Dogs bark, but the caravan rolls on Observations then and now

Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Conroy (Body & Soul) delivers a running commentary on life in this collection of articles and essays, at once subtle and dazzling, written over the past 25 years. His observations range from warmly intimate (ruminations on sex and love, shooting pool as a kid) to anonymously civic (the meaning and vitality of smalltown America). In the first half of the book, he grapples with the memory of his remote father, embraces fatherhood himself and peruses the mysteries of life especially those he finds in reading ("escape") and writing ("experiment"), and even riffs on his position as chair of the famed Writers' Workshop at the University of Iowa. The second half leads readers into a foray of pieces Conroy has written on his second and well-known love, jazz. He trips into jam sessions with the Rolling Stones, waxes on his evolution as a pianist and profiles the great provocateurs in jazz. His exploration of Wynton Marsalis at 23 and later at 34 minutely reflects the arc of developments in the author's own life. Curiously, key moments in the essays resurface within each other as if in coda; the overlapping details makes reading them even more enjoyable. (Apr.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

The director of the famous Writers' Workshop at the University of Iowa, Conroy has contributed to such publications as Esquire, Harper's magazine, and the New York Times Magazine, as well as to books on writing, for many years. His miscellaneous essays are now collected in this interesting and well-done anthology. Conroy takes on such topics as learning to play pool, fatherhood, the value of now-disappearing small towns in instilling family values, the enthusiasms of jazz musician Wynton Marsalis, and, of course, the Writers' Workshop. Conroy is a jazz pianist as well as a teacher and writer, so it is natural that a number of essays deal with music and musicians. Previous works by this author include a well-received memoir, Stop-Time, and the novel Body & Soul, whose reception was more mixed. Academic and public collections, particularly those strong in modern American literature or music, will want to consider this title. Nancy P. Shires, East Carolina Univ. Lib., Greenville, NC (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

Essays old and new from writer's writer Conroy (Body and Soul, 1993, etc.), who eschews fireworks in favor of the dead-on observation as he considers topics ranging from fatherhood to the Rolling Stones to leaving New York. The author kicks off this collection of pieces spanning 30 years with a few anecdotes that got left out of the original published versions (in periodicals ranging from the New York Times Magazine to GQ). There was the time he went to movie actor Steve McQueen's house to do an interview for Esquire and found the actor stark naked; and Conroy's profile of the Rolling Stones went a lot smoother after an accidental jam session with drummer Charlie Watts, even though Mick Jagger was a "narcissistic egomaniac" (another observation that never made it into print). The writer quickly moves away from these quirky celebrity moments to circle around to a more intimate topic: himself. We learn of young Conroy's relationship with his mostly absent father, conducted almost entirely through Frank's absorption in Dad's book collection. We read about the author's obsession with scouting, which endured until a pivotal moment of disillusionment in Madison Square Garden. We continue through his personal life, learning of his failed first marriage, his departure from New York, and his meeting his second wife on the road to a garbage dump. The centerpiece here is an essay about the Iowa Writers' Workshop (of which Conroy is director) that distills his philosophy and approach into 14 tight pages. Among the typically laconic comments: "Writing is a mixture of knowing what you're doing and not knowing what you're doing." The collection's final third focuses on Conroy's jazz writing; in his account of sitting in on keyboards as a teenager at Sugar Ray's in Harlem, the "pure glee of a kid jumping up and down on the theater seat" leaps off the page. Seemingly effortless, entirely transportive.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Some Observations NowIn 1968 a pal of mine who worked for The New Yorker was sent to cover the Democratic convention in Chicago. During the infamous police riots he was struck two or three times by a cop with a nightstick, and when he managed to get back to his hotel he found himself pissing blood. He eventually recovered, wrote his piece and left out the attack on himself. "Michael," I asked my always elegantly dressed, highly polite friend, "how could you leave it out? You werent protesting. It shows the scope of the violence. Its important." He respectfully disagreed. "I wasnt sent to write about myself," he said, with a certain amount of hauteur. New Journalism was in the air back then--an approach in which the observer was taken to be as important, or more important, than the stuff observed (Tom Wolfe, for instance, writing about auto shows, well before taking on the more ambitious role of American Balzac). The New Yorker frowned on New Journalism. People took sides. I never did, whether from laziness or a reluctance to box myself in, I dont know. I dealt with each piece I wrote as seemed appropriate at the time. The closest I came to New Journalism was probably a long piece (endlessly long, in fact) about the late movie star Steve McQueen, written for what was then considered not the best but the hippest magazine around, Esquire. McQueen, whom I had never thought much of as an actor, turned out to be a nice guy. Unassuming, straightforward, easygoing if a touch wired, he was good company. We had fun riding 250 cc dirt bikes in the desert around Palm Springs, drinking beer, eating Mexican food at out-of-the-way joints and swimming in the pool behind his Palm Springs house, his getaway pad (his mansion was in Beverly Hills, of course). It was my first "big" magazine piece. Still in my twenties, I was thrilled by the whole experience. I left something out of my piece, though, something I knew the editors would probably like, and, so too, the readers. On my third visit to his house--"Come over for lunch," he said, "around eleven"--he surprised me. It was an ordinary suburban neighborhood, and I drove into the circle at precisely eleven a.m., parked the car and rang his front door bell. After a long time the door opened. McQueen, his entirely naked body wet and gleaming, peeked out at the street and then looked at me. "Come on back to the pool." Was he showing off? His body was flawless, front and back, and quite beautiful. One did not have to be gay (and neither of us was) to be moved by its perfection. Was he saying he had nothing to hide to a writer who would, he knew, be writing about him? Was he asserting his freedom to do whatever he wanted to do--the kid from the orphanage who grew up to be a movie star? Was it an expression of trust? Who knows? Perhaps he just didnt think it was that important. He lent me a pair of trunks, though, because he didnt know when his wife and kids would be back.Writing for Excerpted from Dogs Bark, but the Caravan Rolls On: Observations Then and Now by Frank Conroy All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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