterprise is overshadowed by a sense of purposelessness, energy become dead weight – even Janelle Monae, that most pure emanation of the pop Godhead, fails to spark 'The Kids', and Eminem's guest-rap on the closing reprise of 'Airplanes' is self-parodic in its impotent rage. Like the last Kelis album – a.k.a. Disappointment of the Year – this is just the sound of the modern R&B industry furiously eating itself.

41. Ian Jack

Review of Ian Jack's The Country Formerly Known As Great Britain (Jonathan Cape, 2009) at The Boar.

40. A Question of Consent

Piece on Roman Polanski and his misdeeds, written for my course. See also: Jenny Diski, in the LRB, and Maureen Freely in The Guardian. With thanks to Petra Davis for the pointers in the right direction.

It’s a strange business, all told. For Roman Polanski, exiled from the US and making – until 2004's Oscar-winning The Pianist – decidedly sub-par films for the past thirty-two years, the burden of his past has remained curiously obscure. Friends ask, “What are you writing about?”

“The, um, the whole Roman Polanski thing”, I reply. At which point there's a slight lift of eyebrow, and a brief “Oh” of recognition. This is followed either by the usual change of subject or an enquiry as to “what you think about it”. At which point I think of the details, in all their knottiness, and give a non-committal “Hmm” rather than risk surprising – or worse, boring – my interlocutor. We all, it seems, know what “the Roman Polanski thing” is, until asked to talk specifics. As for what we think of it: everyone seems to have an opinion.

Shortly after his arrest on 26 September last year, in Zurich, where he had arrived to accept a lifetime achievement award from the city's film festival, figures from every part of the media called for his release, commended the Swiss authorities for giving him his comeuppance, or reflected with amusement on how his films – with their themes of sexual brutality and obsession, most notably the Satanic rape-drama Rosemary’s Baby (1968) – had allegedly presaged his downfall. Most prominent on the media agenda was a petition demanding that he be given his liberty, written by the French philosopher Bernard Henri-Lévy and signed by, among others, Paul Auster, Milan Kundera, Salman Rushdie, Mike Nichols and Neil Jordan. It outlined the themes Polanski's defenders would continually return to: his respectability, public standing, and his body of work as “an ingenious film-maker”; his unfortunate history as a Polish survivor of the Holocaust and Stalinism; the distance in time from the original infraction for which he'd been apprehended.

Moreover, they suggested that the original conviction was essentially immaterial: the case was, as the petition put it, “a politico-legal imbroglio”, and nothing else. After all, they pointed out, the plaintiff, Samantha Gailey (née Geimer), publicly stated that she didn't want to see his sentence enforced, that she wanted to “put the case behind her”. Whoopi Goldberg, speaking up for Polanski, supplied perhaps the best quote of the whole debacle: “It wasn't rape-rape.” Who then, his defenders ask, has been violated? Now, can we please stop with the handwringing and get back to normal?

***

One absorbed so much contradictory opinion in the days after Polanski's arrest that to make up one's mind seemed not only unfeasible, but unconscionable. Everyone in the case was damaged: Samantha Geimer, at the centre of a high-profile rape case at thirteen, had her person and dignity violated, and her showbusiness ambitions ruined; if Polanski was imprisoned (his original sentence extended for skipping bail in 1978 and fleeing for Paris), it would almost certainly be the end of his career. You heard what seemed reasonable grounds for non-prosecution, mitigating circumstances: one, mentioned by the Los Angeles Times' Patrick Goldstein, was the lack of public interest vested in the case – the pursuit of an ageing film-maker for a thirty-year-old crime by the LA County District Attorney's office, at the taxpayer's expense and “at a time when California is shredding the safety net that protects the poor and the unemployed, not to mention the budget of the public school system”, seemed especially petty. Then there was the infamous sex-and-drugs culture of Hollywood in the 60s and 70s: the case was almost parodically typical of “the sort of thing people do in LA”, down to the details of the champagne and Quaalude that Polanski gave Geimer, and the hot-tub, in Jack Nicholson's house of all places, where the offence occurred. These sorts of things, you heard, happened all the time, and people, shielded from the LAPD by the invisible privilege of Hollywood, weren't prosecuted for it. Polanski had already experienced 'Hollywood Babylon' at its sourest, in the death of his wife, Sharon Tate, in the Manson murders of 1969. Perhaps most egregious of all, it was, one heard, a publicity stunt: given the frequency of sex-crime convictions for those who are not internationally famous film-makers, the zeal with which the Swiss and Californian authorities went after Polanski smacked of example-making, of prosecution for the sake of it.

Goldberg’s insistence that Polanski’s act was “not rape-rape” is worth re-examining, and not just for its unintentional hilarity. A number of online and newspaper commentators got into something of a froth over it, suggesting that she was diminishing the seriousness of what he had done. She meant, correctly, that the conviction hanging over Polanski's head was not for statutory rape, but for “unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor”. But in a sense those who raised their voices against Goldberg hit on the unconscious point of his apologists' arguments. They all admitted – Polanski included, having entered a negotiated guilty plea at the original trial – that yes, he'd had oral, vaginal and anal sex with a thirteen-year-old girl against her will – she had, she testified to the grand jury, shouted “No” – but that it didn't really matter.

The question of selectivity is a curious one. The same reasons his defenders gave for his release – his public profile as a film-maker – were apparently the same as the police and courts' for putting pressure on his case: it was impossible for him to publicly and legally run away from a past misdeed so well-known. In Against Our Will, her historical and social study of rape, published in 1975, two years before Polanski’s misdeed, Susan Brownmiller breaks down the statistics on rape convictions, and describes in stark detail the judicial culture surrounding it at the time. Polanski was, if not exceptional, not part of the largest percentile when it came to the characteristics of rape: most incidents occurred in the lower economic strata of society, victims tended to be of the same social class as their attacker (Geimer, while white and middle-class, wasn’t part of Hollywood’s film-aristocracy), and in fifty-three percent of cases the attacker was a total stranger to the victim. It was also the case that the vast majority of reported rapes did not reach conviction: in studies it was found probably half of all rape complaints were declared “unfounded” by the police; in New York City in 1971, less than ten percent of rape arrests resulted in going before the grand jury, and less than a fifth of these resulted in trial and conviction. The notorious difficulty faced by women suffering rape meant that “four out of five rapes go unreported”. Polanski’s conviction – and, perhaps, his singling-out for enforced conviction – was not evidence of some legal persecutory complex, but an indictment of a justice system essentially at one with the men who commit rape. And it’s a testament to the collective lack of imagination among Polanski’s defenders that they were unable to square his directing abilities with the fact of his being a simple brute.

***

What was most curious about the Henri-Lévy petition was not the fact that its signatories were well-heeled liberals, who would normally be expected to look unkindly on rape (such types look after their own), but that they included a number of women – the French actresses Isabelle Adjani, Isabelle Huppert and Arielle Dombasle, French film-maker Danièle Thompson, Belgian fashion-designer Diane von Furstenberg. The business of women – well-educated and modern, bohemian women at that – putting out apologias for rape would have been ironically amusing if it weren’t so abjectly depressing. Edging the complaints aired in the petition was the suggestion that behind the authorities' actions was the need to kowtow to 'political correctness' on the issue of sexual violence – it was the fault of those meddling feminists again.

The generation of Huppert, et al were the first to be affected by the political and social achievements of the American and European women’s movement: their ability to pursue their creative careers, to determine the course of their own lives, were won through years of collective action – action that, amongst other objectives, sought to remake the world into one in which rape would be understood and treated as what it was: a criminal violation of another person's being. Not, of course, that the law and the allegedly civilised didn’t pay lip service to this notion beforehand: as Brownmiller noted, there had been certainly enough tales of female martyrdom involving rape. In the real world this wasn't how it played out. The Californian police manual of the time confidently stated that “[f]orcible rape is one of the most falsely reported crimes. The majority of 'second-day reported' rapes are not legitimate”, while studies undertaken without the intervention of male police-officers found that “only 2 percent of all rape complaints are false – about the same false-report rate that is usual for other kinds of felonies”. Rape trials, in which oath was set against oath, consisted largely of public muck-raking over the 'moral character' of the victim, the law structurally tilted against them.

Brownmiller’s text is studded with excerpts of testimony from rape victims taken at public meetings and conferences held by feminist groups throughout the early 1970s; we find a litany of brush-offs, insults and nonchalant sex-jokes from police-officers – “The cop looked at me and said, 'Aw, who'd want to rape you?'” – and witch-trial assaults in court – “I looked like I was the one on trial”. The result was an official and public silence on rape obscuring the dismal truth of how it was treated, a silence that feminist 'speak-outs' sought to break, airing the reality of rape as experienced by its victims – of legal inaction, of constant, all-enclosing fear, of scars, night-sweats, shattered lives, murder – and the vast extent of the crimes, a silence that was instrumental in perpetuating it. It was for the same reason that, in 1976, Nikki Craft and the Kitty Genovese Women's Group (named after the 28 year-old New Yorker raped and murdered in 1964 while her entire neighbourhood apparently looked on) gained access to and published the name of every man indicted for sex-crimes in Texas since 1960, many of whom had gotten off scot-free to re-offend, and were still in the community. As Seven Days' Jayne Loader reported, “[m]any women saw the names of their own friends or former lovers... Several found that they had been raped by the same man. One particularly grisly incident stood out: the former lover of one woman was alleged to have raped the 10-year-old daughter of another during a burglary.” By identifying known threats, by excavating fact, they sought to place power back in the hands of women, to adjust a system fundamentally designed to protect rapists; as Craft herself put it, “this society has failed to deal with rape, and women must.” By giving voice to the experience hidden within the opaqueness and silence of statistics, feminists hoped that the Samantha Geimers of this world wouldn't have to live at the mercy of what Brownmiller called “effective agents of terror”.

But that, as Polanski's defenders remind us, was then. There is a story to be told about the assault on feminism under neo-liberal capitalism over the past thirty years that has been told, more capaciously, by others – most effectively by Susan Faludi in her book Backlash, and by Nina Power in One-Dimensional Woman. What we can say is that, protestations of artistic genius aside, the women who defend Roman Polanski are on the side of brutality and crime, and, it would appear, congenitally unable to see where their interests, and where the balance of justice, lies – and that they are not the only ones. According to recent research by the sexual assault referral-centre group Haven, seventy-one percent of women believe a rape-victim should accept partial responsibility if she got into bed with her attacker; thirty-one percent consider her to blame if she wore revealing clothing, while twenty-two percent think the same if she had had numerous sexual partners. This cultural regression to the 1950s has been matched by rape-conviction statistics that would appear to have remained static since that decade. Home Office research in 2007 showed that nearly twenty-three percent of women in the UK had been subject to sexual violence and nearly five percent had been raped; an earlier Home Office report stated that only one-third of rape complaints were considered by the Crown Prosecution Service, with twenty percent making it to court, and six percent ending in convictions. If Polanski is being made an example of, it should be to remind us how far we are from achieving even the demands of thirty years ago – for a world in which women's autonomy is recognised, in which Samantha Geimer's “No” finally means no.

39. Chris Petit

Director's cut of a review of Content/profile of Chris Petit, originally published in The Boar.

A windscreen looking out on a grey sky, the tops of tower-blocks peeping out either side of the seemingly endless road. Wipers slip wearily across the glass. A glance, and we tumble back, momentarily, into black-and-white, grainy celluloid – the same road, towers ghost-white. The voice on the soundtrack, which belongs to director Chris Petit, tells us that London's Westway, the elevated motorway cutting through the west of the metropolis, famously memorialised in J.G. Ballard's Crash, that most extreme of modernist fictions, is “a rare example of the modern city London never became”. Now it is “a memory bank of other journeys” – cue fragments of shots from car windows from all over the globe.

The moment, at the start of Petit's new film Content – shown on More4 last month, with a theatrical release to follow – is not so much nostalgia as a haunting. The earlier footage of the Westway comes from Petit's 1979 film Radio On, following its protagonist's road-trip from London to Bristol. The film was poised on the historical brink of the advent of Thatcherite neo-liberalism, which would convert the rotting modernist housing projects into the post-modernist blocks of 'luxury apartments' that Petit frames with the rail of the neglected flyover and clawing tree-limbs. He describes Content as an “informal coda” to Radio On – which means, among other things, it's an attempt to map the distance from the moment that film captured, with all its youthful sorrows, and its now-foreclosed possibilities.

Where Radio On had a proper, if minimal, narrative, Content is closer to what might be called the 'essay film', an 'ambient road movie', following Petit and his son driving along unidentified roads, spliced with memory-footage of other road-trips – through Germany, Poland, America. Its ostensibly documentary footage is set to Petit's ruminative voiceover and interweaved with a disquisition by music-theorist Ian Penman on the nature of email and the transactions of the internet, delivered by German actor Hanns Zischler. The camera listlessly drifts over roadscapes that seem to run to nowhere; German electronic musician Antye Greie’s soundtrack covers the scenes in a melancholic haze of crackle and glitch. Interpolated into the film are Petit's collection of old postcards, mostly from Germany, where, as he mentions in the film, he spent much of his youth, his father being stationed with the occupying Allied forces – images of 1920s cityscapes, space-age buildings, autobahns. Set against this are the anonymous landscapes Petit drives through, caught in the flat light of a digital camera: container docks, industrial estates, blind warehouses, Barrett Homes developments and Prince Charles’ ‘new town’ of Poundbury, which “render architecture redundant by their anonymity”, the architectural correlate to email, untied to geography – “the apotheosis of non-place”. It brings to mind Patrick Keiller’s groundbreaking ‘Robinson’ films, particularly the static road-movie Robinson in Space (1997), and Chris Marker's cinematic meditations on cultural and personal memory, especially Sans Soleil (1983). Both are obsessed with the legacy of modernity and modernism – the terrors of the Second World War and Cold War, but also cinema, industry, socialism, the promised technological transformation of everyday life. Radio On, with its airwave-whispers of IRA attacks, Baader-Meinhof, endless strikes, and desolate electronic pop, was made in a context where the dream of the 20^th century had not yet, like Petit’s postcards, become obsolete. It’s the persistence of that past, the repressed forcing itself to the surface, which lends the films their melancholia, their spooked edge.

In a certain sense, the British road-movie was always a paradox: the genre belonged with America, its car-culture, frontier myths and vast expanses of road. Radio On was closer to an automotive derive, a back-road drift through the country’s dreams and paranoia. Content takes this further: if the road-movie was the product of modernity – it wasn’t called Fordist capitalism for nothing – then its linearity must be deconstructed, its assurance abandoned. As Petit ruefully notes, “the film-camera and the car both came of age in the 20^th century”, and now both, like Petit himself, feel the burden of age. In the neo-liberal era, the road transforms from an escape-route for the individual, a mobile utopia, to the prime network of capital's agency-less circulation and distribution. The Westway is replaced as the paradigm of the road by the M25: in London Orbital (2002), Petit’s film on the motorway with the novelist and psychogeographical writer Iain Sinclair, the camera grainily watches the passage of lorries and cars from bridges and roadsides like CCTV – passive, impersonal. The endless, raging circle of the orbital motorway matches the pedestrian fugues of the insane in the asylums that lined its passage: as soon as you enter it, you’re trapped.

Two words recur throughout the film: ‘content’ and ‘correspondence’. The former plays on the idea of contentment, of being fulfilled, able to make sense of the world, as one grows older – a hopeless task, the film suggests – and content as in information, the data contained in emails and on postcards, but also the content of everyday life, something which has been depleted in the internet age, as life has been “ironed-out”. The latter plays on the idea of communication between human beings – via the tactile medium of postcards, or email, a medium that leaves us both atomised and strangely more intimate with each other. The internet age has brought with it the condensation of space: landscape, and what traversed it – cars, cards, industry, the whole public sphere – has become obsolete. But it also refers to correspondences in history and memory: the eerie sense that our present lives ‘correspond’ with a past thought vanished, erased – and, in Petit and his son’s case, that he is re-living the life of his own late father. In that sense, the film could be thought of as a more-responsible cinematic version of W.G. Sebald’s The Rings of Saturn: a beautiful, uncompromising refusal of false consolation – and a sombre testament to hope.

38. Field Music

Previously unpublished, originally written for The Boar.

Field Music – Field Music (Measure) (Memphis Industries)

The video for 'Them That Do Nothing', the second song on this 72-minute fourth album, is filmed in the Brewis brothers' native Sunderland, a city left behind by post-industrial 'regeneration' even more thoroughly than neighbouring Newcastle: unkempt streets, empty industrial spaces, dank underpasses. Over a spry rhythm threaded with bright and smartly melodic guitar, they trade, in those unmistakable accents, uncannily familiar sentiments: “Well once we were concerned/Then we grew up to be bored... We tried to stand for nothing/Now there's nothing to stand for”. But (handclaps popping) they remind us that the only solution is to “Get your keys and get to work”, the cryptic but adeptly literate wordspill coalescing for a second like clouds forming recognisable shapes.

They know at least how to take their own advice. After a brief hiatus which saw records by the brothers' solo projects, they've returned with their most ambitious work yet. Field Music take their inspiration from the British art-pop tradition of XTC, Peter Gabriel, Kate Bush: intelligent, polished, oblique, haunted by ideas of what it is to be English, possibilities whose energy courses through these 20 tracks, animated by a sense of drama, cohesion and emotional weight gold-dust rare in the world of landfill-indie. 'Lights Up', slowly rising and exploding, incandescent with strings. 'Effortlessly's unashamedly complex stomp, the ass-wiggle in its riff. The intertwining of the Brewis brothers' voices throughout in wry, eccentric and smart gestures. The queasy synths on 'Let's Write A Book' blurting upward among wah-wah squalls. The way 'Precious Plans' shifts from mantra moving over hypnotic fingerpicking to violin-threaded requiem: “Where are those futureless precious plans/Where we had a place to get to/A place that lasted?”

This record seems to capture what it feels like to be a thinking person in Britain 2010: the irony and crooked humour that gets us through the days; the sense of betrayal; the dread and fits of darkness. By the time you read this, we might well be living under a Tory government. It keeps me up at night: that we've inherited a world without choice, in which hope is not a given but the hardest of burdens; that the best we can expect is so much less than our hearts demand. The last words, before the string-haunted field-recordings – alley-footsteps, backfiring cars – of 'It's About Time', are those of desperation that hopes – that knows – there is still a world to be won: “I have a lot to learn/But I have clung to you.”

37. Xiu Xiu

Review of Xiu Xiu's performance at Taylor John's House, Coventry (the last of their European tour), over at The Boar.

36. Roberto Bolaño

A review of Roberto Bolaño's Nazi Literature in the Americas (Picador, 2010) written for The Boar.

Perhaps it's better to say nothing. Beginning with the English-language publication of The Savage Detectives in 2007, Roberto Bolaño has posthumously gathered acclaim unlike any Latin American writer since Gabriel Garcia Marquez. The English translation of his leviathan posthumous work 2666 became the cult book of last year, and new editions of his earlier works have been rushed out – Nazi Literature In The Americas comes with glowing jacket-puff from Colm Tóibín and John Banville. The backlash has already started: in a Guardian review of Nazi Literature..., Alberto Manguel dismissed the majority of Bolaño's oeuvre as “light, playful experiments, not very successful, with little intelligence and less ambition”. This kind of peevish resentment is the rock to the hard place of a Western literary public famously unable to handle more than one popular foreign writer at a time; with Bolaño safely and romantically dead, it becomes, between the hyperbole of the two, difficult to assess his real achievement.

Well, first off: Nazi Literature... is not among Bolaño's best work. The fascinating, murky depths of 2666 or By Night In Chile (2000) aren't to be found here, and the mock-encyclopedic style restrains the astonishing and sustained writing that powered those books. It's his most humorous work, and his most transparent in its conceit – one that has a long and distinguished lineage in Spanish-language literature, beginning with Borges' numerous fake texts, in particular A Universal History of Infamy, his 1935 catalogue of (semi-)fictional criminals. (It even comes with a bibliography of non-existent texts, making cast-iron an authenticity we already know to be fake.) A succession of mini-biographies of Nazi, nationalist, ultra-Catholic and anti-Semitic writers, it is at times riotous and rollicking in its mordant humour – the travails of Ernesto Pérez Masón, silenced by the Castro regime after OuLiPian acrostics (“LONG LIVE HITLER”) are discovered in his books, are but one example to raise a dry guffaw. But it is not – or not just – satire: Bolaño hits his target – the warped absurdity of right-wing ideology – first time, and then keeps hitting it, long after the audience has gotten the apparent joke.

Importantly, this is a guide not to right-wing culture generally, but to literature: this gallery of fanatics, like most of Bolaño's narrators and principal characters, are obsessed with writing. Or perhaps, rather, writing is obsession – excess, desperation, madness. Many of the undertakings described here are riddled with absurdity and insanity: Edelmira Thompson's Poe's Room, mostly a vast description of the room described in Poe's 'Philosophy of Furniture'; Luiz Fontaine Da Souza's five-volume Critique of Sartre's Being and Nothingness (“his siblings and nephews were obliged to have him interned once again in the clinic”); Harry Sibelius' 1333-page-long speculative history of America under Nazism. In spite of the embitterment, alcoholism, destruction and failure (there's a lot of all of them) what keeps them all going is writing – Argentino Schiaffino, on the run, churning out pamphlets and plays; “the widow Mendiluce” producing books, writing prefaces, financing journals and publishing houses into her dotage. It is a thus a powerful tribute both to the therapeutic aspect of literature – the comforts of bibliomania, the way literature, by remaking the world in integrity, makes it liveable – and its shortcomings. Not only does it fail to help its authors – Luz Mendiluce, a not-exactly-stellar poet, alcoholic, overweight, fascist and a thwarted lesbian, who is typical of the lives of these artists, dies in a car crash that is both bang and whimper: “The explosion was considerable” – but it also fails to change the world.

It's impossible not to note the persistent note of darkness running through the work. It is in part an attempt to negotiate, in perhaps the only way possible, with the with the horrific legacy of Latin America's 20th century, a history so absurd as to be almost beyond satire. That reality hangs in the background of these fictions like a suffocating fog: the dictatorships in Argentina, Brazil, Peru, Haiti, Mexico, Guatemala and, in particular, Bolaño's native Chile, where the democratic socialist Allende government was unseated by a CIA-sponsored coup in 1973; the repression, torture, censorship, poverty, violence, life in a world where civilised values have been utterly rescinded. It intrudes constantly: Edelmira Thompson meets and collaborates with Eva Perón; Masón “figures in the Dictionary of Cuban Authors... which omits Guillermo Cabrera Infante”; two young Colombian poets volunteer for Franco's forces in Spain. In that sense, the book recalls Marquez's Autumn of the Patriarch and Infante's View of Dawn in the Tropics – dealing with the horror through transformation into an aesthetic form just as fragmented and skewed.

One can't help but feel that the individual deficiencies of the authors in Nazi Literature... – haunted, like most writers, by the idea of being no good – is a remnant of the vast political tragedy: the foregrounding of this parade of right-wingers calls up their opposite, and absent, numbers – the silenced, the exiled, the disappeared. The appearance of two left-wing poets in the final chapter makes tangible the void that has always been there, and the painful dialectic between hope and defeat literature is enmeshed with. Literature, Bolaño emphasises, always exists in the shadow of death – one thinks of the scene in By Night in Chile where the narrator attends a literary party while torture occurs in the building's basement; “that is how literature is made in Chile”. We become graphically aware of this in 'The Infamous Ramírez Hoffman', the chapter (later the basis of the novella Distant Star) that comes closest to home for Bolaño – it deals with the Pinochet coup and is, in fact, narrated by the author. Hoffman is a young pilot and poet who sky-writes fascistic verse, and then disappears after a scandal over a photographic exhibition. This Kurtzian void – a fugitive existing only in rumour, apparently lacking any motive for his horrific crimes – is the novel's dark heart: a vexed inconclusion, an acknowledgement that literature, for all its weight of pain, is worth cherishing in our desperation. This book's strange pleasures prove again Bolaño's work among that worth saving.

35. Kate Bush

A re-appreciation of Kate Bush's Hounds of Love, first published in The Boar.

Kate Bush Hounds of Love (EMI, 1985)

This isn't about us. The greatest pop reconfigures yr nervous system, implants false memories, but always exceeds you: it gives us other narratives, other untold-of possibilities, other worlds, that remain inside us like ghosts. The expression Kate Bush achieved on Hounds Of Love (1985) is intensely personal, even esoteric, and the listener's response – this listener's, anyway – is no less so, but both still spiral out into constellations of experience; it is precisely the depth of this journey into the personal that allows it to expand into the universal. Its fractured narratives – the two sides, titled 'Hounds of Love' and 'The Ninth Wave' , the latter of which itself forms a kind of conceptual sequence narrated by the half-consciousness of a drowning woman, a gloriously strange counterpart to the hit parade of the first – together form an oblique totality more comparable to a feminist Waste Land than most pop.

It represents, indeed, a point where the language of pop exceeds its prosaic, everyday use and enters the realm of poetry. The syn-drums, throbbing electronics, borderline-OTT guitar solos and soaring vocals that marred so many mid-80s power-ballads reappear throughout – made alien, as if heard for the first time. So it is that opener and No. 1 single 'Running Up That Hill', beginning from a synth-tone like cold dawn breaking and processional drum-machine, spirals into ecstatic throes like the universe opening up overhead, just as does the euphoric 'Big Sky'. The title-track feeds Angela Carter through New Pop, accessing a feminine sexuality at once assertive and naïve, afraid of its own power, seemingly excavated from folk-memory; Bush bursts, at the whiplash of strings and percussion, into glossolalia – “a Dadaist postscript to 'Reynard The Fox'”, as Marcello Carlin puts it. The album plunges further into Freudian psychodrama with the disturbing 'Mother Stands For Comfort' (Joy Division's 'I Remember Nothing' remade as a domestic drama), and the graceful, controlled surge of 'Cloudbusting'.

'The Ninth Wave' follows like a long plunge in icy water, a disappearance into the other world promised by the first side, anticipating all of pop's future potential languages in one glorious conglomeration – and, indeed, outdoing most 'experimental' music of the next twenty years in daring and strangeness. Bush had received, through Peter Gabriel, a Fairlight sampler, then the technological cutting-edge, used the previous year to disorientating effect on Art of Noise's 'Close (To The Edit)' - resulting in the sampled voices, Morse code bleeps, cut-up vocals and breakbeats threaded throughout 'The Ninth Wave', anticipating, by a number of years, the sampledelic hip-hop of Paul's Boutique and the Bomb Squad's Public Enemy productions. 'Waking The Witch' feeds disco and electro through the cut-up of William Burroughs and John Cage; 'Watching You Without Me' presages both the scarred and skipping melodies of Fennesz' Endless Summer and the R&Bollywood trend of the early 00s. But there's nothing drily technical about its jouissance: this purgatorial drama yielding to the undeniable blood-rush of 'Jig of Life' and the summer-morning spryness of 'The Morning Fog' feels like rebirth, like the beginning of a future – for her, for us all.

There is far more here than can be encapsulated in this space – and this is, perhaps, exactly what has allowed the album to stand alone, outstripping all of Bush's progeny in advance. The media has finally opened up to female artists – but only a certain kind, yr Florences and Marinas, 'eccentric', 'passionate', still happy to play the enigmatic (and ultimately subordinate) female Other, all bastardising the language coined here 25 years ago. Michael Bracewell's condescending description of Bush as “pop's... mad girl in the attic” makes clear the problem she presents: a female artist so excessively, effortlessly inventive, so brazenly open and complex in her explorations of dream, memory and sexuality, so ruthlessly ahead of the game, can only make the prissy little boys of critic-land afraid. This album is everything we still need, and so much more.