Review: Sonic Butler by James Greve

One of the benefits of my itinerant past was the diverse cast of characters with whom I traveled. Prominent among them was the bright and seemingly cranky James Greve of Portland, Oregon, with whom I spent many an idle hour aboard such Alaskan fishing vessels as the Chichagof or crammed into a booth in the cafeteria of the floating processor Bering Star. We both worked the western Alaska herring fishery for years as a peculiar form of parasite known as a herring technician, a job that was about 4% perspiration and 26% recreation--the rest was sleep. One measure of our daily economy in that endeavor: Greve and I both read the same copy of Herman Hesse's Narcissus and Goldmund (or maybe it was Magister Ludi) on the same day, and we were paid to do it. This is to say nothing of that book's merits, but simply to point out what gravy days those were for people with hungry minds. All this as a long way of fully disclosing my possible lack of objectivity toward his latest novel, Sonic Butler.

I am an aspiring novelist myself, and Greve was kind enough to read my first effort, Eating Crow, and send me abundant helpful feedback. All he got out of me was a congratulatory message and the following blurb: "A sub-cool crusade against the lords of a godessless age; a no-holds-barred rampage against the pug-nosed, pasty spawn of mediocrity. Nole Sterling is an aging Holden Caulfield in post-real America, matching him dose for butt." But he deserves much more.

I read Sonic Butler on a brief trip to Seattle to hang out with the Nelson and catch some Twins games in outdoor splendor. I finished most of the book in a coffee house in Georgetown, a rare gritty and greenless corner of the Pacific Northwest. It was the perfect backdrop to appreciate Greve's work. Urban settings dominate Sonic Butler, but the scent of Doug fir and salal is never far away. Greve portrays his protagonist Nole Sterling's mucky descent with a touch of fury, and employs brilliant descriptions of Nole's musical expression to trace the trajectory. But his ability to root ecological damnation in the pavement of Portland is the novel's triumph. Nole is redeemed by tripping up his sinful CEO father and sweating out a few dark family memories. He is ably assisted by his alter ego/younger brother, an earnest environmental lawyer. The roving band of supporting characters echoed every beer-soaked night I ever spent in Seward, Arcata, Bellingham, or Homer. In other words, for this reader, Sonic Butler was an evocative read, and one that added another galvanizing layer to my world view via a protaganist whom I was repeatedly defied to like.

I have a few spare copies lying around, so the first person to so request gets one free, postage paid. All I ask is your promise to spread the good word. Or tear him a new one, what do I care? The rest of you, however, must cough up some clams to the good folks at Plushwest.