The Prairie Joggers pace themselves on Weight Of It, a boozy album about finding, losing, and then searching for the prettiest girl in the world. And it begins where all booze-soaked stories begin: with the cracking open of a beer.
Now, the narrator in this sordid tale of cigarette smoke and empty whiskey bottles may not actually be Adam or Cody — for storytellers, even of the rambling kind, create characters (evil, vile characters; saintly, angelic characters), and these characters may or may not have counterparts in the real world, may or may not reflect what the author really thinks. Which, as you’ll see, is what I hope is the case here.
On Runner, we find Narrator in a seedy motel. Where he’s come from we aren’t quite told, but the girl (who Narrator thinks is 16 years old; presumably Narrator is at least 18 years old given the alcohol he has on his person, but maybe not) was born and raised in Memphis. She’s run away from home, and, to make money, she’s taken a job as a cleaning lady at the motel. Narrator, a smooth talker with plenty of alcohol, befriends the girl (who we later find out is named Leona). Leona has a long, sharp, and churlish tongue; and in no time at all Narrator falls in love with her. Not an innocent, summery love; but rather a mad love, a possessive love, a love that says to itself, “Don’t think she doesn’t want it.” He offers her beer, and she accepts, and before long the two are entwined together.
But not for long. Something happens — we are not told what, which means we may be dealing with an unreliable narrator — and Leona flees the motel, abandoning both her job and Narrator. Come morning, through blurred vision, Narrator sees that both his money and mind have been stolen. But put a runner and jogger together and although the runner will leave the jogger in the dust, it’s the pacing that truly counts; the jogger, slow and steady, foot after foot, day after day, will eventually catch up. And that’s exactly what Narrator intends to do.
The remainder of Weight Of It describes this focused pursuit. Narrator curses the “thin fucking plot twist” that Leona has put him in, knowing — in his mind, anyway — that she needs him just as much as he needs her. Despite trying to cover her tracks, the weight of her tread (the “it” in Weight Of It) is still visible; and Narrator’s keen eyes says Leona’s slowing down. He sees the faint outline of her body where she slept under a cherry tree, and he pauses to touch the ground. He concentrates — expands his senses — to try to feel her warmth, but the ground remains cold, and all he hears is the deafening chorus of crickets.
He tracks her to the next town, and it bustles with people at a county fair. There are rides and games and children running every which way; but no sign of Leona. He pays for a ride on the Ferris wheel; and an extra bill in the carnie’s pocket ensured his chair would stop right at the top. From such heights he could see the entire town: Where had Leona gone?
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To read the rest of this review — and more by Steve Schmolaris — visit his website Bad Gardening Advice.
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Steve Schmolaris is the founder of the Schmolaris Prize, “the most prestigious prize in all of Manitoba,” which he first awarded in 1977. Each year, he awards the prize to the best album of the year. He does not have a profession but, having come from money (his father, “the Millionaire of East Schmelkirk,” left him his fortune when he died in 1977), Steve is a patron of the arts. Inspired by the exquisite detail of a holotype, the collective intelligence of slime mold, the natural world and the suffering inherent within it — and also music (fuck, he loves music!) — Steve has long been writing reviews of Winnipeg artists’ songs and albums at his website Bad Gardening Advice, leading to the publication of a book of the same name.
