Great novelist David Foster Wallace died of apparent suicide on September 12. CARL SHUKER, reviewer and author of ‘The Method Actors’ and ‘The Lazy Boys’, pens a tribute.

I WAS one of the lucky ones who discovered Infinite Jest in 1996, the year it was published and before it developed its really hardcore reputation and ability to inspire a grimace or platitude in the unread by its very mention. Someone had a subscription to TIME and an overheated, both condescending and admiring piece therein (the fence-sitting of reviewers without time or word count to get something that important and that big under their belts [cf. Jack Green’s “Fire the Bastards!” on the first critics of Gaddis’ The Recognitions]) along with a picture of a young unshaven David Foster Wallace in bandanna and white turtleneck did it for me. I was only 22. In a used bookstore in Christchurch (Smith’s, anyone?) I found IJ dustjacketless for six dollars; a pretty good buy – a dollar a month for the time I spent reading and re-reading it to the exclusion of all else while on the nightshift doing laundry at St. George’s Hospital. To the exclusion of the actual job as well – parts of the book are coloured with the sounds of the buzzers of untended three-ton washing machines at the ends of their cycles; coloured too with memories of falsifying the wash logs, memories of finding pieces of umbilical cord cooked in the near-boiling water, and coloured too with a red, semitransparent, gelatinous, congealed material I found repeatedly and stared at raptly and nicknamed “people jelly”. I mention this stuff only because discovering this writer changes the time in which you discover him like a first love affair changes utterly a new city. I have read everything he wrote. A dollar a month for the avalanche, for the hair blown back. For being moved to tears and for cracking up laughing aloud, cackling at a page, page after page. For laughter; for sadness; for wonder. Dollar a month for wisdom. For a kind of education. For curiosity. Dollar a month for the knowledge that the novel can still do anything.

Herald Theatre
Oct 24-Nov 15 | Reviewed by Renee Liang

HOLLYWOOD, as we all know, is corrupt, seething with the power-hungry, the talentless, the beautiful cardboard pin-ups. The Little Dog Laughed makes no attempt to dissuade us of that impression. But this is the kind of play that creeps into your pants and under your skin, until two hours of laughing later, you realise that far from being shallow, this is a very clever play.

IAN C SMITH lives in Australia with his wife and four sons. His short fiction has appeared in Australian Book Review, Island, Meanjin, Overland and Westerly, and his non-fiction in The Age. His narrative verse has been published in The Weekend Australian, Best Australian Poetry 2004, Malahat Review, Quadrant and Southerly. His books of verse are published by The Ginninderra Press.

ANNA KELLY is a student and mild coffee addict. She lives in Dunedin.

San Francisco Bathhouse
October 25 | Reviewed by Brannavan Gnanalingam

Howe Gelb made sure the audience knew Howe is pronounced with only one syllable. He’s probably had to correct a fair few people in his career. His voice sounds like Jack Nicholson, a sneery, effortlessly cool timbre. He looks the part too, a carefree cap and comfortable clothes somehow transposing itself onto a magnetic stage presence. A legendary figure within indie music, he was part of the seminal group Giant Sand, out of whose collective ashes were formed bands such as Calexico. Nowadays, it’s hard to differentiate between Giant Sand and Howe Gelb’s solo work, but it doesn’t really matter. Gelb has been in a decades long quest to remain unclassifiable, ranging from being dubbed the “godfather of alt. country” to explosive guitar indie god to jazz pianist. This was transferred over to his performance: a very loose, improvised set punctuated by digressions, glimpses of his acerbic wit, sharp lyrics, crowd sing-a-longs and some great songs.

BRANNAVAN GNANALINGAM asks songbird Flip Grater about heading to Europe is search of recipes and to play music.

By Veronika Meduna and Rebecca Priestly
Random House, $34.99 | Reviewed by Andy Palmer

Atoms, Dinosaurs & DNA is a frustrating book, even if it achieves its purpose: to inform the reader about prominent New Zealand scientists from the last two centuries. Each scientist is afforded a double page, a brief biography, and discussion of their major work/influence, with a few nice illustrations.

BRANNAVAN GNANALINGAM explains the seminal, inflammatory rap scapegoat, Straight Outta Compton, and the role of N.W.A.’s original gangsta, Ice Cube.

San Francisco Bathhouse
October 16 | Reviewed by Brannavan Gnanalingam

The New Pornographers deep down are a dirty rock ‘n’ roll band. Maybe not so deep down after all, their music is pure power pop (notwithstanding the mellower 2007 album Challengers). They’re full of overdriven glam guitars, blues riffs, and good old-fashioned pop. A band which supposedly started just for fun, they’ve always sounded like a bunch of talented musicians coming together and having a good time. And while they may be renowned for being a “supergroup”, a title which the band hate presumably for its connotations of transience and the idea of trading off past glories, their Wellington gig showed that they play some pretty mean music. They were tight, anthemic, and loud – and the joyous capacity crowd begged them back for two deserving encores.

Issue 1, Spring 2008
VizulEyz Collective, NZ$9 | Reviewed by Andy Palmer

VizulEyz is a new publication by a group of photographers who met at the Rangiora Photographic Society and who have a strong interest in classic documentary photography – decisive moment, black and white.

Basement Theatre
October 15-25 | Reviewed by Renee Liang

WHAT HAPPENS when a group of disaffected twenty-somethings get together to make a play? In one parallel universe, A City of Souls comes into being. Strangely enough, it’s about what happens when a group of disaffected twenty-somethings get together. If you’re not into deep and meaningful discussions about life, alcohol and the multiple uses of sexual organs, then this play may not hit your G-spot. On the other hand, if you enjoy this kind of discussion on a regular basis (or feel nostalgic about your long-past hedonistic youth), then you’ll probably love it.

One Day Sculpture
October 9 | Reviewed by Thomasin Sleigh

OCTOBER 7 – 13 was Disaster Awareness Week. It was all go in Wellington, with cars and helicopters flying over the city emitting piercing sirens followed by the words “This is a test – the next time you hear this siren it could be a real emergency or disaster. Get ready to get through – your local council can help.” Very exciting, but a little bewildering if you didn’t know what was going on.

San Francisco Bathhouse
October 10 | Reviewed by Brannavan Gnanalingam

WELLINGTON has had live hip-hop strangled out of it in recent times. Notwithstanding a reasonably vibrant underground scene, recent concerts by some of the bigger acts have fallen through – People Under the Stairs, DJ Shadow, Nas. So when hip-hop big-wigs Blackalicious came to town, the parched crowd seemed eager to lap anything and everything served up. The audience’s sycophantic cries were singeing – the shouting and hooting must have broken noise laws on their own. And Gift of Gab and co didn’t disappoint, the verbal dexterity and celebratory hip-hop that have made Blackalicious feted on full display.

White Swan Black Swan’s new double mini-album contains gorgeous tunes, and moments of real beauty – a gentle and winning release. BRANNAVAN GNANALINGAM chats with the ‘White Swan’ of the collaboration, Sonya Waters.

By Sue Orr
Random House, NZ$29.95 | Reviewed by Sarah Jane Barnett

The bookkeeper’s wife wanted to host a dinner party. It would not be too large an affair – six guests at the most, she suggested – a small gathering to break the monotony of long winter evenings.

Sue Orr’s debut book of short stories will certainly break the monotony of a long winter evening. For the last couple of years I have had a sneaking feeling that short stories will become the ‘next big thing’ in New Zealand literature. I don’t know if this thought was prompted by the conception of the Six Pack or just because recently I have had the serendipity of reading some great books of short stories. But I think their bite-sized morsels of fiction fit neatly into the ‘empty time’ public transport creates in our lives. Etiquette for a Dinner Party stands out on the shelf. Its delicious cover hints at the contents inside: black and glossy with three formally-dressed gentlemen at a dinner table, plus snake. The book itself feels soft and pliable in the hand. With Orr’s history as a journalist, editor, speechwriter and Manhire graduate, I was interested to see what gems of social graces and etiquette she had woven into her characters and plots.

Downstage Theatre
Sept 23-Oct 3 | Reviewed by Helen Sims

IT’S HARD to believe that Toa Fraser’s Bare is ten years old – this 10 year anniversary production of the award-winning play, directed by Oliver Driver, feels anything but dated. Bare still ‘speaks’ of and to New Zealand culture in a unique way – and that is what is at the heart of the play – an attempt to capture the word, the voice, the song of multicultural youth at a time when the term multicultural seems to have lost its meaning, as expressed through a multiplicity of characters. As such Bare sets a challenge for its actors and director, which Driver and his two young performers, Curtis Vowell and Morgana O’Reilly, rise to meet in an interesting way. They bring a varied tone to the piece that never looses an uncompromising thrust.

San Francisco Bathhouse
October 7 | Reviewed by Brannavan Gnanalingam

PERHAPS due to the increased cultural literacy of a wider group of musicians and audiences nowadays, there has been a trend towards indie artists who cherry-pick from all over the world. It can be very difficult to do convincingly, and even more difficult to do it well. Luckily, Yeasayer were up to the task – a scintillating live show exploded in Wellington with dysfunctional beats, eerie harmonies (the band started off as a barbershop quartet) and an energy that showcased some brilliant music.

Jonathan Hodge is an actor, writer and theatre maker based in Auckland. He is producer and collaborator on A City of Souls, the maiden production of new theatre company Catalyst. RENEE LIANG caught up with Jonathan via online chat.

MEDB CHARLETON grew up in Sligo in the North West of Ireland. She is a recent graduate of the MA in Creative Writing at Victoria University of Wellington and moves between Ireland and her adoptive New Zealand.

Circa Theatre
Sept 27-Oct 25 | Reviewed by Helen Sims

I HAVE to admit that the premise of this show did not wildly excite me – four high school mates, now in their 30s, gather for a once-a-month tennis match and moan about the receding hairlines. I’m getting a little tired of the subject of male friendships and the marketing line of “Men behaving badly” added to the impression that I would be seeing a play that trod a well-worn path – and one I’m not particularly interested in at that. Whilst Drinking Games didn’t go anywhere new, it did exceed my (admittedly low) expectations. And whilst writer Damien Wilkins hasn’t broken the mould with this play, his ear for dialogue is well served by a cast of four excellent actors.

Bond Street Bridge’s debut album comes highly recommended, a showcase for some real talent and fascinating musicianship. BRANNAVAN GNANALINGAM discusses its making with Sam Prebble.

San Francisco Bathhouse
October 1 | Reviewed by Brannavan Gnanalingam

ROBERT FISHER has a voice like a guilty conscience. Haunting, burrowing, his timbre resonates as if it was coming from underground. He’s also a bit of anti-rock star, shuffling on-stage, muttering dead-pan jokes, bathed in crimson-light as if he was in a Twin Peaks dream sequence. But his booming voice was remarkable, when he truly cut loose in the middle of his performance, it was quite something.

Peter Peryer photographs;
Essays by Peter Simpson and Peter Peryer
AUP, $59.95 | Reviewed by Andy Palmer

PETER PERYER himself introduces us to his book – and to himself. In ‘First Light’, a brief autobiographical essay, he gives us some insight into the man and the artist, and where they came from. It largely comprises of seemingly random thoughts/vignettes about his childhood – such as “In 1953 we were given little British flags on sticks and made to line up along a footpath and wave at Queen Elizabeth as she was driven past. What beautiful skin, I remember thinking” – before slipping into more of a direct narrative as he gets older. While it ends shortly after he first picked up a camera, throughout Peryer hints at the foundations of his photographic interests without spelling it out.

BRANNAVAN GNANALINGAM trawls the local music calendar to bring us the month’s best gigs. This October: Willard Grant Conspiracy, Yeasayer, Blackalicious w/ MC Lateef + The Mighty Underdogs, Delaney Davidson, The New Pornographers, Howe Gelb.