Bloodsongs Issue 6
[Published in Spring, 1995 -- Reprinted here is a book review that I wrote for that issue. Although the review was credited as written by Chris A. Masters in that issue of Bloodsongs, it was submitted under the name of D.K.D. Kadavar. This review was also the last of my writing to be submitted to and to appear in Bloodsongs.]

Loaded
Christos Tsiolkas
Vintage Books, 1995, 151 pp., trade paperback.

Okay, I’m handed this thin little paperback by Steve Proposch who says, “wanna review this?” “Sure,” I says, never being one to turn down a free book. After a quick scan of the blurbs, author info. etc. I find out that this Australian Arts Council funded novella (I say novella because at 150 pages of 12 point type it’s far too short to be called a novel … and at $14.95 asking price, I’d recommend anybody think twice before forking out your hard-earned for this book) is written by a young homosexual of Greek (ethnic/migrant) background. This is the ideal background for someone seeking funding from the oh-so-PC Australian Council for the Arts. If he could have convinced them that he was a mixed Greek/Aboriginal, blind or deaf, feminist/gay/drag queen with AIDS, then, I suppose, the Arts Council would have given Tsiolkas their entire yearly budget.

Anyway, enough digression. I gotta admit that I did approach the reading of this book with some degree of trepidation. I got the impression that what I was in for was a little slice of life saga written by some pretentious little poof … and unfortunately, I wasn’t far off in my assumption.

What we have here is a twenty-four hour slice out of the life of one Ari, a 20 years old unemployed Greek boy who can’t make up his mind which end is which, if you catch my drift. The reader gets to follow Ari around as he tries to score drugs, plays “with the boys”, drinks at all the trendy little night clubs, scores more drugs, drinks himself stupid (not that he was all that smart to start with), does the night club scene, gets a bit of bent nooky from aforementioned boys … ad nauseam; while at the same time giving us his half-witted insights into the human condition. By the end I was hoping some member of our esteemed Victorian Police Force would jump out of his paddy wagon and shoot the little git. The prose is written in first person, present tense, and flows continuously as if spoken really fast by some effete ponce you might overhear speaking in one of those little boutiques on Brunswick Street, Fitzroy. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not anti-gay, but I am anti-pretentious-little-git, and this is just what Ari is (and I assume Tsiolkas, as most of these first novels written in this way are personal forays into mediocrity). This is mind-numbing, soap-opera, pretentious crap; just the sort of thing you’d expect the Arts Council to waste their money on.

I’m sure Loaded will win some sort of writing award. It’s certainly bad and pretentious enough to do so. My advice is that if you see Loaded lurking on the shelf at your bookstore, give it a wide berth.

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