Succumb to the Lure

The surface of things is deceiving. Seeming can hide beauty, pain or consuming power.

On the surface of it, The Lure of Dangerous Women is a trifling thing: seventy-odd simple pages filled with black symbols and white pages that we see every day. On the surface of it, this is the kind of thing that I barrel through in less than an hour. On the surface of it, this is simply another collection of short genre fiction of which there is an embarrassing surfeit. But this book is alive, a breathing, writhing thing that grips you with ever turn of the page, that entices you along like a pied piper. It is not a pleasant ride; it is terrifying and erotic, icy and scalding, messy and precise, all at once.

It took me three days to finish this book. I had to put it down every other story, surfacing to breathe. I had to walk away and let its characters talk to me some more, let the shadowy cling of their adventures become brittle so that I might brush it off and begin my next journey anew, without the weight of the their sexy, horrifying pull.

All of the women in these stories are dangerous in different ways. These are not Ripleys and Amazons; they are not all sirens and femme fatales. Rather, they are fully-realized characters, at once sympathetic and wholly themselves. There is as much pain as power, and many of them are so strong as to push past simple binaries of dominance and submission (sexual, political or otherwise) to offer themselves as sacrifice, or even just a part of themselves, for the good of others. There is no bowing involved, but an entirely self-possessed decision. These are the kinds of heroines we need more of.

A very thorough review might walk you step by step through each of the seven offerings, but I'd like to focus on a few highlights. "Trill" is a study in disturbing subtly, taking a familiar trope and turning upon itself. A dark version of the pied piper is only the starting point; it dips and weaves its song into dark and daring places that set the tone of this collection. "Seed" and "One Woman Town" are terrific examples of worlds that are at once alien and accessible, offering a fantastic reality with its own lexicon, its own culture and sets of ideas, but one that also immediately draws us in with both wonder and lust tinged with the fear of Germain's razor-sharp observation.

For it is Germain's style, flexible, expressive and keen, that ties all of these disparate tales together. Make no doubt, these are imaginative stories of terror that are equally very sexy; but they are also stylish bits of prose, a style that engages and engrosses, that pulls you in with a siren's song that can drown you.

Shanna Germain's latest collection, published by Wayzgoose Press, is heartily recommended reading for those seeking something extraordinary. Bring your red wine for the libido, your teddy bear for your fear and your shotgun for protection. And even still, you will succumb to The Lure of Dangerous Women.

Soul Clap Its Hands and Sing: "it was a pleasure to burn" production diary

Today's offering features special guest Shanna Germain. I discovered Shanna's This Body of Work on Google Plus, and instantly fell in amazed lust with her often sexually-charged and always in-charge short work. In mid-January, she posted "Soul Clap Its Hands and Sing," and I thought "I can totally use this for FAWM material!" It never happened during the month of February, but in early March I had a track ready. Problem was, it used my low, growling baritone, which didn't quite fit with the clearly feminine point of view. So, after long weeks of gentle nudging, I got the artist herself to give me a track.

I.
The trouble is the ship left without me. Also I cut a hole
in the sunset-tinged sail. Not a hole; a heart shape.
I almost forget they’re the same. The scissors sank like
live weights, flashing their teeth at the mackerels.
Summer ends with a settle of silver and sand.

II.
A woman alone is an alien thing. The dock rejects her heft.
Mouths open to the sky, golden birds pray for rains
and the wormtails of truths. Wishes can break your neck
if you don’t cant your face three degrees to the right.
of the mast. Look at me, quick. There’s nowhere else to go

III.
but down. Last night the boatman had tomorrow for eyes.
There was no place left to slot my coins. Think of that face
like the ones drawn on rice—a curio to scare the children with.
My muse slunk off with a half-cocked heel and a man
half her age. If I believed in gods, I’d fuck them all.

IV.
Once I was younger. Every word was a seaweed scrawl of bracken,
every line a breaking wave of wood. Who wants to be a bird
when I can be me? Song was never mine for pyre. My hair is spun
of golden scales. When the ship sinks, let’s say it was never my fault.
Let’s say I really wanted to go all the way.

I feel like I should tell you more about Shanna, but I also feel that I don't really have the right to pin her down like that. Besides, she's done a very good job of it herself:

First and foremost, she is a leximaven of the highest order, exploring her love of the written word through a multitude of formats and styles. Shanna (pronounced like ‘Shaun’ with a sigh of pleasure at the end) also claims the titles of (in no particular order):  girl geek, lust/slut, wanderlust-er, avid walker and biker, tree kisser, knife licker, steak-maker, book-nerd and Schrodinger’s Brat.

With a whole lot of writing years under her belt (or her collar, depending on the day), Shanna’s poems, essays, short stories, novellas, articles and more have found homes in hundreds of magazines, newspapers, books and websites.

I have long been a fan of spoken word pieces, that peculiar subgenre/step-chield of audio books and songs. But they can be tricky things; it's not a mere matter of recording a poetry recitation (which this offering led me to discover is no "mere" matter.) A spoken word piece is about ambiance, closer to Ani Difranco's ethereal jazz riffs or the wonderful weirdness of Coil.

For this composition, I went to my favorite sample junkyard: SampleSwap. Every last bit of percussion that you hear is from there; about three or four different pieces, with varying amounts of reverb and other effects. With the right groove underway, the rest of the composition feel easily into place. There's no chorus or any kind of refrain, but I knew that I wanted to somehow subtly translate the numbering of the stanzas in Shanna's poem. Thus, those pounding guitar breaks. (Over which, inevitably, I couldn't resist re-sampling some vocal parts; so, now there is a refrain.)

Musically, "Soul Clap" is all about dynamics, moving from that heart-beat thrum to a tinkling acoustic to the pounding distortion of the refrain guitars, and then back again. It's also about theme and variation, as each verse features the chord progression and mini-melody in a slightly different way. That wonderful whine throughout, by the way, is a MIDI-cello with a heap of effects on it.

I am very grateful for Shanna agreeing to do the vocals. I love to collaborate, especially with women who lend my work a much need variance in tone.

This week, real life and its real job rear their heads again, so I'm not sure what I'll be able to do in the studio. Have no fear, however, more to come!