DIRTY BIRD BLUES

By Clarence Major
Mercury House (May 1996)
$21.95 249 pages
Reviewed by J. Douglas Allen-Taylor

In "Dirty Bird Blues," novelist Clarence Major has retold the classic story of the African-American male. "Man" Banks follows the 1940’s Great Migration from South to Midwest, looking to find an outlet for his talents as a blues singer and harmonica player. Banks has a lot going for him, including the love of a good woman. But he also has some potentially fatal flaws: an unquenchable taste for Old Crow whiskey (called "dirty bird" by its aficionados) and a running buddy who is falling and cannot get up and is dragging Banks down with him. The musician must also battle the overtly anti-black attitudes that were so prevalent in mid-20th century America. So when Banks falls short, as he does early and often, he can find plenty of places to put the blame.

But what’s Clarence Major’s excuse?

Major has written a eight novels and edited a collection of short stories, he is the recipient of the National Council of the Arts Award, a Fulbright Prize and two Pushcart Prizes, so one would presume that he can write. But "Dirty Bird Blues" is a disappointing effort, built as clunkily amateurish as a Mississippi outhouse, more what you’d expect from a first-time novelist than from a writer of Major’s experience.

The book is at its best when merely invoking moods, such as the hot high life of the midwest gin-juice juke-joints, or the spirit-depth currents within the black church, as in this poignant passage reminiscent of the great Zora Neal Hurston:

"And right away he’s in some small hot church with Cleo, and there she is, happy as a morning glory drinking sunlight, clapping her hands, tapping her feet and singing to God while the church choir jams down hard on I Got Shoes... What is it about this place, a church, and shouting to God, that gets her so up? He sees himself sitting there beside her, wondering, trying to figure it out. Nothing else gets her going like this. Between songs he whispers to her, ‘Don’t you love me any mo?’ And she touches his cheek and says, ‘Sure I do, honey, you know I love you, but you just got to understand how much I love Jesus too! ...I feel Him all through my body.’ And as he listens to her he wants to say, ‘But why cain’t you feel me all through yo body like that too?’ but he doesn’t--doesn’t because somehow he knows it’s the wrong question, a question that would push him farther away from her, a question that may even cut him off forever."

But moods alone do not a story make, and everywhere else in "Bird" Major’s writing falls flat. He includes the worst of the worst: poor dramatic pacing; multiple-sequence flashbacks that drain the life out of what’s supposed to be happening in the present; introduction of four or five new characters in a bunch so that the rest of the chapter is spent trying to figure out who in the hell is who; a plotline about as predictable as a network television sitcom; dialogue where characters sum up everything that’s happened of importance since they saw each other last ("Lord, Lord...you finally got yourself a wife and settled down. I remember mama telling me about it two years ago. ...And then here you come calling me just before Christmas--wasn’t it?--saying you and your wife separated.").

The dust jacket of "Dirty Bird Blues" touts Major as "a recognized pathfinder in the New Black Literature." Perhaps he should have hung around the Old Black Literature for a while. There, at least, they knew how to tell a good story.