Slumberland

by Paul Beatty

"DJ Darky has created the perfect beat. But his sonic Mona Lisa needs one last touch of genius, and only one man can provide it: Charles Stone, an avant garde jazzman nicknamed the Schwa because his sound, like the indeterminate vowel, is unstressed, upside down, and backward." There's only one problem: nobody knows where the reclusive Schwa is hiding out. This is, until a porn producer hands Darky the most beautiful, transformative score he's ever heard. The return address is simply "Slumberland Bar, Berlin." Convinced the music couldn't have been created by anyone but the Schwa, Darky sets off to Germany to search of his artistic - and spiritual - other. Before long, he loses himself in the dreamy streets of Berlin in the period surrounding the fall of the Wall, ruminating about race, sex, love, Teutonic gods, the prevent defense, and the rise and fall of the black man, while trying to locate the Schwa and make sense of the changing world around him.

Genres: Fiction, Music, Humor, Novels, African American, Literary Fiction, African American Literature

241 pages, Paperback

First published June 10, 2008

About the author

Paul Beatty (born 1962 in Los Angeles) is a contemporary African-American author. Beatty received an MFA in creative writing from Brooklyn College and an MA in psychology from Boston University. He is a 1980 graduate of El Camino Real High School in Woodland Hills, California.

In 1990, Paul Beatty was crowned the first ever Grand Poetry Slam Champion of the Nuyorican Poets Cafe. One of the prizes for winning that championship title was the book deal which resulted in his first volume of poetry, Big Bank Takes Little Bank. This would be followed by another book of poetry Joker, Joker, Deuce as well as appearances performing his poetry on MTV and PBS (in the series The United States of Poetry). In 1993, he was awarded a grant from the Foundation for Contemporary Arts Grants to Artists Award.

His first novel, The White Boy Shuffle received a positive review in The New York Times, the reviewer, Richard Bernstein, called the book "a blast of satirical heat from the talented heart of black American life." His second book, Tuff received a positive notice in Time Magazine. Most recently, Beatty edited an anthology of African-American humor called Hokum and wrote an article in The New York Times on the same subject.

Reviews

[Fabian · Rating 3 out of 5]

Not as inaccessible as one might expect from a poet. & more playful than the prose acrobatics these individuals usually choose to suffuse their novels with.

All the musicality, the adjectives of sound, only barely get to touch upon the Black experience in Berlin Wall-era Berlin--it's more about the music than about the individual. Indeed, in attempting to paint a proper portrait of it, of this time, place, individual, we only get minor snatches of German influence. As if lost in time, I cannot help but feel that there is something way too contemporary in this tale about some DJ working at a joint called "Slumberland" in the roaring' 80's.

[Cody · Rating 1 out of 5]

Fuck. This. Book.

Listen: I know fuckall about literature compared to virtually anyone reading this—I just read a lot. There is one thing in this world that I do know very well: music—how to play it and as it has been recorded by others. My entire life has been dominated by music, hoarding records and amassing a small flotilla of instruments, to such a degree that I make no bones about it being my one true love (non-human variety). This bio is necessary to establish my POV on Beatty’s work here and, well, it ain’t pretty.

Paul Beatty writes about music exactly like someone that doesn’t play. Problem is, his protagonist is an audio-omnivore DJ that can, fuck me, identify the key that a book being thumbed through is in. I’m gonna opt not to commit the many sins he does in this wreck of a novel and forego name dropping bullshit. But as I worked for years at both rehearsal and recording studios when younger, suffice it to say I’ve been around thousands of players, people insanely successful and others that just play for its own sake. I dropped out of high school at 15, equal parts the impossibility of playing in Hollywood and environs a few times during the week and the drinky-poo involved with it. By the nature of the work and my being in bands, I shot the shit with everyone (not everyone worth knowing, by any means; indicating all stripes and strata). Guess what no one—in the history of fucking creation—ever talked like? Beatty. No one has ever said to or around me that the ‘rondo in D should have the tonic chord above it, with x playing a flattened fifth below.’ You know why? Because it’s fucking bullshit! It doesn’t MEAN anything other than Beatty having a passing memory of a glossary of musical terms. I’m assuming this jazz is modal, and Locrian, so the flatted fifth is Ab. Here’s how any player in the real world says the same thing: ‘Play the refrain/riff/main bit in D; [looking at person] play an Ab.’ Done. If anyone spoke like Beatty, no music would ever be made because people would constantly beating the living shit out of each other. That is, if anyone could stop laughing at the person trying to sound like the collected works of Hal Leonard. He actually writes this:

“I tried to wrap my mind around the drumming, but Irrawaddy went into this flimflam paradiddle sextuple ratatap, and the tenuous grip I had on sanity and the tune were broken. Thirty more seconds of her impeccable drum work caused my ego to slide off an inverted ratamacue in the obstinato voice as if it were a wet, slippery, moss-covered river rock in an Appalachian class-five rapid. Barely”

Obstinato!

This must be his take on ‘ostinato.’ ‘Obstinato’ is not a term in music—formal or informal. In fact, it’s not even a real word. It’s what people that overhear shit say to sound ‘musical.’ You know what sounds musical? Music!

Or: “flimflam paradiddle sextuple ratatap.” Does. Not. Mean. Shit. It’s just a collection of terms generally associated with drumming, save sextuple. Flimflam? Does that mean brushes? Ratatap? More bullshit, though I’d be interested to have Beatty explain how that onomatopoeia translates in practical terms. Shit, I wanna meet the person that can play paradiddles in sextuplets! That’s some goddamn mastery of rudiments.

I could tear this thing in pieces all day and night. His fucking ENDLESS references to musicians is insufferable and pretentious. It’s a dick contest for a dude that shows how little of an obscurant he really is. Wanna know a tell? He refers to Rodriguez as ‘Sixto Rodriguez.’ I know every stripe of record junkie and have been around them since boyhood. No one, and I mean NO ONE, ever called Rodriguez ‘Sixto Rodriguez.’ Primarily because that wasn’t the fucking name on the goddamn albums—just Rodriguez! His first-person DJ Cliche (sorry, ‘DJ Darky’) then spins “Sugarman,” Rodriguez’s closest thing to a known ‘hit’ for culture tourists like Beatty, at the request of a newly-free range East German beauty queen. In 1990! Sure. I call bullshit. Why? Well, MAYBE because his character rhapsodizes about the cover of the album he puts on in order to fulfill her request…and it’s the WRONG FUCKING ALBUM. “Sugarman” isn’t on the record he’s feeding as yarn for the reader to swallow, it was on his debut, Cold Fact. Hey, easy enough to get confused considering Rodriguez released a total of TWO (2) whole albums in his fucking career. So, huge discography to remember there. Or: because I was in that milieu by then. I actually have had to be around motherfuckers who are really like Beatty’s self-cypher. I once had to suffer ocean-front beers at an outdoor bar with one of the founders and stakeholders of the most impactful club to hit LA this century, the exact dyed-in-the-wool hip hop kid Beatty is trying to emulate, and listen to this asshole rhapsodize about ‘Bill Buford’s’ drumming. Rather than jamming shards of broken glass into my mouth, I finally snapped. “Bruford! Bruford! His name is fucking Bill Bruford!!! He’s English, not a fucking deputy in Arkansas, you smug bastard” (time and memory may have added the last three words). Funniest fucking thing is, even HE didn’t call him Sixto Rodriguez, and he dug Rodriguez more than anyone I’ve ever known.

Sigh. I just can’t. I gotta stop. Just…there’s so much wrong here that it’s raising my blood pressure to keep this up. I’ll part with this: Beatty’s DJ brings up Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury as a rhythmic inspiration. In response, I’d argue that every sound is infuriating in this boho bullshit book that pretends to be something it’s not—genuine.

Wait: Hip hop kid criticizes Ken Burns’ Jazz for failing to mention Sun Ra. Besides the obviousness of the ‘obscure’ (to who?) reference (what about John Gilmore, you hack?), how does Beatty justify defending East Coast rap in LA but fail to mention a SINGLE artist from the Native Tongues collective? In 89/90. No Tribe/De La/Jungle Bros/etc, &c. 3rd Bass and BDP, that’s all he reps. Get the fuck out of here. And take ‘Sixto’ with you, you con artist. There’s no mention of EPMD, Gang Starr/DJ Premier, Eric B and Rakim, DJ Quik, or any thousand other pioneering architects, but he makes room to shit talk Eazy-E? How does a guy from LA talk shit about the dude that got EVERYBODY off in LA in the late 80s? Eric Wright got BILLBOARDS in memoriam here when he died. Big fuckers, all over LA. Asshole.

I have to go take a clonidine. Maybe I’ll even chill out with some ‘Björk Guðmundsdóttir;’ you know, what everyone calls her.

EDIT: Motherfucker fictionalizes Blixa from Einstürzende Neubauten as such a cliched, industrial-cum-goth black-clad pasty Teuton that it’s a goddamn crime. Like my beloved, dead grandma used to say to myself and all her niños: what the fuck did Blixa do to deserve this?!?

[Frank · Rating 3 out of 5]

Amusing. High quality intellectual humour. Self revealing, while steadfastly refusing to take itself seriously. Occasionally a kind of black Martin Amis.

On the downside: some of PB's risks go badly awry. This novel lacked the surprising kick of The Sellout, and the editing of the brief German text is abysmal.

[Eugene · Rating 5 out of 5]

a sly and outrageous book that i don’t know why isn’t getting more attention or wasn’t on anyone’s best of 08 lists. it may be provincial to say but i’ll read a hundred beatty’s before i read a book about friggin cricket.

a strange curse to be the smartest comedian in the room. my two pfennigs: paul beatty is the funniest american writer alive. a riff master, there‘s so much comic bravado packed into this one i had to keep putting it down to walk around the room, big grin on my face. comedians are a dangerous breed, sacrificing a lot for the punch line but needing the vinegar of truth to make it sting. on race — SLUMBERLAND’s sub- supra- and ur- text — beatty’s not 100% right, but who is. and beatty’s usually nudging us to surprising recognitions. on the other hand, when he’s less honest or more cheap, we get: just gags or cheap shock and awe tactics.

structurally and language-wise, the book, which thankfully shows beatty recovered from the sophomore slump of TUFF, is whipsmart and quick-footed but not groundbreaking. it starts out irregular—a black american DJ in 1989 berlin—and turns quickly comic book-y irreal. or maybe: para-paranormal. the DJ is in berlin searching for a quasi-legendary jazz musician who was last heard on the soundtrack of a bestiality porn flick, specifically one where a man fucks a chicken (the man in the blue vid turns out to be a prognosticating stasi agent). the jazz musician—dubbed the schwa because his sound, “like the inderterminate vowel is unstressed, upside-down, and backward”—eventually reveals himself at the eponymous slumberland bar to perform a percussive tour de force using only a beat up copy of a faulkner paperback.

it weakens just a bit in the middle when the berlin wall falls and the narrative stalls discussing african east german experience with an oddly overly-academic sociology angle. characters are introduced to make points but not so we really need them. but that’s okay. DJ darky—our lead protag—has enough character to spare. (also, it’s impressive but a little tiring to read convincingly about all the various musical ecstasies, which happens alot) ...but before too long the book re-finds its pace and hilariously works itself up to its plot crescendo of an ending.

a cliché and prolly a gratuitous aside: i think your contemporary comedian is one of the most tragic of beasts. absolutely self-willed to be impervious, there’s no possibility of intimacy. perhaps this is the point of the book—inescapable loneliness—and maybe i’m wrong, but the thing that seems to prevent SLUMBERLAND from sounding the real depths it seems capable of is its glibness.

but then. maybe glibness is the wrong word. the book seems to be fighting itself sometimes to exhaustion—jacob and the angel type combat—trying to become. and i felt very sympathetic to its struggle to be conflicting things at once. and maybe its glibness is in fact a method.

beatty on black humor: "I wish I'd been exposed to this black literary insobriety at an earlier age. It would've been comforting to know that I wasn't the only one laughing at myself in the mirror.”
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/01/22/boo...

[Marianne · Rating 4 out of 5]

“The Schwa ruffled the pages of the book over his pant seam, and the resulting sound rivaled that of the best Max Roach brushwork. I nearly fainted. He lifted the book to his mouth and played chapter seven like a diatonic harmonica; blowing and drawing on the pages like leaves of grass in the hands of Pan. Who knew a Signet paperback was in the key of D? For the more percussive sounds he rapped the spine on his elbow, thumb drummed page corners, pizzicatoed the preface, flutter tongued the denouement and bariolaged the blurbs.”

Slumberland is the third novel by Man Booker Prize-winning American author, Paul Beatty. Ferguson W. Sowell, aka DJ Darky has a talent for DJing, and says “I compensate for a lack of skills and Negritude with a surfeit of good taste and a record collection that I like to think is to DJing what the Louvre is to painting.” He has spent months trying to compose his perfect beat, and it’s almost there: in the parlance, it is “presque parfait”.

The Beard Scratchers, members of his record pool, agree. After much analysis, they hit upon the missing element: it needs to be ratified by their ultimate beat break, the elusive Charles Stone, aka the Schwa. Coincidentally (or perhaps not quite?), Ferguson comes across a porn tape sound-tracked with music certain to be the Schwa’s. The trail leads to East Germany and, with some help from the Beard Scratchers, Ferguson finds himself engaged as a Jukebox-Sommelier at the Slumberland Bar in Berlin.

It is a Berlin about to tear down its Wall, and Ferguson is somewhat surprised to find that others share his love of the Schwa’s music: he is assisted in his quest by a bartender, a journalist, a Stasi agent, a pair of German negro sisters, and, eventually, the clientele of the Slumberland. Through a number of quirky characters and some crazy, laugh-out-loud events, Beatty examines the experience of the negro in Germany.

One World have produced editions of Beatty’s four novel with themed covers and this one has LP discs on the cover. A knowledge and appreciation of jazz is bound to enhance the enjoyment of this story, but is not essential, because the plot and characters are strong enough to draw the reader in. The musical descriptions certainly make the reader wish to hear the Schwa’s music. There’s plenty of wit and black humour in Beatty’s lyrical prose. Original, incisive and funny.

[Ashish · Rating 4 out of 5]

I picked up this book in my quest to read second books by authors who have a more widely acclaimed book that they are known for. In this case the Bookers prize winning book, "The Sellout"

This book was written around 7-8 years before the sellout was published, and one can see the cutting satire and acerbic wit at its most shrill in this book. All the ingredients are there to make a book which will make you laugh out loud at times and in others look up to the author for his audacity. It has its own sharp take on race relations which features prominently in every page of the book. It's very edgy, seems to get carried away at times but still manages to contain itself to make it a fun read. The book has a tonne of references related to music and musicians, especially from the Jazz age, and it might get a bit overwhelming at times. The writing is erudite, the author plays around with words a lot, makes up phrases and words which surprisingly make a lot of sense and it keeps you invested in the book. It's heady and surreal at times, and it isn't really for everyone; I can imagine some readers getting put off by it. It's sort of crazy and sometimes tries a bit too hard; it tries to evoke a feeling that is difficult to put in words, to show the power and effect of a type of music like no other, but it does try and get there to a certain extent.

[KenyanBibliophile · Rating 5 out of 5]

My third read by Paul Beatty did not disappoint. Slumberland is not as polished as The Sellout but no less impressive. As always, Beatty’s mastery of the English language left me in awe. Brilliantly crafted sentence after sentence with the satire exploding like firecrackers in every single paragraph. I searched for the meaning of words as many times as I googled pop culture and historical references. He dragged your faves like Oprah, Halle Berry and Marsalis with a vocabulary that both delights and fascinates. Not only that, Beatty can express sounds and rhythm so well that you can literally hear the music as you read his words. Verbal music. I bow.

The protagonist, Ferguson Sowell aka DJ D@rky, is on a quest to create the perfect beat which takes him to Berlin around the time of the Berlin Wall demise as a ‘Jukebox Sommelier’ at the Slumberland Bar. Through music, Ferguson wants to make blackness “passé” and move beyond the hip black narrative but his journey is met with abused stereotypes and reclaimed archetypes. He bitterly writes "the long legacy of freak show blackness including the Venus Hottentot; Ota Benga, the Congolese pygmy displayed as the missing link in the Bronx Zoo; Kevin Powell and Heather B, the first two African-Americans on MTV's The Real World; and myself." While Beatty tackles race issues in his usual outrageous style, I felt at a closer inspection this was more of a search for identity and the struggle to find a sense of purpose in a world with preconceived notions of what you can and should be. Hilarious, yes, but equal parts bitter. Definitely recommend if you’re drawn to well done satire, race commentary and 80s music. Maybe skip this if you’re fan of Marsalis 😂

[Bohemian Abdul · Rating 2 out of 5]

سلامبرلاند ..او ارض الأحلام .. الروايه تدور اغلب احداثها في برلين قبل سقوط الجدار في الثمانينات ..وتسميتها بهذا الاسم يأخذ طابعا رمزيا ..يشبه السخريه من امريكا التي عرفت بهذا الاسم ،خصوصا و موضوع الروايه الاساسي هو عن العنصريه ضد الملونين او (الزنوج) ..وبالتالي لك ان تتخيل ان جميع الفصول مطعمه بهذه اللغه ..واستعراض مواضيع متعدده تنطلق من هذه الأرضية ..رغم اني احسست ان الكاتب نفسه هو من يبدو مصابا بالعنصريه ..فلابأس من تخصيص فصل او فصول ما عن هذا الأمر ..لكن تخصيص روايه كامله هو أشبه بهوس قهري محشو في روايه ..خصوصا وانها رواية حديثه ،كتبت بعد عشرات الأعمال، التي طرقت هذا الأمر
(من الادب الى السينما ) و بالتالي اصبح شبه تكرار لفوبيا العنصريه ضد السود . اعتقد ان الكثير من الشعوب مصابه بداء العنصريه ..و هي مرحله اجتماعيه انتقاليه في طور الحضارة لابد ان تمر بها جميع الأمم-(هذا ليس دفاعا ولكنه واقع)-.. ايضا هناك شعوب تعرضت لعنصرية أوربيي أمريكا اكبر مما تعرض له السود ..الهنود الحمر على سبيل المثال...ولكن التغني على جروحهم لم يكن بنفس الشكل رغم الفارق الكبير والتاريخي بين الأمتين ،على اعتبار ان الهنود هم أصحاب أرض وحق بعكس السود المهاجرين .
أسلوب الروايه مقبول الى حد ما ..الحوارات بها تمكن عالي على طريقة الأدب الأمريكي المعروف في هذا الحانب ..الا ان مستوى الرواية لم يكن واحدا ، اغلب فصولها يحتوي استعراضا معرفيا أشعرني اني اقرأ كتابا ثقافيا اكثر منها رواية ..وهذا ماأجهدني لإكمالها ، المشكلة الأخرى حشو الرواية بالكثير من التكرار والوصف المغرق للأشياء والمكان مما يبعث القاريء على الملل.

[Sarah · Rating 2 out of 5]

Ergh, I have no idea how to rate this book. On the one hand, I really did not enjoy reading it and indeed was mostly actively irritated by it. On the other hand, I can imagine that some people might like it (in fact, it's my boyfriend's favourite novel, which is why I stuck with it) and Beatty is an undeniably skilled writer. Honestly. That isn't supposed to be damning with faint praise. He's clearly brilliant. I just wish he'd write... something else.

Happily, if you live in a major city, I have devised an easy test to determine whether you'd enjoy this book:
Go to your nearest hipster neighbourhood (Williamsburg, the Mission, Hackney, Silver Lake... you get the idea) and pick the diviest bar on the dirtiest street you can find. Corner the smartest-looking hipster in said bar and supply him with PBRs in return for talking to you about his record collection, non-stop, for as long as he can. Rinse and repeat at least 4 times. If I just described your ideal Saturday night, you'll love Slumberland. If you'd rather spend an evening trying to pop your eardrums with a butter knife (that would be me), pick a different book.

*********************
Revisiting to downgrade by one star. Sometimes, although I dislike a book at the time, after I've had some time to process I realise it was more worthwhile than I gave it credit for. This was the opposite: every time I think about this book I am more annoyed by it.

[Mark Desrosiers · Rating 3 out of 5]

Beatty's prose has got style, Miles and miles, and few people equal him at describing the sounds in their head (not that I can tell whether he was successful). But this book really could have been stripped of its forcified plot to become a real sublime page-turner. The mystery "Schwa" character, when he finally appears, seems rather silly and 2D -- almost a MacGuffin forced to live and breathe. And the outrageous and slightly overwrought climax of a sonic Berlin wall feels like a failed Terry Gilliam experiment. But our narrator -- a black American jukebox sommelier living in Germany -- is one of my favorite people ever, I'd sit at the end of his tanning bed to listen to his wisdom and tall tales all night long.

[Danilo Weiner · Rating 3 out of 5]

Esse livro estava na minha lista desde o primeiro que li do Paul Beatty, um baita soco no estômago sobre racismo (O vendido), vencedor do Man Booker Prize, entre outras credenciais. Dito isso, embarquei na prosa erudita do autor que dispara referências de forma alucinada, nesse caso especificamente, direcionadas ao mundo da música / jazz e é claro, sua visão sobre o racismo.

Daí que o fio de história que sustenta todo o livro - um DJ que decide mudar para a Alemanha pré-queda do Muro de Berlim a fim de encontrar um músico lendário que ninguém sabe se existiu de verdade - resiste até mais ou menos a metade; depois a metralhadora giratória começa a cansar um pouco e, no meu caso, faz você se sentir um pouco ignorante demais sobre os temas abordados.

De qualquer forma, indico para quem curte música e toda a cena músical de DJ, casas noturnas, jukebox - o personagem principal se considera um sommelier de jukebox - e quem curte apreciar digressões de mentes afiadas. E o Paul tem muito a falar sobre racismo, independente do pano de fundo escolhido.

[Book Z Tobą · Rating 3 out of 5]

3,5

[Jamil · Rating 5 out of 5]

Slumberland is probably the most intensely racialized book i've read in a while. It hits it from a multitude of angles - self-loathing, self-deprecating, self-mythologizing...

"There are many similarities between Germans and blacks. The nouns themselves are loaded with so much historical baggage it's impossible for anyone to be indifferent to the simple mention of either group. We're two insightful people looking for reasons to love ourselves; and let's not forget we both love pork and wear sandals with socks."

This is a funny book. Beatty is hyper, a master of quick wit, pointed asides, unreliable narrator, always trash-talking, bullshitting. So many references and digressions, you won't/can't/don't! catch them all. & you'll consistently ask which are lies and which are truths.* the answer, of course, is all.

Plot points: Berlin, before & after the fall of the wall. Blackness, passé and/or freedom. Phonographic Memory. Jukebox Sommelier. The perfect beat. The search for Charles Stone a/k/a The Schwa.

"A beat so perfect as to render musical labels null and void. A melody so transcendental that blackness has officially been declared passé. Finally, us colored folk will be looked upon with blithe indifference, not erotized pity or the disgust of Freudian projection. It's what we've claimed we always wanted, isn't it? To be judged 'not by the color of our skins, but by the content of our character'? Dude, but what we threw down was the content not of character, but out of character. It just happened to be of indeterminate blackness and funkier than a motherfucker."

*(is Sun Ra really truly completely ignored in Ken Burn's Jazz? that's crazy!)

I've got terrible amnesia when it comes to books, even books i loved, like White Boy Shuffle. Was it as dense and delirious, exhilarating and full of shit as this book?

My favorite bits: at the end of Part 3 ("The Souls of Black Volk") where the narrator (a/k/a DJ Darky, a/k/a Ferguson Sowell) plays three "life-altering" gigs, DJ'ing 1) a neo-nazi (white laces=white power?) skinhead rally - "It's the hate that's important. It doesn't matter who does the hating, but who you hate." - 2) an annual Afro-German gathering in the Black Forest - "When we get to the Black Forest, we won't be able to see the n------ for the trees." - 3) a barely attended gig at the Free University - "What if you had a concert and nobody came?"

I finished this yesterday and then slept on it (literally, book under pillow, princess & the pea style, & now my head hurts).

At gig #2, pg. 180:

""I need to know what is happening to me. Why do I feel so unsecure? Afraid, and yet not frightened."
The room rumbled with agreement. Overcome with German inquisitiveness and black paranoia, these sons and daughters of Hegel and Queen Nefertiti wanted an answer. I wanted to tell them that the Schwa's music leans heavily on semitone, that tiny musical interval that's a half step between harmony and noise, for a reason. He wants to show us that the best parts of life are temporal semitone, those nanoseconds between ecstasy and panic that if we could we'd string together in a sensate harmony. If only we could be Wile E. Coyote walking on air for those precious few moments before the bittersweet realization he's walking on air. Before falling to earth with a pitiful wave of the hand and a puff of smoke.
I didn't say any of that because I didn't know the German word for semitone or if my audience knew who Bugs Bunny was. I simply said, "What is happening is that you've been turnt out, baby."
The Schwa turns us all out sooner or later."

[Robert Wechsler · Rating 4 out of 5]

This is a brilliant and very funny performance. The first of Beatty's novels I’ve read, it has a situation (there is no plot) that exists solely for Beatty to show his chops. I wouldn’t call the writing jazzlike or really musical in any way, even though the narrator is a DJ and the novel’s quest (central to its situation) is for an old free jazzman. But the writing does have the showy intelligence of a jazz solo, not a free one, but an edgy one that stays within the bounds of the conventional.

The novel is also very racial in its humor. That is, a great deal of it involves race, and its taking place in Germany ups the ante, but not too much. Although there were a few times that I said “Come on” to myself, the great majority of Beatty’s wit (most of it is more wit than satire) worked for this old white guy. I look forward to reading Beatty's new novel, The Sellout.

Slumberland is as good as a performance like this gets.

[Ryan Lottermoser · Rating 4 out of 5]

“The twilight was uniquely uninspiring. The sun looked wobbly and slumped toward the horizon like a carsick child sinking deeper and deeper into the backseat. Its last act of consciousness, this solar hurl of refracted light, the colors of which were so putrid they scattered the birds and the clouds, and left the moon to clean up the mess.”

[clarissa · Rating 1 out of 5]

Mi capita assai raramente di non apprezzare un libro. Tant'è che più volte penso che siano i libri a scegliermi, e che ciò succeda per una qualche infondata ironia del destino. I libri mi arrivano alle mani e faccio gli incontri di cui ho bisogno, sono sempre opportuni e mai fuori luogo. Ho sempre creduto nella loro premura, nella loro adeguatezza. In questo caso invece il libro è per me un mondo oscuro, ho provato più volte ad entrarci e sempre in punta di piedi, ma ci sono una veemenza e una sfacciataggine che mi infastidiscono, sembra quasi che le parole si vestano di una patina di arroganza per fare in modo che chi legge non le possa cogliere mai per davvero. Mi sono addormentata quasi sempre e mi sono innervosita ogni volta, ho deciso di sospendere la lettura dopo 150 pagine e mi sento come aver abbandonato qualcuno. Ma ultimamente me lo sono promessa, vivrò come mi sento di vivere e per quello che mi fa bruciare, non ho tempo per le vie di mezzo, per ciò che non mi entusiasma o non mi interessa. Questo libro mi ha insegnato qualcosa di importante, però: la volgarità mi annoia.

[Roger DeBlanck · Rating 5 out of 5]

Ferguson W. Sowell is a freestyling mixmaster going by the stagename DJ Darky. He has crafted an innovative beat so groundbreaking that anyone hearing its sublime pulse instantly declares they’ve experienced a transcendent moment initiated by musical perfection.

Ferguson’s creation of a spellbinding new sound compels him to track down the legendary jazzman Charles Stone, aka the Schwa, who Ferguson feels a spiritual connection with. If he can convince Stone to jam some tunes with him, Ferguson believes his doppelganger will confirm his euphoric beat is indeed transformative.

Clues to Stone’s whereabouts take Ferguson from his hometown of LA to a reunified Berlin in 1989, a city in the aftermath of some celebrating and some not the tearing down of the infamous wall. Now an expat employed as a jukebox sommelier in a bar dubbed Slumberland, Ferguson’s quest to find Stone leads to a series of outlandish encounters with spies, journalists, lustful women, and other musicians.

In a drama subtly diced with suspense, Beatty’s genius infuses his narrative with relentless satire confronting the evils of racism so that every sentence is loaded like a shotgun with devilish humor and irreverent wit. Beatty’s wizardry of exhilarating wordplay produces images and musings that oftentimes leave you baffled with feeling both despondency and glee at the same time.

The ending pages of Slumberland are uniquely mesmeric, almost breathtaking in how mindblowing Beatty describes the “wall of sound” that Ferguson and Stone create during their concert performance together in the streets of Berlin. His lush prose dazzles with poetic ingenuity that leaves you pondering how does he envision such bizarreness and beauty to capture the power of music.

[Karn Kher · Rating 5 out of 5]

Jazz references abound in this funny book on racism and politics in our society. Its a searing study of Being Black or different in general in Western society and a loooot of niche song-name/artist dropping. Make a note to hear later. He is not as cynical a read as Heller though both roam in the same zone of a irreverent view of evils of our society. A more-pop and less-cynical Heller maybe.

[Francesca · Rating 4 out of 5]

4+/5

Anno 1989.
Ferguson W. Sowell, meglio conosciuto come DJ Darky, è un noto dj di Los Angeles, è dotato di un’eccezionale memoria fonografica e ha inventato il battito perfetto.
O quasi perfetto: gli manca ancora qualcosa, e per questo si trasferisce a Berlino per scovare Charles Stone, in arte Schwa, sassofonista dell’avanguardia jazz avvolto da un’aura mitica, con il quale vuole suonare il suo beat.

Raggiunta Berlino, Sowell si troverà di fronte una città inattesa, immensa e pullulante di vita. Ne rimane sorpreso, ma anche affascinato, perché sente di essere nel posto giusto per cogliere un nuovo battito, farlo proprio e creare una nuova musica, assoluta, unica.
La sua prima meta è lo Slumberland, bar e locale ove si fa musica e DJ Darky si fa assumere come jukebox sommelier.

Leggi la recensione

[Angie · Rating 4 out of 5]

It was somewhere around the chicken-fucking "fowl play" that I started to wonder if I was going to be able to finish this book. The day I found out I won this book, a similar feeling had passed through me, something akin to, "Oh great. Out of all the books I thought I wouldn't poke my eyeballs out trying to read and I get this... what the hell IS this, even??"

Ultimately, however, this book is a damn joy to read. You get sucked into the wordplay, which at times seems cheesy but it helps that it isn't layered on too thick; rather, the wit comes in small doses like you would expect from a friend and isn't drilled into you like a stand-up comedian drills punchline after punchline into his/her audience.

I don't know much about beats or blacks or Germans, but after finishing this book I feel inclined to pass it on. Thing is, I don't know to whom: my friend Hotfoot, who would know most of the artists mentioned in the book and be able to relate to an American-black-man-placed-elsewhere; the struggling, tattooed whitey DJ friend of mine who would probably feel all the sounds in the novel; a friend who enjoys wordplay, especially that of the sexual nature; the friend who likes Pynchon and mythic adventure quests and its variations; or anyone wanting to read something that makes them laugh at satiric truth in one breath and gawk at open and descriptive mentions of alcoholic tampon enemas the next.

"It's the touch of sound. Sound is touch and nothing touches you like good, really good, music. It's like being masturbated by the hand of God."

Now if you'll excuse me, Herbie Hancock's on the line, wanting to play me something new.

[Terri · Rating 4 out of 5]

Paul Beatty has written a really scathing and hilarious tale about a Black guy, who goes by DJ Darky, on his journey of creating the perfect beat. The most significant part of this journey involves him going to Berlin to get validation from his musical hero, jazz musician Charles Stone, who he and his friends- The Beard Scratchers- have affectionately dubbed "The Schwa". This novel presents ideas of race, culture, and music with language that's lyrical and cheeky. From the opening page, DJ Darky declares that Blackness is over and while reflecting on years of tanning says: "My complexion has darkened somewhat; it's still a nice nonthreatening sitcom Negro brown, but now there's a pomegranate-purple undertone that in certain light gives me a more villainous sheen." Brilliant!

I was laughing out loud from just the first few pages. This is rare that a book invokes emotion in me that's evident. This has to be my favorite book thus far for the year. That this book's focal point is music and the level of music snobbery by the host of such thoughtful characters was so on point for me as I can be quite a music snob. Slumberland is like your favorite movie from which you love to quote every other line. Yes, this book has too many lines I want to quote. I'm glad I held on to Beatty's White Boy Shuffle even though I couldn't get into it on my first attempt many years ago. I think I have more appreciative eyes towards his writing now.

[Rob Kitchin · Rating 4 out of 5]

In Slumberland Paul Beatty tells the story of a musically inventive DJ who is obsessed with sounds, beats, riffs, and music, who travels to Berlin to search for an elusive, virtuoso jazzman. The telling somewhat mimics the sensibilities of the lead character, with Beatty creating verbal riffs, spurts of free-form, scatting prose, and a densely multi-layered narrative. Set in pre- and post-fall of the Berlin Wall the tale is a rumination on music, race, sex and culture, as experienced and considered by the lead character, perhaps one of the most reflexive people on the planet, spending half the time riffing on his own inner-voice. At times shocking and bombastic, often clever and knowing with some interesting observations, the story also has a dark humour running throughout. Some of the passages were a joy to read. At the same time, while enjoyable, ultimately the story doesn’t really seem to go anywhere – there’s no epiphany or sense of closure beyond Sowell fulfilling his ambition. If you like your fiction like a DJ mix of freeform jazz, then you’ll probably enjoy this literary equivalent.

[Byron · Rating 4 out of 5]

And I thought I was crazy! Slumberland is filled with descriptions of weird German pr0n (is there any other kind?), shots at people you're not supposed to take shots at, and race discussion that's bound to make pretty much everyone uncomfortable. Needless to say I loved it. There's hardly much of a story to speak of. DJ Darky, from LA, creates the best beat of all time (of ALL TIME) and travels to Germany to have some obscure jazz musician play on it. And that's really about the extent of it. The rest of it is Beatty as Darky pontificating on his bizarre collection of interests. I imagine this would be difficult to read for a lot of people. If you think you might be interested, you might want to try picking up a copy and flipping through a few pages first.

[Matt · Rating 5 out of 5]

I'm reading this on Kevin Allman's recommendation in the Washington Post. So far, I can't get enough of it.

It makes me want to savage people and ideas with words more often. But politely. And in a fun way. Yet you can't imagine being so cruel in real life...

I've re-read the opening scene, of a black man in the tanning salon in Berlin, three times now. And not because I don't get it, but because I love it so much.

"I can go tanning if I want to. And I want to."

That's a savage pair of sentences. Truly savage. Of course, not in a "noble savage"/black type way. That's not what I meant. Oh, crap.

[Melissa · Rating 5 out of 5]

I'm Not Sure What, Exactly, I Just Read. But I Liked It.

Music love. Music snobbery. Racism. Educators' "expectations" (see: racism) and what results. Berlin pre-and post- wall tear down. The culture crush of becoming "pop." The freedom of being passé (what a delightful thought!) Reality. Magical realism (in Germany?!) Sex and meaninglessness. Humor seemingly born of despair. It's all there. In a beautiful wrapper created by a man who writes beautifully, even about the ugly.

[Wally · Rating 5 out of 5]

One of my favorite books this year. DJ Darky goes on a quest to East Germany to find the reclusive jazz musician who can provide him with the one note that will complete his personal musical opus. Hilarious.

[Alain · Rating 4 out of 5]

this cat needs to put out more books...such a brilliant writer

[Johnpaul · Rating 5 out of 5]

A satire fueled by music and race taking place in Berlin.

[Tara C · Rating 4 out of 5]

I like Paul Beatty a good deal and wish that this pop-culture referencing, witty, quick paced prose won the Pulitizer Prize over "Oscar Wao".

[Saleh MoonWalker · Rating 3 out of 5]

Onvan : Slumberland - Nevisande : Paul Beatty - ISBN : 1596912405 - ISBN13 : 9781596912403 - Dar 243 Safhe - Saal e Chap : 2008