Memory is a funny old thing. I saw Marjane Satrapi speak at Stanford University for the Bita Prize for Persian Arts back in 2018, and had several questions written down for the Q&A, but the one I remember the most vividly, and the one I remember asking, was about how she makes room for the different parts of her background, her heritage. The Persian part, with her upbringing in Iran. The French part, with her coming of age and trying to define herself. I remember her saying something about the fact that you don’t. They don’t make peace with each other. They just exist and are you.
After I heard of Marjane’s untimely death last week, I went back and watched the video, searching through the Q&A to get the words right.
Did I ask her that poignant question that got this thoughtful response, making a connection between two displaced people of the Persian diaspora? Nope. (Read the post in Substack below)
Memory is a funny old thing... or, where I go back and watch the video of me asking Marjane Satrapi an insightful question about culture, on
Utterly charmed by 84 Charing Cross Road, a book I can’t believe I didn’t know existed until one of my favorite fanfic writers mentioned it in their story. It’s a series of real letters between an outspoken New York writer and a London bookshop, and it had me giggling late into the night when I really should have been sleeping. I ordered it at once because my novel revolves around two people writing each other letters from opposite sides of the world. But lord knows I’ll never be as funny as Helene Hanff!
Me: It’s editing time, bayyybeee!!! Let’s whip this book into shape! First draft, get ready to be torn A-PART!
Also me: I have a brilliant new book idea… a magic world-building celebration of London’s diverse, many-layered history, and The Knowledge. It needs all my attention! And. So. Much. Research!!!
(Y’all come at me with all your cool London neighborhoods by different ethnic populations and/or their cool mythology and magic)
This iteration of The Wedding Present is still kicking out violent washes of guitar, machine-gun drums, and those heart wrenching angsty lyrics. They are the first band Bea sees in my book and Brassneck sets the tone for the rest of the book - I flubbed by camera so I didn’t catch the lyrics on video:
I wrote a bit of a thing on my Substack about Mani, after hearing about his death yesterday…
The Joyous Steady Beat of Mani and What It Means to Me
“Rewrite your first chapter as the opening scene of a movie. What is she wearing? What is she drinking? What are her surroundings? What is she listening to?”
That last part. That was probably the most important part.
I was on the phone with my book coach, outside a busy brewery, a rare Denver drizzle coming down. I’d recently sent her the roughest of rough drafts of my book, which, after a decade or so of stops and starts, had actually taken form as a fully-fledged story. Well, almost. Hence the rough and hence the book coach.
What was she listening to?
She being my protagonist, Bea, a music journalist in 1989 London, working for a thinly-disguised NME.
I’d already decided that she was fighting to find another word for “shimmering” when describing the guitars of a band, which originally was fictional. But then, this book was about music. Why choose a fictional band? And what band summed up the excitement of the changing tides of British music at that time?
It had to be The Stone Roses. It had to be “She Bangs the Drums.”
“I can feel the earth begin to move / I feel my needle hit the groove.”
“Kiss me where the sun don’t shine / The past was yours but the future’s mine.”
And right there, just seconds after the tingling drums start, that joyous steady beat of Mani’s bass, driving the tune as it danced out of the 80s and into the dayglo 90s.
The Stone Roses were before my time. Well, my “modern music appreciation” time. I was still obsessing with the music from the 60s, mostly The Beatles, as well as classic musicals, especially those starring Judy Garland. It wasn’t until Britpop came along that I began to appreciate the music that was being created at the time.
By the time I started to buy the likes of Q and Mojo in my early teens, I’d began to learn about the music I’d missed (this was pre-internet, or at least internet’s very early days, so thank you, Q, Mojo, etc. for those brilliantly compiled free CDs). I’d since been uprooted to America to start high school, so this learning experience was very much a solo endeavor, since my Stone Mountain classmates didn’t have a clue about any British bands past The Beatles.
I learned about the driving force of the drums and bass that set the band apart and heralded a new sound. Reni and Mani, respectively, this duo of danceability. I loved the way they were in the background yet vital to the music. The way their two instruments intertwined and lifted up the music. It was the first time I’d thought past the singer and guitarist, and wanted to look deeper into how music was made, how it was the sum of its parts.
As with many other people my age and ilk, Mani’s death got me sorrowfully reminiscing, relistening and reappreciating, singing and dancing, and (I hate to say it) thinking of my own mortality and creativity. That last part is said with a bit of self-deprecation. How can it not be? Now in my 40s, 63 isn’t too far away. The fact that my father passed away at 53 probably doesn’t help this morbid view of our time left on earth, and the constant feeling of time running out before we fully realize our own creative endeavors. Of what we’ve missed and what we will miss.
I’m writing this on another rare drizzly day in Denver, sitting on a crowded bus, the notes of that legendary eponymous debut reverberating in my head. Feeling a bit alone, but also knowing I’m one of thousands listening to this album right now, this morning, celebrating the life of Mani.
Having an absolutely brilliant time researching gigs in London from 1989-1992, and imagining what a killer gig The Wedding Present at The Killburn Ballroom would have been. All machine-gun precision and growling vocals. This dive into that era has been ear-opening and I’m loving using it for a queer love story backdrop.
Squeezing in a hike at the end of my mini solo writing retreat cuz when there’s a glacier down the way you can’t miss that. Also coach Seema Yasmin told me to and she is wise and stuff. Didn’t end up taking a trek yesterday because it actually snowed so I stayed in and stayed cozy.
Was also vibing on John Grant’s Glacier in my head while chilling up there, a good reminder of how far we’ve come and how slow progress can be. Especially when the glaciers are fecking melting.
