The Book: Part One
Thomas Cobb’s Shavetail is an impressive, compulsively readable novel that begins with the protagonist, young Pvt. Ned Thorne arriving in something like purgatory at the ass end of the universe, at an Arizona Army post in 1871, and it as it progresses things get very much worse than that.
Yes, it’s a western. Yes, it has been compared to Cormac McCarthy and Larry McMurtry. Yes, this is by the guy who wrote the killer Country Western Novel Crazy Heart that the Dude finally won a best actor for.
As far as comparisons go I think the McMurtry one is more valid than the McCarthy one. Cobb is a more than serviceable stylist, but there are none of the virtuoso flourishes that you get with McCarthy but neither do you get the periodic head scratchers that bring the action up short. So no bum notes, the man can move seamlessly from scene to scene and he is a strong descriptive writer and the dialogue is spot on, the vernacular apt and easy on the ear. He also is psychologically shrewd, capturing exactly the thought processes, mind trips and self-destructive interior monologues that would beset men in such extreme circumstances.
A Partial Defense of Westerns
Yeah, it’s a western. I know some folks here would rather put hot pokers in their eyes, listen to the Boxed Set of Vanilla Ice or chaw on a turd sandwich for an hour than read a western. And I can dig that. People like what they like. And the dismissing of particular genres out of hand(and it could just as easily be noir or fantasy we’re talking about here) is much easier and requires less intellectual effort than trying to judge each book on its own merits. Life is so short, there are so many books. That is one approach to reading, I guess. Stay in your own ghetto(or penthouse, no doubt), keep your blinkers on, but to dress that up as sophistication is ridiculous. An engagement with The West(ern)(and here too one must add an engagement with Western Film: the best works of John Ford, Howard Hawkes, Sam Peckinpah and Clint Eastwood) is an absolute necessity for anyone trying to firmly wrestle with the beast that it is the collective American Soul. It is the place where we are most naked & ugly, the place where are highest aspirations are constantly undermined by our most savage impulses. A place where brute individualism is beaten to bloody bits by the vastness of the land. Ah, the land! So reminiscent of our Judeo-Christian heritage. Biblical and stark, unforgiving. And maybe that its appeal to an author or reader. It’s a place and a milieu, where things can be reduced to their most essential elements so that complex ideas, conflicting drives and the constant battle of man’s worst aspects striving with ‘the better angels of his nature’ can be put under the most glaring klieg lights.
Aside: most westerns suck. As do most fantasy novels. As do most books in general. You have to wade through a lot of shit to find a McMurtry, McCarthy, an Elmore Leonard, Richard Matheson or Thomas Cobb. The Western Novel as an industry seems to bring out the most reactionary, God Fearing, White is Right, numbskulls on the planet.
Westerns, even at their best, seldom do right by women either(and this book is no exception). Women are subservient or absent, decoration or incidental. The Western novel is stuffed with the worst archetypes in this regard: the whore with heart of gold, the good girl, etc. There are exceptions: the wonderful version of Calamity Jane in the HBO series Deadwood and in the Pete Dexter novel of the same name, Elmore Leonard’s female characters, who if they are seldom center stage in his novels, one can still always sense they are center stage in their own lives and the equals of their men.
The Book: Part Two
This book isn’t reactionary in the least. It is subversive and constant in its undermining of certain forms of machismo. It points out over and over again to the uselessness of bravery in certain circumstances and is quite clear in its condemnation of the dehumanizing aspects of the military, while admitting to its transformative aspects. Cobb is also very good at displaying a man developing confidence in relation to repeated competence displayed, at showing that repetitive physical motion and gesture can bring a Zen-like tranquility to the mind and a new found purpose to life. That the gestures here are, in fact, the calm destruction of skulls through a skillfully aimed carbine adds a little irony to the proceedings. Cobb too doesn’t seem to be buying into any sense of redemption here either, though all the POV characters here hanker after it with the fierce longing of teenage boys after womanly flesh. Any redemption that does take place is half-formed, barely there and sad as hell. Events spiral out of control, becoming more violent and apocalyptic by the chapter and though the book gets better and better it also gets exceedingly dark. And maybe there finally the McCarthy comparisons are apt.
Westerns and Me
I don’t know why I love them so much now. There was a time I wouldn’t be caught dead reading these things. I used to think they were worst kind of redneck bullshit. But now I’d much rather read something like this(or a novel or work of non-fiction set during the American Civil War) than almost anything except poetry. I think part of this is that one can find here history fully formed, undimmed by daily trivia and media machines. I think part of it is my love of the land. I can drive 80 miles and be in the sort of desert featured so prominently in so many of these books. I can drive less than 20 and be at the site of the ruins of Indian Villages. I love the land, particularly the Southwest, it heals me and haunts me. Its vistas and features have come to speak to my soul(yeah, I believe in them) the way that no other place now does. The smell of sage and Manzanita, of scrub oak and pine, the howl of coyotes, the ruins of old Spanish buildings and horses run wild, all cliché perhaps, but clichés that speak to my deepest self. Add to it the layers of history, the idea of simpler things of subsistence only existence and I’m even more thoroughly hooked. The craftsmanship of old guns. Tamales and beans on the fire, coffee ground by stone. Old mud buildings, cook houses, farmers vs. ranchers and mining corporations coming to fuck them all out of everything and ruin the land for generations. Red rocks at sunset. And always the aboriginal people with a deeper wisdom and an understanding of their beautiful, dangerous land that we never quite achieve. What have I become? A reactionary and a romantic responding to a place and time that never quite existed in the way portrayed. But…
we love what we love.