Review
Vestiges of plot – concerning a galaxy where melanin is exchanged like an illicit drug – are a little hard to fathom in a novel the publishers describe as psychedelic noir. They say this book blends ‘the diasporic with the avant garde’, which may sound scary, but the rhythmic beauty of the text still makes it an inviting read. Joseph can recite a staggering 80% of UFOs from memory, and if he happens to be performing near you, he is well worth catching live. This book could almost be a CD. (Pulp Net )
Review
Joseph employs a syncretic, diasporic and highly innovative blend of genres and styles, providing an example of how diaspora becomes subject, inspiration and rationale for the innovative use of form, while experimental traditions enable him to show the diaspora in a fresh light. (Lauri Ramey )
Product Description
In the hot and hedonistic atmosphere of Toucan Bay, a Caribbean enclave on the planet Kunu Supia, the legendary hustler of bootleg melanin Joe Sambucus Nigra returns from the desert with a price on his head. Waiting for him at the seafront brothel and nightclub Houdini’s, are several of his enemies including his arch nemesis, the gargantuan hired assassin Bo Nuggy.
An unnamed, semi omniscient narrator relates the sequence of events that unfold at Houdini’s the night of Joe Sam’s long awaited return. His story is interrupted by periodic hallucinations or genetic flashbacks that take the reader on a journey from ancient Iere to Kunu Supia, via present day Trinidad. And in which the past, present and future coalesce into a more expansive narrative that reveals his own history through time and space.
The twenty-four chapters that comprise The African Origins Of UFOs were written over a five year period. The text is a time shifting narrative in poetic prose and poetry that fuses elements of Science Fiction, surrealism, metafiction, Trinidadian history and mythology, to explore issues of exile, race and genetic memory, all told in a fresh and innovative language, infused with the speech rhythms of Trinidad. It blends the diasporic with the avant-garde into something which can only be called “afropsychedelic noir.”
An unnamed, semi omniscient narrator relates the sequence of events that unfold at Houdini’s the night of Joe Sam’s long awaited return. His story is interrupted by periodic hallucinations or genetic flashbacks that take the reader on a journey from ancient Iere to Kunu Supia, via present day Trinidad. And in which the past, present and future coalesce into a more expansive narrative that reveals his own history through time and space.
The twenty-four chapters that comprise The African Origins Of UFOs were written over a five year period. The text is a time shifting narrative in poetic prose and poetry that fuses elements of Science Fiction, surrealism, metafiction, Trinidadian history and mythology, to explore issues of exile, race and genetic memory, all told in a fresh and innovative language, infused with the speech rhythms of Trinidad. It blends the diasporic with the avant-garde into something which can only be called “afropsychedelic noir.”
About the Author
Anthony Joseph is a Trinidadian born poet, novelist, academic and musician. His publications include Desafinado, Teragaton, The African Origins of UFOs (Salt, 2006) and Bird Head Son (Salt, 2009). His work has also been included in several anthologies, including Identity Parade (Bloodaxe), Red (Peepal Tree, 2010) and Black, Brown & Beige (University of Texas Press, 2009). He performs and lectures internationally and tours with his band The Spasm Band. Joseph lectures in creative writing at Birkbeck College, University of London. He lives in London.
Lauri Ramey is a poet and scholar whose PhD is in contemporary poetry from University of Chicago. She is Director of the Center for Contemporary Poetry and Poetics and a professor of creative writing and English at California State University, Los Angeles. Her books include Black British Writing (with R. Victoria Arana), Every Goodbye Ain’t Gone (with Aldon Lynn Nielsen) and The Heritage Series of Black Poetry, 1962-1975 (with Paul Breman). Her poetry recently appeared in nthposition, Poetrybay, NYC BigCityLit and Lounge Lit.
Lauri Ramey is a poet and scholar whose PhD is in contemporary poetry from University of Chicago. She is Director of the Center for Contemporary Poetry and Poetics and a professor of creative writing and English at California State University, Los Angeles. Her books include Black British Writing (with R. Victoria Arana), Every Goodbye Ain’t Gone (with Aldon Lynn Nielsen) and The Heritage Series of Black Poetry, 1962-1975 (with Paul Breman). Her poetry recently appeared in nthposition, Poetrybay, NYC BigCityLit and Lounge Lit.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Bo Nuggy
Bo Nuggy worked in the Jalo Ice Factory by day, by night he studied Spinoza. But unknown to many, Bo was also also a felon for hire whose bulk alone would terrorise. Bo Nuggy gut big to bully goons for illicit brass in fibregrass alleys, Bo big but quick to whip lash with cape stiff an cutlass blinking. Even so Bo gulp shook when he considered Sambucus. He remembered seeing Joe muscle flex, knocking iron in a spasm band on Jourvert morning, quick to clap a man, plus Joe Sam real smart.
Earlier at the bar, Bo Nuggy talk gruff an’ stutter, “J J Joe jus’ reach an’ a g g goin’ in ’e m m modicum!” And everyone laughed and left him with the iron sweating in his palm. “History is mine! a’ bound to mangle Joe Sam and s s sseize all genetic contraband.”
Big Bo Nuggy wide like samaan tree trunk, his gut swung low, his shaven skull bore scars and sketches of wounds. his grin never blinked. Broad nosed and bearded Bo Nuggy ate raw duck’s eggs and boiled hog at dawn, gut fulla dog rice, tripe and split pea soup, cow heel porridge, yam and red salted butter. Bo grew moss in the moist folds of his neck, smelled like turtle rot. Step with foot them wide like young jookin’ board. In private Bo Nuggy would kneel—“oh lawd, help me lose this weight.” But the lord wasn't listening.
But Bo Nuggy descended from a brace of ancient ïerean robbers who lived in hills above the lost city, dry river waterfall—where crapaud smoke pipe if bad bush stroke the mythic behind you—Caribbean gothic—catch you walking dead man hours they so with them white handle razor. And Bo’s girth retained that seed and his throat the melodious lilt of barrackyard lingo, an when Bo came to rassle was with high hat flippin’ an a robbertalk which induced cognitive dissonance. Then his aural pyrotechnics would hypnotise negroes—his lip manipulated deft verbs and lingual tourniquets with ferocious grace—and with ease would then crack conks split with a thick guava stick or blaze fools strict with a sawed off laser whip.
Bo smoked zutz of dank Kunu weed wrapped in brown paper-guma guma-till tongue-tied. Wire kept his boots tight.
Upstairs Houdini’s, behind the jamette harem, fatback Bo Nuggy paced a small room well hid and lit by a bouquet of candles. Bo Nuggy sweats. wipes. A dark green grease that stains a rag reserved for washing ass and standing beside a window, shifting the curtain with thick ringed fingers. across the bay, sees, a spec of red …
Some junker fiends been waiting for the prime melocyte oil. Since Joe been gone they been hungry for crisp phials and now they start swell up the entrance to Houdini’s, bulbous eyed and sunburnt, venal for a glimpse of Joe arriving, somersaulting in their skins.
“Leo look the Congo pump coming! run crack whisky, bus’ Gin!”
“Joe know Abobo in ‘e ass but Joe back broad, know to separate dey bone from dey marrow.”
“Joe deals it proper Paco, he doh eat nice, is liver oil an dasheen, whole cowfoot and butterbean he so swallow whole.”
With a heavy hum the chrome Congo pump sweeping down from the darkness. It hover rode the sleeping tide with antimatic suspension, hissing imploding air. sparks buzzin’ round the engine. And a few pale coons run down to the jetty when they hear the locomotion.
Bo Nuggy grinned but his sphincter quivered as ship settled on the waterfront. And a sly beard of sweat slid down his neck and chilled him to the wire. If he looked hard enough he could see Joe Sam step down from the ship, knockin’ wrist with waterfront bandits, grinning tears of coins. Bo Gut big, but he ’fraid to temper Joe. His back bend tight, he pray,
“JJJoe Sam cccom———in. goood laawd, have mercy-e on mi black arse tonight!”
Bo Nuggy worked in the Jalo Ice Factory by day, by night he studied Spinoza. But unknown to many, Bo was also also a felon for hire whose bulk alone would terrorise. Bo Nuggy gut big to bully goons for illicit brass in fibregrass alleys, Bo big but quick to whip lash with cape stiff an cutlass blinking. Even so Bo gulp shook when he considered Sambucus. He remembered seeing Joe muscle flex, knocking iron in a spasm band on Jourvert morning, quick to clap a man, plus Joe Sam real smart.
Earlier at the bar, Bo Nuggy talk gruff an’ stutter, “J J Joe jus’ reach an’ a g g goin’ in ’e m m modicum!” And everyone laughed and left him with the iron sweating in his palm. “History is mine! a’ bound to mangle Joe Sam and s s sseize all genetic contraband.”
Big Bo Nuggy wide like samaan tree trunk, his gut swung low, his shaven skull bore scars and sketches of wounds. his grin never blinked. Broad nosed and bearded Bo Nuggy ate raw duck’s eggs and boiled hog at dawn, gut fulla dog rice, tripe and split pea soup, cow heel porridge, yam and red salted butter. Bo grew moss in the moist folds of his neck, smelled like turtle rot. Step with foot them wide like young jookin’ board. In private Bo Nuggy would kneel—“oh lawd, help me lose this weight.” But the lord wasn't listening.
But Bo Nuggy descended from a brace of ancient ïerean robbers who lived in hills above the lost city, dry river waterfall—where crapaud smoke pipe if bad bush stroke the mythic behind you—Caribbean gothic—catch you walking dead man hours they so with them white handle razor. And Bo’s girth retained that seed and his throat the melodious lilt of barrackyard lingo, an when Bo came to rassle was with high hat flippin’ an a robbertalk which induced cognitive dissonance. Then his aural pyrotechnics would hypnotise negroes—his lip manipulated deft verbs and lingual tourniquets with ferocious grace—and with ease would then crack conks split with a thick guava stick or blaze fools strict with a sawed off laser whip.
Bo smoked zutz of dank Kunu weed wrapped in brown paper-guma guma-till tongue-tied. Wire kept his boots tight.
Upstairs Houdini’s, behind the jamette harem, fatback Bo Nuggy paced a small room well hid and lit by a bouquet of candles. Bo Nuggy sweats. wipes. A dark green grease that stains a rag reserved for washing ass and standing beside a window, shifting the curtain with thick ringed fingers. across the bay, sees, a spec of red …
Some junker fiends been waiting for the prime melocyte oil. Since Joe been gone they been hungry for crisp phials and now they start swell up the entrance to Houdini’s, bulbous eyed and sunburnt, venal for a glimpse of Joe arriving, somersaulting in their skins.
“Leo look the Congo pump coming! run crack whisky, bus’ Gin!”
“Joe know Abobo in ‘e ass but Joe back broad, know to separate dey bone from dey marrow.”
“Joe deals it proper Paco, he doh eat nice, is liver oil an dasheen, whole cowfoot and butterbean he so swallow whole.”
With a heavy hum the chrome Congo pump sweeping down from the darkness. It hover rode the sleeping tide with antimatic suspension, hissing imploding air. sparks buzzin’ round the engine. And a few pale coons run down to the jetty when they hear the locomotion.
Bo Nuggy grinned but his sphincter quivered as ship settled on the waterfront. And a sly beard of sweat slid down his neck and chilled him to the wire. If he looked hard enough he could see Joe Sam step down from the ship, knockin’ wrist with waterfront bandits, grinning tears of coins. Bo Gut big, but he ’fraid to temper Joe. His back bend tight, he pray,
“JJJoe Sam cccom———in. goood laawd, have mercy-e on mi black arse tonight!”
