What is "Metaliterature"? It is literature about literature, in this case, views, reviews, and thoughts provoked by stuff I've read. I'm hoping this might be a chronicle of the brain of a life-long reader as guided by intertextual coincidence. If you like what you read, read what I like.
Currently domiciled in the Vale of Glamorgan.
I had a very enjoyable weekend this weekend past, spent
drinking and then recovering with some friends with whom this had not been done
in quite a while. One of them is a former radio presenter from Coventry (he’s
from Lincolnshire, but the radio station was in Coventry) who regaled those
present with tales of performer misadventures, including Ginger from The
Wildhearts, and amongst others (discretely, if not discreetly), Carter USM.
[The knowing amongst my readers would spot immediately to where
I’m off with this little prologue]
In return for these interesting revelations, another of the
party, himself a Wildhearts fan (a British band who interestingly offer their website in both English and Japanese)
nodded knowingly as he offered an anecdotal riposte about his friend who baked
a birthday cake for Les Fruitbat Carter.
[Eeep! In the drive for proximal glory I may have wandered,
but shall endeavour to pull this back in]
Which in turn reminded me to ask both if they’d read either
of the novels written by Jim Bob – curt shakes of heads to indicate the negative.
Thankfully (for them) I was unable to
launch into a fevered pre-emptive defence of the prose stylings of Carter’s front
man, as one friend turned to vociferously appraise the relative aesthetic
values of the chicklets and crumpets of Cardiff in direct comparison to the
nugatory beauty of those of his current place of residence, Hull.
What I might have said, given the chance, would likely have
sounded much like the review I wrote of Storage
Stories a few months back, but with more direct reference to Jim Bob’s latest
That's not got much ham in it.
Driving Jarvis Ham, despite engendering a rather endearing
Vimeo collage of Pets Reading Jarvis Ham,
and being championed by the independent bookselling world at large (notably The Bookseller Crow in Crystal Palace,
where I got my signed copy of Jarvis) is unlikely to burst onto the literary
scene in the way that explicit pornography has done so recently, or capture the
hearts and minds of generations of would-be public school whipping boys á
la J.K. Rowling. It is however, likely to be embraced by those in search of an
entertaining read, those with long-standing emotional ties to the music of the
late 80s, 90s and perhaps those currently on the nostalgia trail with Carter
USM’s recent touring activities – “the best show at [name of festival omitted
due to drunken mishearing] by far” says @Governmentyard.
Ostensibly the story of the *cough* rise and fall of one
fame hungry young man, with the talent of an ashtray and the looks to match
(think 1960s ashtrays, not those cool James Bond cut glass ones), it’s told by Jarvis
Ham’s long standing friend and *cough cough* manager, for whom the spectacle of
a talentless turd endlessly wringing emotional resonance from a near miss with
Princess Diana outside a Wimpey in the 80s, and prostituting his dreams to a
public immune to their charms seems to be relentlessly engrossing, a bit like
watching someone play Tetris to a high level and having to provide them with
Pot Noodles and a bucket in which to piss so they can concentrate on what they’re
doing. I didn’t quite understand this attachment, but didn’t worry myself over
it, unlike the narrator’s unseen girlfriend, whose concerns are noted on
occasion as narrative ballast. The dramatic twist, when it comes, hinted at through
fricative warnings throughout not to become attached to the protagonist, involves
a series of assaults and eventually murders in a chain of roadside diners along
the arterial A road between London and the south west. And as an explanation
for his long-suffering support, it barely does justice to the longevity of the
However, Jarvis’ secret alcoholism, his own pathetic
collection of Jarvis memorabilia, the dry voice of Jim Bob’s mouthpiece, the
badly drawn pictures of newspaper clippings and shoes, and the references to “culture
in inverted commas” (my inverted commas, not Jim Bob’s) all add up,
idiosyncratically, to fill a slim volume with wit, charm and style, reminding
me why I enjoy Carter and other Jim Bob musical vehicles, and making me chuckle
to myself at the world and everything. Bordering on the daft, but never crossing
the line, Driving Jarvis Ham is darkly amusing, a fittingly acerbic observation
on the pursuit of fame by those without natural ability, but by a man whose own
flame of fame deserves a little fanning.