Author: Andrew Wheeler

Norse Mythology, Vol. 1 by Neil Gaiman, P. Craig Russell, & various artists

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Comics artists of a certain age always want to draw Loki in a helmet with big twisty ram’s horns. I know why, they know why – we all know why. But reminding readers of bombastic comics for kids, hacked out monthly and printed on the cheapest paper available, might not be the mental connection you want to make in your classy hardcover collection of retold myths. I’m just saying.

Norse Mythology, Volume 1  is the latest in the long line of floppies and sturdier-formatted objects intending to, as far as I can tell, create sequential pictures for every last word Neil Gaiman has ever written in his long career. (Look out for Duran Duran by Neil Gaiman: The Graphic Novel!)

As is usual for this project, Gaiman wrote the original thing (in this case, the 2017 book Norse Mythology , a novel-shaped retelling of what bits of Norse mythology survived Christianity, which ain’t much) and is not credited with anything at all related to this book. P. Craig Russell adapted the original thing into comics, and drew some of it – here the first two (of seven) sections. And various other people – Jill Thompson, Mike Mignola, David Rubín, Jerry Ordway, Piotr Kowalski – drew the other bits, sometimes coloring it themselves and sometimes letting others (mostly Lovern Kindzierski) do the colors.

The stories were originally published in twelve floppy issues, with multiple covers because it’s the modern world and we can’t have anything nice anymore, and then those were collected into three hardcovers. I’ll let you figure out which of the two this one was.

(So it’s exactly the same model as The Graveyard Book , for those still confused.)

Using multiple artists works a bit better here than in Graveyard, which was basically one story – this is more miscellaneous to begin with, since the stories are only vaguely in chronological order for the usual mythological reasons. And the styles work well together – they’re individual, but all are working here mostly in an adventure-comics look with quite a lot of Stan-and-Jack in its DNA.

As usual with Russell’s adaptations, it’s very faithful, with lots of captions to use as much of the original prose as possible. As always, I find that is just fine, and probably what the paying audience wants, but it makes the whole thing just slightly plodding and obvious.

But, let me be honest: you get this book because you want more Neil Gaiman stuff, and you want it to be as Neil Gaiman-y as possible. You probably already read the underlying book, and want something as much like “exactly that, but with pictures of Loki in a helmet with big twisty ram’s horns” as possible. This book delivers on that promise.

(Note: I read this book on December 15, and wrote this post on December 21. It is entirely possible that you do not want any more Neil Gaiman stuff ever again in your life. That’s entirely valid, too.)

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

Why Are You Like This? by Meg Adams

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One of the oddest things, for me, about the contemporary cartooning world is that everybody has to be an entrepreneur now. (I mean, yeah, I know, late-stage capitalism hits all of us and all that jazz, sure, but even more so for cartoonists.) It used to be that cartoonists who did lots of different things – single-panels, mostly disconnected from each other – sold them individually to magazines or other outlets, but cartoonists all wanted to come up with a concept they could turn into a strip: a concept that supported a stream of stories, with new entries regularly, probably multi-panel. And some larger organization would back that strip, push it out into the world, gather the money, and keep the whole engine running for decades.

But, these days, even the most successful recent new strips of the 21st century – aside from a very few newspaper launches like Crabgrass – are all webcomics. On the positive side, that means the creator owns it all. On the negative side, the creator has to do it all: build a website, design and source merchandise and reprint books, run fundraisers, set up advertising, and everything else that actually brings in revenue on top of just creating the work.

And it may be a cliché, but cartoonists are not generally known for their organizational skill, entrepreneurial zeal, and eagerness to sell their work to other people. On the other hand, we have been getting a lot of interesting strips from good cartoonists, so the system seems to be working…but I suspect there’s an element of “young cartoonist has enough energy and gumption to set it up and run it for a few years, then gets ground down by the lack of stable cash flow and aforementioned late-stage capitalism.”

Because I want to see cartoonist have long, complex, interesting careers. If they can do that in high-profile ways, so I don’t have to take a lot of time and effort to chase their work down, that would be even better, because I am lazy.

These thoughts are brought to you today by What Are You Like This? , the first collection of the ArtbyMoga online strip by Meg Adams, a talented younger cartoonist from the Pacific Northwest. The book is from Andrews McMeel, the book-publishing arm of one of the surviving major comics syndicators, so she’s somewhat plugged into what used to be the big engine of comics success. But ArtbyMoga strips originally appear on Adams’s social media, cast out for free into the world in hopes that will lead to engagement and clicks and eyeballs and merch sales and Ko-Fi tips and so forth. (There is something inherently Underpants Gnomes-esque about modern webcomics, particularly those that live on Instagram. To editorialize briefly, it’s what happens when you let your economy be dominated by techbros who are really good at making sure most of the potential money in any system comes to them and them alone.)

But I’m supposed to be writing here about Meg Adams comics! She’s got a energetic, expressive cartoony style, with big fat confident lines and great faces. Her work is in the roughly autobio area – I won’t assume how much the “Meg” and “Carson” in her strips really map to her real self and husband; comic exaggeration is a thing that exists – and her strips are pretty domestic, grounded in the lives of this couple and their various animals (I think two dogs and three cats).

I particularly like how Adams draws herself. She has a conventionally pretty version of her face she does some of the time, for quieter, more normal moments. But she also has a more distorted, cartoony self that pops up a lot – see the cover, with that weird thin nose, distorted eyes, and unsettling mouth. I’m always impressed by humorists (in comics or out of it) who are confident enough to throw a Gookie and make themselves the butt of the joke, and Adams does that really well.

So I want you to support Meg Adams, and cartoonists like her. Read their comics, buy and read their books, buy T-shirts if you can, buy sketches or whatever if it strikes your fancy. Click like and subscribe, as they say. You can start with this book: it’s out now, it’s very funny, and it’s pretty cheap, too. Thank me later.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

Hanami: You, Me, & 200 Sq Ft in Japan by Julia Cejas

I’ve always been a fan of complication – especially if it’s complicated mostly in my own head. So a book about a Spanish couple moving to live in Japan for an extended period, originally published in France and translated into English for American publication by a mostly French company headquartered in Hollywood…well, that’s the kind of complication I love. I figured it probably wouldn’t even affect the book itself much, and I was right.

Julia Cejas is a Spanish illustrator and maker of comics; her partner (I think they’re married now; I also think they got married in large part because it would make the bureaucracy of this trip to Japan easier) Marc was an engineer and is now trying to work as a composer, primarily for video games. They realized that they had a moment in their lives – no strong ties, children or animals; work that could be done anywhere; funding from Marc’s severance from the job he didn’t want and Julia’s recent grant – where they could actually live their dream. They could move to Japan and live there for at least months – maybe indefinitely, if things worked out.

Hanami  is Cejas’s first graphic novel, the story of that time, wrapped up in a little context to show their lives before and after. (Holly Atchison translated it for this US edition.) Cejas has a designer’s eye: her panels are each precise and specific, often zooming in closer than the reader expects to This One Particular Thing. She uses a two-color palette, with various intensities of a red and a blue that are both fairly quiet, earthy, and grounded.

They possibly did not do as much planning as they might have – Cejas was a vegetarian and Marc had a gluten intolerance, which made finding food to eat somewhat difficult to begin with. (Not just figuring out what foods they can eat, but reading labels in a foreign language, in a foreign alphabet, and looking for all the words that could mean “meat” or “bread.”)

But it was an experience, the kind of thing most of us can only dream of – and that we can live, vicariously, though a well-observed and thoughtfully executed book like this one. They did have a life in Japan for a while, doing many of the things they wanted to do – and they also found some things surprises, or did other things they didn’t expect. That’s a life, and the joy in reading about other people’s lives is seeing those moments depicted clearly and honestly. Hanami has a lot of those joys, made up of Cejas’s careful choices in picking moments to depict and her designer’s eye in turning those moments into vibrant, interesting pages filled with compelling images.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

Bogart Creek, Vol. 1 by Derek Evernden

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Names are not unique: I need to remind myself of that every so often. Today I have a book of comics from a small Canadian publisher called Renegade Arts Entertainment, and, at first I thought, “Renegade? Surely it’s not the same one?”

It’s not. The Renegade I was thinking of – Renegade Press, the mid-80s enterprise from Deni Loubert – shut down more than thirty years ago. This is a newer company, founded in 2008, that publishes comics, graphic novels and audiobooks out of Canmore, Alberta. So it’s mildly amusing there were two comics publishers from Canada with sort-of the same name, but there was a good twenty years between them, and they were from close to opposite ends of that large country.

What I saw from Renegade Arts is the first collection of Derek Evernden’s single-panel comic Bogart Creek  – from looking at the Renegade site, I see there are two more collections.

The book isn’t clear on where these comics originally appear – there is a Bogart Creek site that Evernden runs, but it’s mostly a contact-me and buy-my-books operation; it’s not a home for new comics. My guess is that possibly there’s a newspaper or three where they occasionally appear, and/or that Evernden just posts them on Instagram . In any case: he’s been doing this for a few years now, and has built up a body of work.

It’s pretty consistent: dark humor with more gore than most of us would expect in a single panel, full of dark wordplay and distinctive ideas. I don’t know if I’d say there’s anything obviously Canadian about it, but it does seem like the work of someone likely to get stuck snowbound on a frozen dark prairie more than once in any given year.

I do mean dark humor, though: Evernden’s jokes are about death, in one way or another, a good third of the time. It’s often zippy, amusing moments before the inevitable death that he cartoons about, but, still: death. Lots of it. And plenty of big black splotches where something violent and final just happened.

Bogart Creek is one of the many single panels that follow Far Side – “weird” humor has tended to go that direction for the past two or three decades. It is distinctively its own thing while also sitting solidly in that tradition, if you know what I mean: it might not have existed without Far Side to show that this was a viable medium, but Evernden’s ideas and jokes are very different from Larson’s.

I hesitate to recommend Bogart Creek widely, but it is funny. Evernden has a distinctive point of view and makes good gags. He’s also a working illustrator, and you can see that in his work: his style is mostly consistent, but he mixes up his look a bit to suit particular jokes. If you like dark humor, check out Bogart Creek.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

Adulthood Is a Gift! by Sarah Andersen

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So it looks like I discovered Sarah Andersen’s comics in late 2021, and read all of her books within roughly a year: Adulthood Is a Myth , Fangs , Big Mushy Happy Lump , Herding Cats , Cryptid Club , and Oddball . That’s always fun – discovering a new creator and reading all the way out to the walls – but, unless the person you suddenly love is Wodehouse or Simenon, there’s only going to be so many books, and you’ll find the end.

And then you’re in the same place as all of the older fans – waiting for the next book.

Andersen had a new book this fall, the confusingly-titled Adulthood Is a Gift!  It is not, as I first thought, a gift-book edition of Myth; it’s not a repackaging of Myth at all. It’s two-thirds a brand-new “Sarah’s Scribbles” collection and one-third prose-and-comics retrospective of her career to date. It’s somewhere between a tenth and fifteenth anniversary celebration – the first book was in 2016, her first cartoon published online was in 2011. But why should we have to wait for round numbers?

(Parenthetically, as a Marketing Guy, I would have argued against having a book with a title so similar to an existing book, especially with the “crossed-out” title style. My bet is that sales on this one will be slightly disappointing, just because at least some people will be confused and think they already have this. On the other hand, creators typically hate Marketing Guy, and I do understand why.)

The new stuff is prime mature Andersen: goofy gags, largely about cats and introversion and how your body parts start to betray you much, much earlier in your life than you expect. There’s about a hundred of those, in her precise minimalist style – seeing her older work later in the book really emphasizes how clean and funny her line has gotten over the years. (Down to the little things: her people’s eyes are usually just a little off – too big, absolutely, and also just a hair wall-eyed all the time.)

The older material is presented as “essays and images” – Andersen shows an old comic, and then writes about it. Sometimes it’s about who she was at the time, and what she was trying to do; sometimes it’s about how the outside world caused trouble, as when she was attacked and harassed systematically by a group of online neo-Nazis in 2017.

So this is maybe for Andersen’s fans more than her other books – at least for people who don’t mind reading about process and thinking about how art is made. She’s got impressive chops, and is insightful at writing about how she got to where she is now, too. So, if you like funny cartoons about Millennials, or hope to someday make your own funny online cartoons, Adulthood Is a Gift! could give you enjoyment and/or pointers.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

Nancy Wins at Friendship by Olivia Jaimes

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Nancy Wins at Friendship  is the second collection of the Olivia Jaimes era of that long-running newspaper strip; it was published in 2023 but seems to mostly reprint strips from the 2019-2020 era. Jaimes took over the strip in 2018, and her first collection, just called Nancy , came out less than a year later – in some world where newspaper comic strip collections are things “the kids” buy and read and crave, there could have been eight or ten books this length by now.

But the whole point of the early Olivia Jaimes Nancy is that “kids these days” are different. So that’s not just a counterfactual, but one that directly contradicts the work itself.

I wrote about the first book about six months ago: those strips were a shock, in a good way, back in 2018. The Guy Gilchrist version of Nancy had been slowly losing newspapers for years as it sunk deeper into its own dull mix of sappy sentimentalism and incongruous good-girl art, and there was no serious hope that a legacy strip – especially one so closely identified with its creator, Ernie Bushmiller, and his mania for simple, precise gags – would break out of the straitjacket of the syndicate’s hand and ever do anything interesting.

We were wrong. Unlike so many things this last decade or so, we we actually wrong by being too pessimistic, so Nancy is one small hopeful lesson for the world. Nancy was rejuvenated by a younger, female, pseudonymous creator – we still don’t know who “Olivia Jaimes” really is, though it mostly doesn’t matter; whatever she did before, this Nancy is her best-known and probably most-sustained work – first as a big signpost to say “this is going to be different now.”

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But the “Sluggo Is Lit” era – awesome as it was – settled down. That wasn’t what Jaimes was planning to do, long-term: it was more of a clean break from the Gilchrist years, a way to grab attention and draw a line in the sand, to say her Nancy would be over here from now on.

This book shows what Jaimes wanted to focus Nancy on: still smart gags every day – she’s enough of a fan of Bushmiller that isn’t negotiable – but embedded in a more realistic modern world, with the phones and tech (and, yes, some language from the kids) that the early strips made such a point of. But Jaimes also added a new supporting cast around Nancy in school – friends, teachers supportive and struggling, a rival – to widen out this world.

It’s a more grounded strip, as odd as that might seem from the first few months. More grounded than Gilchrist, more grounded than Bushmiller, frankly: Bushmiller was always a minimalist, paring everything down to a single focused gag in each individual strip, and happy to throw away all continuity and consistency to make that day’s gag better. Jaimes’s aims are slightly different: she still has Nancy as a self-centered, appetite-driven little kid, but the fact that she’s smart and clever and good at working out quirky ideas – all traits core to her since the beginning – are more important, and connect to this mostly normal school life.

So Nancy, improbably, became largely a kids-in-school strip, about lessons and robotics club and rivalries with the other elementary schools. This is the book collecting the strips where that largely happened: this is the middle of that twist. It’s a good strip, still full of fun gags, though Jaimes is much fonder of the ironic verbal reversal than Bushmiller’s more visual eye.

I hope there are more books of Nancy; a lot has happened since the strips collected here. This one is largely a how-do-we-do-school-during-pandemic time-capsule at this point; I wonder why that was the book Andrews McMeel put out in 2023, but I suppose they figured they need to stay in order or the pandemic strips will just be too disjoint to ever use. But there are two Olivia Jaimes collections, which is pretty good: I recommend both of them, in the right order.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

Moebius Library: The Art of Edena by Jean "Moebius" Giraud

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I don’t want to say “art of” books always come out as line extensions after a creator has died and can’t produce new work, but…it’s pretty darn common.

This book, for example: The Art of Edena , part of the vague “Moebius Library” (which seems to be primarily, if not entirely, posthumous itself). It was assembled in 2018 and credited to Jean “Moebius” Giraud, who had died in 2012. It also lists “Commentary by” Isabelle Giraud (his widow) and Moebius Production, which I suspect is the actual entity that assembled this stuff, signed publishing contracts, checked proofs, and so forth.

It is, as the title implies, an art book related to his graphic novel series The World of Edena  – it has four short comics stories set in that world, plus a bunch of paintings, some rough pages, and more than a little text by someone clearly not Moebius about how awesome he was and how special and wonderful his characters Stel and Atan are in these stories.

Luckily, it’s the kind of art book that is mostly art, and the art is presented clearly and well on large pages. The text is a bit much, particularly for those (like me) who think the Edena stories are goofy and weirdly lumpy, lurching from one Moebius obsession to another as they were created over a few decades, and not actually reaching a solid ending, either. But you have to assume that the marketing entity set up to exploit a dead creator’s work will consider him the best things since spreadable cream cheese, so we just roll with it.

As usually, I find Moebius’s art lovely, detailed, and particular while finding his ideas often second-hand, sophomoric, and faintly embarrassing. The stories here – I don’t want to claim much; they are short and may be the main selling point but are not a majority of the book – are mostly wordless, which is always a big plus for Moebius.

Potentially positive: this book explains the plots of the Edena books in greater clarity than the books themselves did – at least to me, when I read them. So it does function as a solid companion to the series.

So, all in all, this is a nice book, of most interest to big Moebius fans obviously, with a lot of striking art and a fair bit of broad claims that the reader (if anything like me) will not entirely be able to swallow. Again: a posthumous “art of” book; that’s what to expect.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

The Unlikely Story of Felix and Macabber by Juni Ba and Hassan Otsmane-Elhaou

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Knowing what needs to be said in a story, and what can just be implied, is always tricky. We can all think of works that fail in both directions – overexplaining, or leaving things too murky.

I think The Unlikely Story of Felix and Macabber  doesn’t quite explain all of the things it should have – but it’s close, and some readers might find the way it implies its world is just fine. So let me just note that, and note that this is writer Hassan Otsmane-Elhaou’s first graphic novel, and point out that traditionally ties go to the runner.

I have no quibbles about the art by Juni Ba, which is detailed in quirky, grotesque ways that fits this world perfectly. Also, I should say that the lettering is by Otsamane-Elhaou – the sound effects are particularly fun, and he makes the captions and dialogue slightly italic to give the book a distinctive look, too.

I don’t know if this book is specifically for younger readers, but it has a vibe that upper-elementary-school kids will probably enjoy, and the professional-wrestling influences also tend to make the violence stylized and bloodless in ways that are young-reader-friendly.

We’re in a world of monsters – think Monsters, Inc., where everyone is a slightly different kind of creature, and you’ll be close – where strength and fighting ability seem to be prized above all other traits. (Or, at least, this story deals with that side of this world.) A young, small monster named Felix is timid, bullied by a gang of other monsters from his school. They dare him to ring a random doorbell; he does. A craggy old monster answers the door, and seems to want to talk to this random small interloper for reasons that are never clear. He grabs at Felix, who runs away immediately, and loses his backpack to the old guy.

This is all heavily narrated, mostly in ways that tell us things we can already see on-panel rather than adding detail to the world – it’s a very story-book voice, as if telling the story many years later.

Anyway, Felix is bullied at school and browbeaten by his parents and denigrated by his teachers: he’s the usual mousy little guy who needs to learn to stick up for himself. In trying to get his backpack back, he accidentally stows away in the old guy’s car – I suppose I should make it clear that the old guy is Macabber, the other half of the title – as he goes back to the town of his birth.

Macabber is the former World Champion of Monstering, hugely dominant in his era. Monstering is basically pro wrestling, only in a society of monsters where everyone has completely different bodies from each other. He left this town to go off for the big fights, leaving his former best friend behind. He never returned – until now, of course – in however many years it’s been.

The town is a dump now, which everyone living there blames Macabber for. There’s no reason for this I can figure out: it’s a weird mix of “you’re supposed to support the old neighborhood” and “you left us behind.” And everyone is much more likely to resolve interpersonal conflicts by punching rather than talking about things, which may be one reason why we don’t get any clear, or convincing, explanations.

Anyway, the local hooligans – little guys in knight’s armor – find and harass and then recruit Felix, again for murky reasons. Macabber meets his once-best friend, sort-of apologizes for having a successful career elsewhere, and feels guilty. We get a lot of flashbacks to Macabber’s fighting career, which was zippy and action-packed.

That portion of the story doesn’t exactly resolve, but we flash forward suddenly, to see that Felix also goes into Monstering, and is even better at it than Macabber was – we get a few of his fights, too – but we mostly see him at the end of his career, rich and successful and done with it all.

Felix does not seem to have run away from any towns, or beaten up any of his best friends to do so, or run his career in any ways that would make us dislike him. But he has the same sad attitude at the end of his career Macabber did – not sad because it’s over, not sad because he stomped over people to get there, but just generally sad because he’s not sure if he’s a good or bad person, I guess.

I want to say that the lesson Unlikely Story is trying to make – or the lesson it comes closest to making – is that fighting people for a living is a bad idea; that violence is never the answer, little trooper. But it’s so clearly a book about how Monstering is fun and exciting and awesome that doesn’t really seem to fit.

So I’m puzzled by Unlikely Story. It seems to want to give me a Lesson About Life, but its two characters are not parallel in any ways that reinforce the Lesson it seems to want to push. What they have in common, at the end of their careers, is a habit of speaking in vague circumlocutions – this may be more Otsmane-Elhaou’s writing style – and a sense that they are sad because it’s all over and they’re no longer Monstering Champion of the World anymore, which, um, yeah, would be sad, wouldn’t it?

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

Laid Waste by Julia Gfrörer

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The best creators are unique, with styles and concerns different from everyone else. You know their work clearly: it is what it is, and it is intensely itself.

Julia Gfrörer draws thin lines, mostly all the same width. Her stories are set in the deep European past, told straightforwardly with a cold but not unsympathetic camera-eye. They are about death most of the time, I think.

Laid Waste  was her 2016 graphic novel; it followed Black Is the Color , and – if Wikipedia can be trusted – is still her most recent book.

It’s set during the plague: probably the 1300s, somewhere in Europe. In an unnamed town, there’s a woman named Agnes who seems to be immune to the plague – well, we first see her “die” of it as a baby, and then be pulled out of her grave, so the scientific explanation is that she survived it once and afterward was immune.

There could also be a supernatural explanation. The people in this world are more likely to believe that one. It doesn’t comfort them – nothing would comfort them right now, as all the people around them are dying, one by one, painfully and hideously, and the dogs and rats flourish, growing more bold every day.

The dead are all around. We see people die, we see the bodies piled in the churchyard and a ditch. We see the dogs fight over those bodies. We see the survivors – the current survivors; this isn’t over yet – continuing with their lives, milking cows and tending crops. Even when the world is ending, they still need to eat.

And we see Agnes at the center of this: strong and capable and healthy. She’s holding her older sister when she dies early in the book; she sees other deaths, lugs other bodies. What she’s going through is unendurable, we think – but what’s the alternative? She is still alive. So many others are dead.

The other main character is Giles, a neighbor. He also seems to be a lucky one, still healthy as we see him. But death strikes his family as well: no one in this village is untouched, not the children, not the plague doctor with his pointy mask.

Agnes and Giles connect: I’ll call it that. Cling to each other, I suppose, as two of the few people healthy enough to keep things going. As the ones who have to keep things going, until they fall themselves.

Agnes and Giles, and the rest of their village, believe in the supernatural – Death personified, saints and angels. They see and talk about that; it may be “real” in the world of the story, but it’s not nice and it’s not comforting. This is a hard world, full of death and woe, and no one talks about the joys of the afterlife, seeing their friends and family die in pain.

Laid Waste is a short book: about eighty pages, covering just a few days. It looks unflinchingly at this world of death and sadness, and we see it through the eyes of the inhabitants. It is powerful and chilly and unnerving and, maybe, with just a tiny bit of hope at the end. (If I had titles for these posts, this one would be “Let Me Walk You Home.”)

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

All Tomorrow’s Parties by Koren Shadmi

The Velvet Underground were famously the band who had only a very small fanbase while they were around – but, the joke went, every single one of those fans started bands of their own. So they were massively influential, which is nice, but not usually what people start rock bands to achieve.

Koren Shadmi’s 2023 graphic novel All Tomorrow’s Parties: The Velvet Underground Story  tells the story of the band in comics format. It follows Shadmi’s previous nonfiction books Lugosi  and The Twilight Man , more traditional pop-culture bios of a single person, as well as a number of Shadmi’s fictional works, like Bionic . He’s been making book-length comics for more than a decade now, through a bunch of variations, and clearly has the chops to do a more complicated book like this one, with multiple main characters and a lot of faces to get right on the page.

Now, I am not one of those fabled Velvets fans – I’ve heard their music, here and there, and obviously heard a lot of people influenced by them, but it’s never been my thing. I’m here partly out of vague interest in the famous story, partly for the mid-60s vibe around Andy Warhol’s Factory, and partly because I’m just keeping up with Shadmi’s career.

So I think Shadmi does this well, but I might not be the one you trust on that. He frames the main story with Andy Warhol’s 1987 funeral, the first time former Velvet creative titans Lou Reed and John Cale had spoken in nearly two decades, and tells the main story conventionally, starting with quick glances at Reed and Cale as tormented teenagers in Long Island and Wales, respectively, before bringing all the threads together in New York’s Lower East Side in the early 1960s.

The core of the book is the early days – say roughly 1963 to 1970 – when Reed and Cale first met and started making music together, then forming the band, connecting with Warhol and his whole weird entourage/machine, and finally recording their first two records. The book doesn’t exactly end when Reed kicks Cale out of the band unilaterally in 1968, but there’s only two short chapters after that point: one a vignette of the band’s life in 1970, their last failing grasp at popularity; and the other returning to the frame story in 1987 to show how Cale and Reed reconciled, made a record together about Warhol, and eventually had a small Velvets reunion in the early ’90s.

That’s probably as much of the story as I’ll bother to explain: the core audience for this book knows all of these details much better than I do.

Shadmi focuses on the band members in a rough scale of importance: primarily Reed, only slightly lesser Cale, and then a big drop down to guitarist Sterling Morrison (who’s part of a lot of scenes, but not as active), and then even more down to drummer Mo Tucker (who seems to have been pretty quiet to begin with). Nico is there but oddly, not really fitting in – just as she was in real life. He’s good at their faces, though at times the book is oddly a series of images of Reed’s craggy face masked by sunglasses – just as it was at the time, of course.

There’s a lot of material here, and Shadmi has good control of it. I did wonder about some threads that never quite get resolved – Reed probably kicked his drug habit somewhere between 1970 and 1987 (or possibly even before 1970), but it doesn’t happen in the book. But this is a big, messy story about a bunch of messy, complex people who fought a lot, did a lot of weird things, and were never that consistent about what they did or how they explained it afterward.

I’m slightly surprised there was a comics biography of the Velvets in the first place. I’m happy to see it’s this serious, comprehensive, and through.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

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