Fantastic Metropolis

Other books that impressed me in 2003 include K.J. Bishop’s The Etched City, Nick Cave’s And the Ass Saw the Angel (review), Yann Martel’s The Life of Pi, and Jeff VanderMeer’s Veniss Underground. In nonfiction, I read a lot about Iraq and the Middle East (surprise surprise!), but the book that moved me the most was Samantha Power’s A Problem from Hell: America in the Age of Genocide. Always compassionate, never strident, her account of the great tragedies of the twentieth century and the complex role of America in responding to them was simply staggering, both in its wealth of detail and its clear-eyed lucidity. I think it may be the only work of non-fiction that has ever brought me to tears.

Although the title of this feature—“Read and Appreciated in 2003”—suggests that I wrap this up, I’ll follow in the footsteps of a few others, erring on the side of enthusiasm as I stumble past the bookshelves on my way to the CD rack. (A polite way of saying I am a raving fanboy, and if you’ve read this far, I have no plans on stopping now.)

I found 2003 to be a fantastic year for music, with box sets by Bob Dylan (16 gloriously re-mastered SACDs) and Johnny Cash (4 discs of “American” outtakes) vying for my constant attention. On top of that, there was Stephen Malkmus’ surprisingly proggy Pig Lib. One of the best albums I’ve heard in years, it combines the elliptical style of Pavement with a more relaxed guitar groove. Like many, I was happily trampled under foot by the stomp of the White Stripes’ Elephant, and of course Radiohead’s Hail to the Thief continued their streak of remarkable albums. I was glad to discover two new groups: British Sea Power and The Blood Brothers, who put out Burn Piano Island, Burn—can you possibly beat that title? There was Elvis Costello’s elegant North, surely the most beautiful album of my year, and Belle and Sebastian’s Dear Catastrophe Waitress, a piece of perfect pop set with a million irresistible hooks. I was pleased by solid releases from old favorites King Crimson, Robyn Hitchcock, Primus, and Nick Cave; and David Bowie came out with Reality, his best work since 1995’s greatly underrated Outside.

In the classical department, one CD that has not left my player is Philip Glass’ Études for Piano, Vol. I. This is Glass at his best, his most focused: ten beautifully crafted works, like ten portraits of snowfall—some drifting silently down in lazy spirals, others whirled into dancing patterns by a flickering wind. Teldec’s György Ligeti series has been a blessing, each volume better than the last—his “Hamburg Concerto for Horns” is what sophisticated orcs might listen to at Mordor’s version of Carnegie Hall. Steve Reich’s video-opera Three Tales was finally released, both on CD and DVD. A trilogy that cautions against the dangers of placing too much faith in technology, its highlight is the first “tale,” which focuses on the Hindenburg disaster. Another very welcome recording was Elliot Carter’s short opera What Next?, which takes a car crash as its unlikely subject. As each member of the traumatized family wanders the wreckage, Carter’s angular, thorny sound perfectly captures their inner world, shattered by the sudden violence and slowly returning to coherence.

And finally, I would be remiss if I failed to mention my end-of-the-year obsession: Manhunt, a PlayStation-2 game from Rockstar. Although I played the bejesus out of SSX-3, Midnight Club II, and Silent Hill 2, it was Manhunt that really seized me in the insomniac coils of addiction. In this little fragment of hell, you play James Earl Cash, a convicted killer. Rescued from your own execution by a millionaire snuff-film director, you are dragged from urban landscape to urban landscape and hunted by various insane gangs. It’s kill or be killed, your every act filmed by the unseen Director, who gloats, insinuates, and taunts you through an earpiece. The game is violent—no, not cartoon-violent like GTA; I mean really, honest-to-God, make-your-mother-shocked kind of violent—and the harsh dialogue is genuinely unsettling. Have you ever wanted to cower in the shadows behind a rusting truck, while a white trash Nazi wearing a hockey mask and armed with a nail-gun looks for you, calling out “Where are you, you chickenshit? I will take away your pain, shed your serpent skin so you can be REBORN!”—and your only recourse is to toss the severed head of his brother out as a distraction, allowing you to sneak up behind him, tap his shoulder, and stab him in the face with a 16” glass shard—all the while an omniscient psychopath is hissing in your ear, “That’s right, Cash—kill this fucking bigot! I’m getting some great footage here!”—If you can answer yes to this question, it’s a good start. After the first time I played Manhunt, I felt like I needed a shower to make myself clean; I felt like I might have done something wrong. And if you don’t read this as a recommendation, then you might want to stick to Frogger.

Allen B. Ruch is the editorial director of The Modern Word .