The stories in Victoria Lancelotta’s collection Ways to Disappear are lyrical and profound.
Electric Literature wrote of the book:
“Lancelotta has her finger on the pulse of how life consumes us, from moments large to small. A compulsively readable and emotionally affecting book.”
The impetus for procuring my first fake ID wasn’t to buy alcohol—it was to go to a show at Hammerjacks, a malodorous and beloved (and to this day, sorely and nostalgically missed) concert venue below an overpass in a light industrial section of Baltimore. Hammerjacks booked just about every band touring the eastern seaboard, no matter the genre—hair metal, ska, new wave, punk, goth—if a band was touring the East Coast and passed by on I-95, they played Hammerjacks.
I can’t count the number of shows I saw there from the late ’80s on, and I don’t remember which band was the motivation for my fraudulent trip to the department of motor vehicles—I either misplaced or threw out my shoebox trove of ticket stubs, which is one of the great inconsequential regrets of my life—but casual Googling of the appropriate time frame suggests it might have been Iggy Pop, with, get this, a band called “James Addiction” billed as the opener, which gives you a sense of how long ago this was.
Anyway. While I was writing Ways To Disappear I played the songs on this list (among so many others) frequently and loudly enough that I’m sure I pissed off the neighbors (I know I drove the husband batshit—sorry, mister). When I sat down at my desk I played music until the music was weather; until the weather wrote itself onto the page. This is what the writing felt like.
Tindersticks—The Flicker of a Little Girl; Sweet Memory
I first encountered Tindersticks on the soundtrack of the movie Intimacy (recommended; the cast is spectacular), an adaptation of Hanif Kureishi’s novel. (They collaborate most frequently with Claire Denis—they have good taste!). Over thirty-plus years and twenty-plus records it’s hard to categorize them, so I’m going to be lazy and not try, other than to say these two songs illustrate how comfortable they are juxtaposing horror and loveliness. Related: their soundtrack for Denis’ “Trouble Every Day” is ravishing.
PJ Harvey—Long Snake Moan
Does Polly Jean want to fuck you or kill you? I have no idea. I like how her voice, scraped raw and howling, echoes the distortion, which makes sense to me: I’ve always felt there’s something fabulously distorted in her perception of human emotion and relationships. Bonus suggestion: “Henry Lee,” her murderously soothing duet with Nick Cave; a lullaby from hell.
Leonard Cohen—Night Comes On; Who By Fire
Do you really think I’d try to write anything about Leonard Cohen when you could—and should—just read the man himself? I probably listened to more Cohen than just about anyone else while I was writing the book. These make the cut just because they’re pretty indicative of my default mindset at the time, though I’ll also shout out “Waiting for The Miracle” (which is hard to wrest back from Oliver Stone, unfortunately) and “The Future” (which prescient ugliness was reflective of my mood from about 2016 on, even more unfortunately).
Lana del Rey—Cruel World; Mariners Apartment Complex
I’m helpless in the face of her voluptuous and sublime loucheness. A lot of my characters would like to be her. Extra credit for the Leonard Cohen reference.
Nick Cave—Tupelo (live); From Her To Eternity (live)
Nick Cave will preside over the most seductive apocalypse ever, or maybe he already has. There will be fire and brimstone and the ashes of all our hearts will be soft as crushed velvet. There will be writhing and quaking and snake-handling, and possibly also tea and crumpets, and crisp cotton napkins-cum-shrouds.
Patti Smith—Because The Night; Dancing Barefoot
Just as I suspect my characters would like to be Lana del Rey, I would like to be Patti Smith. And as with Leonard Cohen, why read me when you could be reading her? Side note: The Feelies have been known to play “Dancing Barefoot” live, and it’s just as good as you’d imagine.
Nick Drake—Black-Eyed Dog; Northern Sky
Two sides of the same exquisite coin, and almost unbearable to listen to. We all know the story; telling it again won’t make the ending any different.
Grinderman—Bellringer Blues; Palaces of Montezuma
When Nick Cave isn’t calling forth the Four Horsemen he’s wallowing in cacophonous and yet somehow still elegant sleaze. Grinderman remains one of the bands I’m sorriest to have missed live. Their two albums are gleefully filthy (“No Pussy Blues” from the first one comes to mind) and flat-out grubby fun, like going at a piano with a buzzsaw. These two songs are from the second, which is a lascivious feast from beginning to end: “Bellringer” escorts you to the mouth of hell and “Palaces” sweeps you off to whatever passes for salvation.
Mazzy Star—So Tonight That I Might See
Sure, “Fade Into You” is prettier—so are a lot of other Mazzy Star songs—but the noise on this one makes Hope Sandoval’s feathery voice seem even more fragile than it already is. Listening to this is like being hypnotized by some psychedelic angel.
Marianne Faithfull—Sister Morphine; Mother Wolf
I just noticed the familial similarity, which is appropriate, because it occurs to me that my characters might have fared better if they’d had some tough love from Marianne Faithfull. And I like that these two songs reflect, to a degree, the before and after of her voice, which was lovely from the start but became more so, after the damage.
Victoria Lancelotta is author of Here in the World: 13 Stories, and the novels Far and Coeurs Blesses. Her short fiction has appeared in anthologies, including The Best American Short Stories and The Pushcart Prize. She is the recipient of a Tennessee Individual Artist Fellowship, multiple Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Grants, and a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship. She lives in Frederick MD.