...a stunning, powerful read, a compelling story brilliantly told.(Quill & Quire)
Half-Blood Blues can be compared to a jazz symphony with discrete movements, shifting moods and a complex chorus of human and instrumental voices: It swings between present and past, North and South, East and West, black and white, art and violence, war and peace... Edugyan's musically educated ear allows her to transpose notes into words and back again... a brilliantly conceived, gorgeously executed novel.(Globe & Mail)
Half-Blood Blues, Esi Edugyan has written a truly beautiful novel. (Lawrence Hill, author of The Book Of Negroes)
Half-Blood Blues is an engrossing and unforgettable story. (Austin Clarke, author of The Polished Hoe)
... surprisingly bouyant. It's deftly paced in incident and tone, moving from scenes of snappy dialogue...to tense, atmospheric passages of description... Half-Blood Blues itself represents a kind of flowering -- that of a gifted storyteller. (Toronto Star)
...Half-Blood Blues has one of the most beautiful and understated resolutions in recent Canadian literature. (Vancouver Sun)
Half-Blood Blues... is a stunningly good novel about a time in music that still resonates today. Punctuated with the beat of jazz, it has moments of sheer magic. (Owen Sound Sun Times)
Her style is deceptively conversational and easy, but with the simultaneous exuberance and discipline of a true prodigy. (Scotiabank Giller Prize Jury Citation)
...when Edugyan writes about the music, you can feel it vibrating in your bones. (NOW Magazine)
...Edugyan draws us into the story with brilliant cadence to her writing. Like a drummer counting down the beat for the band, Edugyan creates a rhythm in her dialogue that sings. (North Shore News)
“Edugyan’s elegiac, shimmering prose makes up for the lack of sunny skies in this impressively conceived and well-executed debut.“ ?Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Edugyan’s spare prose, visceral images, and unfussy dialogue create a suitably ominous atmosphere?. The close... is astonishingly moving. A talented writer to watch.“ ?Kirkus Reviews
“[P]acks a powerful emotional punch.... Fine writing, subtle characterisation and a convincing portrayal of place and period mark out this engaging first work, reminiscent of early VS Naipaul.“ ?The Guardian (UK)
“In this brilliantly written debut novel, Edugyan flawlessly creates and maintains a pervasive sense of hope loneliness, foreboding and futility.“ ?Black Issues Book Review (US)
“[The Second Life of Samuel Tyne] balances the brilliance and audacity of youthful enthusiasm with sage awareness. It’s an impressive debut? a beautifully written novel.“ ?Toronto Star
“An assured and insightful first novel of displacement of fractured identity....This deftly constructed tale... of one tiny, befuddled corner of the African diaspora is finally about all of us?about the hope we have of being our best selves, before it’s too late.“ ?The Globe and Mail
About the Author
Esi Edugyan has degrees from the University of Victoria and Johns Hopkins University. Her work has appeared in several anthologies, including Best New American Voices 2003. Her debut novel, The Second Life of Samuel Tyne, was published internationally to critical acclaim. She lives in Victoria, British Columbia.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chip told us not to go out. Said, don't you boys tempt the devil. But it been one brawl of a night, I tell you, all of us still reeling from the rot--rot was cheap, see, the drink of French peasants, but it stayed like nails in you gut. Didn't even look right, all mossy and black in the bottle. Like drinking swamp water.
See, we lay exhausted in the flat, sheets nailed over the windows. The sunrise so fierce it seeped through the gaps, dropped like cloth on our skin. Couple hours before, we was playing in some back-alley studio, trying to cut a record. A grim little room, more like a closet of ghosts than any joint for music, the cracked heaters lisping steam, empty bottles rolling all over the warped floor. Our cigarettes glowed like small holes in the dark, and that's how I known we wasn't buzzing, Hiero's smoke not moving or nothing. The cig just sitting there in his mouth like he couldn't hear his way clear. Everyone pacing about, listening between takes to the scrabble of rats in the wall. Restless as hell. Could be we wasn't so rotten, but I at least felt off. Too nervous, too crazed, too busy watching the door. Forget the rot. Forget the studio's seclusion. Nothingtore me out of myself. Take after take, I'd play sweating to the end of it only to have Hiero scratch the damn disc, tossing it in the trash.
"Just a damn braid of mistakes," Hiero kept muttering. "A damn braid of mistakes."
"We sound like royalty--after the mob got done with em," said Chip.
Coleman and I ain't said nothing, our heads hanging tiredly.
But Hiero, wiping his horn with a blacked-up handkerchief, he turn and give Chip a look of pure spite. "Yeah, but, hell. Even at our worst we genius."
Did that ever stun me, him saying this. For weeks the kid been going on and on about how dreadful we sound. He kept snatching up the discs, scratching the lacquer with a pocket knife, wrecking them. Yelling how there wasn't nothing there. But there was something. Some seed of twisted beauty.
I didn't mean to. But somehow when the kid turned his back I was sliding off my vest, taking the last disc--still delicate, the grooves still new--and folding the fabric round it. I glanced around, nervous, then tucked it into my bass case. The others was packing up their axes.
"Where's that last record at?" said Hiero, frowning. He peered at the trash bin, at the damaged discs all in there.
"It's in there, buck," I said. "You didn't want it, did you?"
He give me a sour look. "Ain't no damn point. We ain't never goin get this right."
"What you sayin, kid?" said Chip, slurring his words. "You sayin we should give it up?"
The kid just shrugged.
We lined up the empty bottles along the wall, locked up real quiet, gone our separate routes back to Delilah's flat. Curfew was on and Paris was grim, all clotted shadows and stale air. I made my quiet way along the alleys, dreading the sound of footsteps, till we met up again at the flat. Everyone butColeman, of course, Coleman who was staying with his lady. We collapsed onto dirty couches under blackout curtains.
I'd set my axe against the wall and it was like I could feel the damn disc just sitting in there, still warm. I felt its presence so intensely it seemed strange the others ain't sensed it too. Its wax holding all that heat like a altar candle.
It was the four of us living here. Delilah, Hieronymus, Chip and me. Couple months before we'd spent the day nailing black sheets across the flat's windows, but damn if that grim sun didn't flood through anyway. The rooms felt too stale to sober up in. We needed to sweat it out in the fresh air, get our heads about us. Ain't been no breeze in weeks.
Hiero was draped in his chair, his scrawny legs dangling, when all a sudden he turn to me. His face dark and smooth as an eggplant. "Christ I feel green. My guts are pure gravy, man."
"Amen," I said.
"Man, I got to get me some milk."
"Amen," I said again.
We talked like mongrels, see--half German, half Baltimore bar slang. Just a few scraps of French between us. Only real language I spoke aside from English was Hochdeutsch. But once I started messing up the words I couldn't straighten nothing out again. Besides, I known Hiero preferred it this way. Kid hailed from the Rhineland, sure, but he got old Baltimore in the blood. Or talked like he did.
He was still young that way. Mimicking.
Something had changed in him lately, though. He ain't hardly et nothing since the Boots descended on the city, been laid up feverish and slack for days on end. And when he come to, there was this new darkness in him I ain't never seen before.
I gave my old axe a quick glance, thinking of the record tucked away in there. It wasn't guilt I felt. Not that exactly.
Hiero sort of half rolled onto the patchy rug. "Aw, Sid," he groaned. "I need milk."
"In the cupboard, I reckon. We got milk? Chip?"
But Chip, he just open one brown eye like a man half-drowned. His face dark as cinder in this light.
Hiero coughed. "I'm tryin to clean my stomach, not rough it up." His left eye twitched all high up in the lid, the way you sometimes see the heart of a thin woman beating through her blouse. "It's milk I need, brother. Cream. That powdered stuff'll rip right through you. Like you shittin sand. Like you a damn hourglass."
"Aw, it ain't that bad," I said. "Ain't nothin open at this hour anyway, kid. You know that. Except maybe the Coup. But that's too damn far." We lay on in silence a minute. I tossed my arm up over my mouth and man if my skin didn't stink of rancid vinegar--that was the rot, it did that to you.
In the bad light I could just make out the room's last few chairs huddled by the fireplace. They looked absurd, like a flock of geese hiding from the hatchet. Cause they was the last of it, see. This been a grand old flat once, to go by Lilah's stories. All Louis XIV chairs, Murano chandeliers, Aubusson tapestries, ceilings high as a damn train station. But the count who lent Delilah the place, he done urge her sell what she could before the Krauts come in. Seemed less bleak to him. And now, the flat being so empty, you felt only its depths, like you stranded at sea. Whole place nothing but darkness.
Across the room, Chip started snoring, faint like.
I glanced over at Hiero, now all knotted up in his chair. "Kid," I said thickly. "Hey, kid." I put a hand to my head. "You ain't serious bout givin up on the record. We close, buck. You know that."
Hiero opened his mouth, belched.
"Good mornin right back at you," I said.
He didn't seem to have heard me. I watched him heave hisself up on his feet, the chair moaning like a old mule. Then he sort of staggered on over to the door. Least I reckon that was his idea. Looked more like he heading for the fireplace, stumbling all about. His shoulder smacked a wall.
Then he was on the floor, on all fours.
"What you doin?" I said. "Hiero, what you doin, kid?"
"What you mean, what my doin? You ain't never seen a man put on his shoes before? Well, stick around, cause it's bout to get excitin. I'm gonna put my damn coat on next."
Hiero was wrestling his old houndstooth coat. It'd gone all twisted in the sleeves. He still ain't stood up. "I need me some daylight right bout now."
I pulled on my fob, stared at my watch till it made damn sense. "This ain't no kind of hour, kid. You ain't youself."
He ain't said nothing.
"Least just wait till Lilah wake up. She take you."
"I ain't waitin till my foot wake up, never mind Lilah."
"You got to at least tell her what you doin."
"I ain't got to do nought."
A soft moan drifted over from the window, and then Chip lifted up onto one dark elbow, like he posing for a sculpture. His eyes looking all glassy, the lids flickering like moths. Then his head sunk right back on his shoulders so that, throat exposed, it like he talking to the ceiling. "Don't you damn well go out," he told that ceiling. "Lie youself down, get some sleep. I mean it."
"You tell it, buck," said Hiero, grinning. "You stick it to that ceilin."
"Put that old cracked plaster in its place," I said.
But Chip, he fallen back and was snoring along already.
"Go on into Lilah's room and wake her," I said to Hiero.
Hiero's thin, leonine face stared me down from the doorway. "What kind of life you livin you can't even go into the street for a cup of milk, you got to have a nanny?" He stood under the hat rack, leaning like a brisk wind done come up. "Hell, Sid, just what you expect Lilah to do, you get in real trouble? She got a special lipstick I don't know bout, it shoot bullets?"
"You bein a damn fool, buck." Pausing, I glanced away. "You know you don't got any damn papers. What you goin do you get stopped?"
He shrugged. "I just goin down the Bug's. It ain't far." He yanked open the door and slid out onto the landing, swaying in the half-dark.
Staring into the shadows there, I felt sort of uneasy. Don't know why. Well. The Bug was our name for the tobacconist a few blocks away. It wasn't far.
"Alright, alright," I muttered. "Hold up, I'm comin."
He slapped one slender hand on the doorknob like it alone would hold him up. I thought, This kid goin be the death of you, Sid.
The kid grimaced. "You waitin for a mailed invitation? Let's ankle."
I stumbled up, fumbling for my other shoe.
"There won't be no trouble anyhow," he added. "It be fine. Ain't no one go down the Bug's at this hour."
"He so sure," I said. "Listen to how sure he is."
Hiero smiled. "Aw, I'm livin a charmed life, S...