I first read "Let the Great World Spin" fresh out of college during a typically dolorous time of working food service despite having a degree, poking through Good Wills in search of the Real Deal. I had never heard of McCann - picked up the book like all the other suckers because of the National Book award endorsement - and quickly found a voice all my own, undusty with academia, each sentence pulsating and lyrical and of the now.
"Songdogs" never reaches the dizzying heights of "Let the Great World Spin," but it's one magnificent first novel, one that anyone should feel proud of, despite my initial apprehensions.
The thing is real slim: large font and small pages and bottom margins fit for taking notes in. But, one of Pharaoh's lean calves it is not. McCann stacks and packs the first hundred pages with memories and very little dialogue, which equals a slower, richer read. I thought I had the story pegged as a Gatsby-esque quest-to-understand-great-person - because,to my credit, the novel opens this way. A son revisits his wretchedly aged father (this novel scores high on the OH GOD-ometer, meaning it's incredibly gross at points: farting, peeing in the tea-cup in the sink, men reaching through the hole in their overcoats so they can masturbate in public, toothless men, hemorrhoids and mirrors; there's no airbrushing of anything, it's like the anti-Precious Moments. It's like Precious Moments if Precious Moments were a series of figurines about your aging father's gout)
- where was I? -
a son revisiting his WRETCHEDLY aging father, inter-spliced with stories of WHEN MAN WAS GREAT. This is an incredibly common narrative device. Most writers bear intense insight but have less than exotic lives. And as readers, we can understand the average-person-narrator and share in their fascination of the GREAT PERSON. If the narrator were the GREAT PERSON, that might be interesting, but then again, the having of greatness and the articulation of it are often two very different skill sets. But at least with the example of Gatsby, Nick's interactions happen in real time, and so Gatsby carries forward Nick's less than fascinating life. But in "Songdogs," all the exotic things happen in the past, and I found myself - at first - mostly wanting the camera to cut away from the narrator. But, NO SPOILERS, McCann inverts this convention excellently, and I found myself quite moved by this story of fathers and sons and the gulf between them.
Like any McCann novel, Songdogs contains a real banquet of startling phrases and how-the-hell-did-he-think of this type details. I kept imaging myself in front of a blank page, wondering from what cistern I would draw all of these experiences from. I've read interviews where McCann suggests to "write what you don't know," and his globe-trotting novels normally take this advice as sacrosanct, however, I couldn't help but see the young author's own experience in the pages. McCann himself took a tour of America by bicycle in the 90's and spent time in places like Wyoming. This is far from Roman a Clef, but it still contains more of his raw experience, from my mind.
The novel raises many questions, but like all good art, provide few answers. How tethered are we to place? Why do we find the past so much more captivating than the present? Where did we go wrong? Is there any hope for us in this beautiful, absurd world? Can we make amends? Like the novel itself, I know I'll tuck a number of things from this book in my pocket, carry them around a while. Follow the dead a spell.