The book was Coronado by Dennis Lehane, a collection of five short stories and a play based on one of those stories. I've read several of his mystery novels, and enjoyed them: the writing is taut, the plots believable and fast moving, the characters fully three dimensional.
Coronado is none of those: characters and situations that defy belief, stilted dialogue and a play that was somehow produced at least twice (although the first time was by a theatre company that counts his brother among its members).
The play, which is the last piece, is based on one of the preceding stories. It somehow manages the trick of being both longer and less substantial than the story on which it is based.
Very disappointing.
On the flip side, I just picked up to solo-ish albums by Terry Adams, the sometimes brilliant, often idiosyncratic, keyboardist and co-founder of NRBQ. Only Adams would have the chops to tackle (and very well, I might add) a Monk tune and follow it with a tune that offers his dream of a perfect woman: one who loves the Three Stooges. I say solo-ish because one is a duet with guitarist Steve Ferguson.
Adams, who might be the American equivalent of lovable English eccentric Robyn Hitchcock, includes in the liner notes to "Rhythm Spell" a brief poem about pants, which is worth repeating:
Every morning I put on my pants
Go out there and take a chance.
Every night I take a chance,
Go in there and take off my pants.
Oh, and he promises "if you come see me I'll play extra good for you."
I've seen him half a dozen times. And he has, every time.
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