BOOKS
The Show That Smells by Derek McCormack
/ Jamie Gadette
12.16.09
Derek McCormack’s books should come with a warning label:
"Rising stars of country western beware! Derek McCormack is watching you. He’s making plans—fabulous, diabolical plans to kidnap, drug and in all likelihood sodomize you under the guise of 'management.' He’ll lull you into a false sense of security … perhaps invite you to his studio where he’ll perform grotesque procedures aided and abetted by those nearest and dearest to your poor bumpkin heart."
This detailed advisory would appear only on copies sold/purchased in Nashville and Austin, places where the next Hank Williams or Jimmie Rodgers might hit it big. Surely a public debate will rage –– critics will cry foul, citing censorship and freedom of speech, while authorities will retort that the label is a necessary precaution for the public safety.
His supporters will say, “Listen, you’ve got it all wrong. There are two Derek McCormacks—one is a highly acclaimed Canadian author/auteur; the other is his often sinister alter ego, also named Derek. The Derek of fiction is despicable. The Derek of real life is harmless (probably). He’s like David Sedaris with more Kewpie dolls and pathetic carnival freaks.”
OK. We’ll bite, but damn if McCormack doesn’t do a bang-up job playing puppeteer to a cast of characters straight out of any red-blooded American’s nightmare. In his fourth release, The Show That Smells—his latest in Dennis Cooper’s Little House on the Bowery series—McCormack continues to construct realities just south of the ones we recognize.
"Rising stars of country western beware! Derek McCormack is watching you. He’s making plans—fabulous, diabolical plans to kidnap, drug and in all likelihood sodomize you under the guise of 'management.' He’ll lull you into a false sense of security … perhaps invite you to his studio where he’ll perform grotesque procedures aided and abetted by those nearest and dearest to your poor bumpkin heart."
This detailed advisory would appear only on copies sold/purchased in Nashville and Austin, places where the next Hank Williams or Jimmie Rodgers might hit it big. Surely a public debate will rage –– critics will cry foul, citing censorship and freedom of speech, while authorities will retort that the label is a necessary precaution for the public safety.
His supporters will say, “Listen, you’ve got it all wrong. There are two Derek McCormacks—one is a highly acclaimed Canadian author/auteur; the other is his often sinister alter ego, also named Derek. The Derek of fiction is despicable. The Derek of real life is harmless (probably). He’s like David Sedaris with more Kewpie dolls and pathetic carnival freaks.”
OK. We’ll bite, but damn if McCormack doesn’t do a bang-up job playing puppeteer to a cast of characters straight out of any red-blooded American’s nightmare. In his fourth release, The Show That Smells—his latest in Dennis Cooper’s Little House on the Bowery series—McCormack continues to construct realities just south of the ones we recognize.