Aug 15, 2016
I completely forgot that Jerry’s bday is August 6, we’re practically bday pals
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I completely forgot that Jerry’s bday is August 6, we’re practically bday pals
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In John Clute’s intro to the Cornelius Chronicles, he explains how, in The Condition of Muzak, we discover that Jerry, who has appeared and been discredited as both Messiah of the Age of Science, international assassin, and ultimate hip guy, yet retained the charm of the otherworldly, a figure of fantasy and freedom, may actually be a kid who still lives with his mom in council housing and is trying to get a kind of beat band (which eventually morphs into a sort of Hawkwind-esque prog band) off the ground, and supplements his dreary reality with a fantasy AU in which he is both hero and clown, a world of romance and adventure where the bare facts of his life and the world at large are mythologized, abstracted, symbolized. Clute calls him “a grubby little dreamer” and it’s a term I’ve taken to using on myself since then, the kind of put down/praise that Jerry himself would utilize. After all, if we’ve been reading the adolescent fantasy of a greasy haired layabout, we’ve been reading him systematically build up and tear down his own fantasy image for comic relief. Or, perhaps, rage at what we discover are his repeated real life failures, his thwarted dreams, his eventual acquiescence to the fact that he will never be what he once dreamed of being. Pretty grim, right? But then again, at the very end, it turns out maybe not. It’s impossible to say with any certainty which world is real and which isn’t. Which is the main theme and which the fantasies on the theme. But in this elaborate game of image and pose and identity, isn’t that the point? Isn’t that both the point and the peril? Jerry’s lapses, his paramnesia and bouts of profound dissociation, are the natural results of ruthlessly reinventing multiple selves, to satisfy his own evolving nature, the evolving nature of his environment, his circumstances, his companions. Cuts a bit close to home if you’ve ever found yourself in a similar fix, those carefully constructed specially adapted selves caving in around whatever you built them to hid—from yourself and from the world.
The amplifier was saved by a tall girl with short hair and sardonic grey eyes. The girl wore a long calf-length skirt and a rust-coloured jumper to match; she had an assured elegance possessed by no-one else in the room.
[...]
“My name’s Una.”
Jerry smirked, in spite of himself. He knew all about Una Persson. “You’re a legend in your own lifetime,” he said. “You’re not like I imagined.”
Her smile was for herself but she replied quickly to save him embarrassment. “Catherine sees just one side of me.”
“Have you got a lot?” Jerry asked. “Of sides?”
“It depends what you mean.”
—The Condition of Muzak, Michael Moorcock, in which the actual heroine of the novel makes her first appearance
“Surely you can get bookings in these pop-clubs they have everywhere these days?” [...] He fingered the ends of his cuffs. “I thought they were mushrooming.”
“They’re not interested in us,” Jerry told him. “You see, we’re a bit more than an ordinary rock group—we’re trying for something that combines a story, a light show, spoken words and so on.”
—The Condition of Muzak, Michael Moorcock
Absently, Jerry popped a mandy into his mouth. “It’s idealists like me the world needs. Not grafters like you.”
This seemed to improve Frank’s spirits. He put a condescending hand on Jerry’s forearm. “But it’s a grafters world, my son.”
“Yeah?”
“Most definitely, young Jerry.”
Jerry sniffed. “I’ll let you get on with it, then.”
—The Condition of Muzak, Michael Moorcock
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It’s both funny/sad that Jerry, who originally appears as the son of a wealthy scientist, with piles of money and homes and crazy super spy cars, is possibly some kid from a tenement engaging in some really elaborate wish fulfillment and, as kids who grow up poor do, imaging a future of heady luxury and power.
What is absolutely funny is that Frank is a con artist selling fake antiques and trying to impersonate a conventionally respectable person. And is of course so cheap he squeaks.
Frank came into her room. Frank wore a blazer with polished steel buttons, grey flannels, an open-neck white shirt, a yellow cravat with a horseshoe motif. He stared in affected contempt at his brother whose own costume was a red satin shirt with the words Gerry and the Pacemakers imprinted in yellow on the back, skintight drainpipe jeans and suede desert boots. His black greasy hair had almost grown out, but was still streaked with blond dye at the ends. “Bloody hell.” Frank placed a large bar of Cadbury’s Fruit & Nut on the confused dressing table. “They should never have abolished National Service. Look at you!”
“Piss off.” Amiably Jerry took in his brother’s gear. “What was the regatta like? Just come up from Henley, have you?”
—The Condition of Muzak, Michael Moorcock
Major Nye carefully packed up the rest of the rations. “I wouldn’t mind getting back to Blighty myself. Better the devil you know, eh? A return to reality.”
“Oh Christ.” Jerry began to shiver again. He rose. “That’s the last thing I need.”
—The Condition of Muzak, Michael Moorcock