Not far off, the release of My Catcher Was The Son of Sam and Other Bronx Tales
For now, here’s my review:
“Explosive. Monolithic. Resilient.”
A first class trip to Mr. Lowell’s time capsule brimming with the riotous, raw decades of the 60’s and 70’s.
Ian adeptly throws the reader into a maelstrom of horror, history, and ‘black hearts’ as he rips open the walls of a time gone by.
A young Jewish boy from the Bronx, he tells of his country spilling its tears and blood. Also love. Ian breaks through his concrete impediments and state lines to deliver a true account of not all times changing.
Hoards of history told with the attitude of those days – make love not war, who are we fighting for? You’ll hear the bullets whistle by amidst bombs, beatings and the bombardment of Vietnam spilling into uptight living rooms.
Parents with the grip of their generation lose the hold on their children moving away from static ideas.
There’s an understanding of the reader needing to take a break and Ian delivers, at pivotal moments, a reprieve sharing his generation’s love of brash, disingenuous bands, singers and songs. The music steams from transistor radios – anywhere really, for as long as the bands play on.
Never to be forgotten, Ian tells of the greatest melee of artists, sounds and steadfast crowds stuffed into one drenched community. A weekend of love, rock n roll – and soul.
The reader moves seamlessly with the author as he among other topics, champions the rise of great nationalists and idealists trying to mend the country’s woes and failings.
With quantifying facts, riveting eyewitness retelling, Ian gets no argument, there was hell on earth and too many paid its highest price with their lives far, far from home. Some on their stoops.
Honest in his historical accounts, personal opinions, and close to the nose, personal life mired in the question, how did he survive, Ian balances the answer within the times of ‘crazy man.”
If you weren’t there or never heard their names, Ian brings you to the hallowed baseball fields in New York to ‘see’ this city’s greats, complete with a hot dog and stats. He doesn’t idolize the gods of any game of his era. Instead he’s able to touch their humanity, and others. Reminding us even in bombastic times, we can live strong along the fragile watershed of love, peace and acceptance.
This book is not only for Americans or those interested in American history as I draw a parallel to parts of it and I had yet, back then, to visit The States.
Even if you’re not a fan of music, sports, history, or just ‘tripping the light fandango’, be assured this book provides enlightenment and entertainment within its lighter and darker ‘shades of pale’.
I was offered this ARC to read for an honest review. Usually I begin – well, at the beginning. Yet I’m compelled to end with the opener. A boy, not Ian, staring down the cold possibility of losing his young life. What would you do?
This high octane tale might one day make it as a handout in history class. Certainly there is raw value here.
The Son of Sam was my Catcher and other Bronx Tales extends far reaching beyond its title. Hopefully to a new generation and beyond.
Ian shows us how pearls are created by irritants. In this case, possibly the darkest and yes, delightful decades in American history.
This shiksa stands with hope for mankind with this once puny Jewish kid, who by his own accounts of little chance, pushed far along the rough road. Mr. Lowell, I believe you can put your novel among your triumphs, a real pearl.