Today I welcome author, Arthur Rosch,
Esther Kantro has four children. She hates all of them and the hatred is
reciprocated. The oldest son, Aaron,
finds refuge in music. As he grows up,
he learns that art can be the key to healing his most grievous emotional
wounds. This is a book about a family of
individuals who can be monstrous in their cruelty yet sublime in their ability
to create works of art. The word dysfunctional is inadequate to contain the
scope of the Kantro family's problems.
The most apt expression with regard to
the narratives in this book is simple:
"You have to laugh to keep from
crying."
***
Let's take a look inside the book...
Chapter One
September, 1967. Detroit, Michigan
Aaron
Kantro follows his colleagues through the labyrinth of the nightclub’s kitchen
and out the back door. A waft of cool air hits his face as he steps onto the
concrete platform next to the loading dock. His sweat instantly begins to dry
and he can see steam misting from the other musicians’ tuxedos. It’s the band’s
third break. They will play one more set of forty five minutes. Then their work
for the night is done.
There
are nine or ten people gathered around the rear entrance to the club. They are
either jazz fans who want to hang out or they are so loaded they don’t know how
they got there.
A
man with his shirtails dangling from his suit stumbles into Aaron. “I wan’
shake your hand,” he announces. He extends his unkempt digits and then pulls
his hand away as if to recalibrate his arm’s trajectory. Aaron, when he puts
his hand out to respond, feels like an idiot. He puts his hands in his pockets
and hopes the man will go away.“I tell you somethin’“, the man says. “You play
some drums for a white boy. Some fuckin’ drums. I close my eyes, can’t tell the
diff’rence. Sound jus’ like a real drummer.” He tries again to extend his hand
and stumbles across his own feet.
“Excuse
me”, a young lady says as she passes between Aaron and the drunk. She wants an
autograph from the legendary saxophonist, Zoot Prestige. Aaron’s boss transfers
a cheroot from his hand to his mouth. He leans down to inscribe his signature
into the lady’s little book, while trying to keep his eyes averted from the
cleavage that is so conspicuously thrust into his face. Aaron notes this little
drama and loses his anger. Zoot Prestige is just too funny. Aaron quietly moves
behind the imposing figure of his boss. The drunk rambles away, talking to
himself.
Aaron
is the only white person beneath the scalloped awning. There are perhaps ten
white people in the club. It bothers him more than he likes to admit that he
longs to see other white faces. It has been his decision to play jazz, and his
brand of jazz carries him to black clubs in black neighborhoods. Sometimes, the
moment he walks into a place, he feels the air freeze with racial tension.
Sometimes he is scared. The only way through it is to play the music.
As
the little throng disperses, Zoot butts his smoke in the sand of an ashtray. He
steps off the concrete pad and walks across the lot towards his car.
After waiting about thirty
seconds, the group’s organist, Tyrone Terry, follows the lanky figure of his
boss. Aaron waits another thirty seconds and follows his colleagues to the
cream-colored Continental. This precaution seems a little silly but there are
probably narcs in the club and Aaron has to admit that it is pretty obvious
what’s happening when three jazz musicians get into a car and don’t go
anywhere.
Soon
the men are engrossed in the ritual of the pipe: lighting, inhaling, holding
breath, exhaling. It’s cozy in the Continental’s plush interior. Air comes
sighing through the upholstery’s leather seams as the musicians’ weight compresses
the seat cushions. Zoot and his side-men are settling down, recharging their
nerves for the next set, the last set. It is one o’clock in the morning.
“She
wanted you to look at ‘em,” Tyrone says to his employer.
“I
know,” responds Zoot, “but it seems so...I don’t know...un-chivalrous to put my
nose right into a lady’s cleavage. Besides, it’s redundant. I seen titties
before. Wan’t nothin’ special about hers...they’s just....”
BANG!
There is a huge sound, an explosion. The men’s bodies react instinctively. They
duck, and their arms rise to cover their heads.
The
car lurches as a man dives across the hood, holding a pistol in his right hand.
His legs swim wildly as he fights to stop his momentum. Whatever tactic he has
in mind, it isn’t working. The car’s sheen and finish turn the hood into a
sliding board.
“Jesus
fucking Christ!” In the back seat Aaron curses loudly without thinking. He has
never before heard a gun shot. In spite of this fact, he recognizes the sound.
It is rounder, weightier, and more final than the sound of a firecracker.
The
man on the car’s hood waves the pistol frantically. Slithering to get his
balance, he clutches at the windshield wipers and misses. Gravity and car wax
slide him across the polished metal until he lands on the ground. The pistol
fires as he hits the gravel. The bullet penetrates a tire with a loud hiss.
Where can I buy this fabulous book?
About the author
The greatest thing that ever happened to me was
my awful childhood. I had no choice but to get angry, rebel and follow my path
to becoming an artist. My first duty as an artist was to cultivate obsessions.
I proceeded to do this with gusto and learned that there is no substitute for a
good obsession, compulsion or addiction to gain insight into human nature. I
managed to stay out of jail (except for a single night when the Detroit police
busted every member of The Artist's Workshop), and I managed to stay out of the
loony bin. Of course it was a girl who inspired me to write poetry. It wasn't
until I was twenty six that I realized I could write novels. Prior to that I
had been a jazz musician, a drummer/keyboard player/composer with an immense
curiosity. I figure the description "artist" covers whatever medium
is inspiring at the moment. Writing is really the refuge of my
"later" life, after forty. It took me that long to wear out the
obsessions. They had really gotten out of hand. Not that I regret a single one.
Part of a writer's apprenticeship is to spend at least twenty years being
mentally deranged, so I got to have my ticket punched on that one. It took
twelve years of intense therapy to pull myself back into the functioning world.
Did I tell you I love astronomy? Oh, I love astronomy! I got some lovely
recognition as a photographer by doing creative work at night with cameras.
Please visit my photo websites at 500px or artsdigitalphoto. I make about half
a living doing photography. Writers don't want to hear about my books. They
want to hear about their own books. If you're a reader, however, you might find
my oeuvre interesting. I love science fiction, literary fiction, Rumi's poetry,
travel, history, dogs and cats and my wife, who is half Apache. She can be very
eerie when she goes dipping into the shaman's world. She invokes the spirit
helpers called "The Grandmothers". Those ladies have helped us out of
a lot of jams. Stories of weird miracles are told in the travel memoir THE ROAD
HAS EYES,, AN RV, A RELATIONSHIP AND A WILD RIDE. This book is available at
Smashwords dot com. My younger and musical life is described in CONFESSIONS OF
AN HONEST MAN, which is about to come out as an e-book.. Everything else I
either know or don't know is in the sci fi epic THE GODS OF THE GIFT. Then
there's the new trilogy, THE SHADOW STORM. Oops, there I go talking about my
books. Sorry,writers. Tell me all about yours!
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