Review of American Dirt, by Jeanine Cummins

There is so much painful irony embedded in the idea that the borders of wealthy Western nations are under siege from illegal migration.

For Australia and the United States in particular, the ironies abound. Both nations were taken forcefully from their indigenous inhabitants, and both have become expert at ignoring the roles they play in creating the so-called migration crisis looming at their borders.

From the comfort and safety of most Australian suburbs, random acts of mass killing are so far removed from everyday experience that it’s impossible to imagine such an abomination being visited upon your family as anything other an act of random chaos.

Try to imagine a world in which such violence is a weekly occurrence. Now imagine the police are no help to you — because they are corrupt and on the payroll of the murderers.

Thus starts Jeanine Cummins’ gut-punching novel American Dirt, a book that puts names and faces to people so often demonised by Western political leaders as queue jumpers and ravenous hoards, but who all too often are desperate people running from the gravest of atrocities.

This is a book that poses a question too few of us dare ask ourselves: are we really civilised nations who turn our backs on such people?

American Dirt stares long and hard at the horror of Mexican drug cartels and the ways in which their power and money subverts law and decency, leaving no-one safe or beyond their reach.

It seeks to light a flame inside a moral vacuum, because such horrors are not external to us; they are bought and paid for by us.

The drug cartels are our creations. The money that spawns rivers of blood and turns young boys into murderous rapists is ours too. No arbitrary line in the sand absolves us of that responsibility.

There is so much pain in this novel, but there is also great hope and love and there are remarkable acts of kindness. It affirms that treasures such as these may long remain in greater abundance beyond our borders.

American Dirt is a powerful accomplishment.

Matt Eaton

My latest novella has just been published, but this one is only available when you join my mailing list.

Early feedback has been enormously positive.

Delighted was I to read fellow author Erin MacMichael describe it as “a superlative read”.

They say writers are a little bit like wine, that we get better with age.

I’m starting to believe there might be something to that.

So don’t just sit there… join my mailing list now and grab a copy of Pagan’s Ark.

To kick off 2018, let me start at the end.

More precisely, a book about the end: Lucifer’s Hammer by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle.

Several people have recommended tackling this 1970s classic disaster novel.

So Christmas holidays… what better time?

The Hammer‘s premise is pretty straightforward — a massive comet collides with the Earth. Yet this book is anything but simple in execution.

The build-up is very deftly paced, but what’s most amazing is the portrait of America as disaster hits, especially the speed with which human society crumbles in the aftermath.

If you’re into post-apocalyptic fiction, this is an absolute classic.

It’s infused with curious 1970s sexual mores but this is just added flavour, it doesn’t really date the story.

Lucifer’s Hammer is certainly one of the original sources of paranoia for people across the globe who headed for the hills to await the end of the world… because what goes down here ain’t pretty.

But it is absolutely gripping.

It’s a long book — probably about 800 pages in old money. I read it on the Kindle (much easier to carry around when you’re travelling).

But I didn’t want it to end.

Which is sort of a strange thing to say about a book that is all about THE END.

It’s right up there with the best sci-fi of that era… definitely worth your consideration.

A peculiar sense of time travel took hold while I swayed in thrall to one of my all-time favourite bands at The Triffid, Brisbane’s newest and greatest rock venue.

My faith in The Church had just risen to a new high, somewhere outside the space-time continuum.

It was like the gigs of old, in music venues long gone. Perhaps because those of us gathered at this altar were all of a certain age. But also because there was that sense in the room that we were present to witness something truly remarkable — a glimmer of the zeitgeist that proves so foreign and elusive as years and decades roll on.

The Church formed in Sydney in 1980, finding great success in Australia and momentary fame in the US in 1988 with one big hit song, Under The Milky Way. A certain success continued into the ’90s, followed by the fade to black that grips virtually all creators of popular music.

Passion and talent must interact in equal measure for any work of art to rise above the noise and capture attention and acclaim. It’s also been my observation these key ingredients will only combine to make magic for so long.

Decline into mediocrity is usually impossible to avoid.

Which is why it’s so remarkable that The Church, all these years later, have found their way into a purple patch of awesome.

A number of factors are contributing to the relighting of the flame — former Powderfinger guitarist Ian Haug joining the band is undoubtedly one of them.

Then there is the incendiary songwriting of Steve Kilbey, who is somehow making music that sounds simultaneously brand new and 35 years old.

Renowned hypnotic signature guitar riffs mix with hints of New Romantic synth in songs that have been gloriously set free from the constraints of trying to be the next big thing in pop.

Good music always embraces a hint of the familiar, while likewise breaking new ground in rhythm and melody.

It’s easy to get that wrong by sliding too far toward the derivative. On any given day on any music station in the world there is ample proof of that.

That The Church are getting it so right is both remarkable and unexpected.

So here we were in the presence of brilliance, watching a band with enthusiasm for their work and a genuine appreciation for their audience.

It’s enough to make time feel like a fluid concept. No drugs needed. At least not on my part — I can’t speak for the band.

Their new album is called Man Woman Life Death Infinity. Yep, that pretty much sums things up.

Listen to it more than once. You won’t be sorry.