SHANGRI-LA
By Marc Bryant, Shepherd Hendrix and Mal Jones
Image Comics
How hard can the life of a rock star be? Money by the
truck full, as much gargle and gak as your liver, nose and tearducts can handle, and women and/or men flinging themselves at you like flies at a chip shop zapper. Modern news media is dominated by so-called "stories" of how these semi-talented semi-literates spend their time - and your money - pooing themselves and turning blue in some dingy Newmarket nightclub or other, because the cucumber sandwiches had gotten soggy, or the groupie's hot pants had left a red mark around her legs. I tend to react to all these stories with the same thought:
"Ah, fucking diddums."
Of course, there are those who argue that it's not the "musicians'" fault. That it's The Evil Marketing Machine™, treating their clients like a fi'dolla ho, sending them on Blue Peter and Songs of Praise and QVC until they just can't take it any more. That ol' Evil Marketing Machine™ will squeeze and squeeze every drop out of the "artist" until they're about as juicy as a grandfather's foreskin (insert your own Rolling Stones gag here). Many musicians can't escape the relentless onslaught of photoshoots, exclusive parties and premieres, even in the sweet embrace of Death: the Evil Marketing Machine™ won't abandon their meal ticket if they can help it. The Greatest Hits albums, the Memorial Concerts. The Commemorative Plates, Hand-Painted and Gilded with 8-Carrot Goldette.
I hate them all.
For somebody like me, jaded to the point of photosynthesis by Pop Idol, the Infinity of The Bee-Gees, and the rest of the arseholes, Shangri-La is the answer to a profane prayer. If I thought they could read it, I'd send it to the people at
(Deleted for Legal Reasons).
Correy Stinson, lead singer of nu-metal monkeys Suplex, is summarily dismissed from the band, after one too many mardies. Sinking into a pit of absinthe and trollops, Stinson is abandoned by his record company - with extreme prejudice. Controlled from behind the scenes by Shadowy Interests™, Stinson's recording company decides that the singer is worth more to them dead than alive, and dispatch an assassin to make sure that Tragedy proceeds apace.
An assassin that just happens to be President of the Correy Stinson Fan Club.
Unable to kill her idol, and propelled by the news reports of Stinson's apocryphal demise, the deliciously-named Jetta Helm takes Stinson on a mad dash across America, dodging bouncers, bereaved fans, and a Country 'n' Western hitman, looking for a way out of a sticky situation. Meanwhile, the Shadowy Interests™ turn in on themselves, and a number of suspiciously familiar faces look on, offering a unique perspective on affairs.
Shangri-La is a fantastic anti-buddy comic: Jetta's realisation that her idol has feet of lightly munted clay, and is, in fact, a bit of a prat, makes for some hilarious reading. Jetta carries herself with a sense of timely disillusionment that makes her a perfect companion - and foil - for the debauched Correy Stinson.
Stinson, of course, is the archetypal pop wastrel, of the sort that I lament above. Boozy and twattish, you might think he deserves everything he gets. You'll have to read the book to see if you're right…
Bryant's plot is straight out of the best traditions of (good) Hollywood comedy: the action doesn't let up, from start to finish. The characters are well defined and speak with strong individual voices. It's a great story, all round. It's worth noting (again) that Bryant's back catalogue isn't that extensive - in fact, this is only the second graphic novel that I've read by him. Both this, and the sci-fi novel Overtime, are depressingly good early works, as well crafted as books by far more experienced writers.
Shepherd Hendrix - and isn't that just the best name for a book like this - offers up some top-notch art. It puts me in mind of artists like Peter Snejberg and James W. Fry, with its strong, classic lines and rich character.
Shangri-La is a fantastic graphic novel, a great companion to books like Pounded, and great value for money. Schadenfreude is a great theme for a book - and one that always tickles my Cynical Bone. Watching the shitterati receive a heavy dollop of comeuppance makes for a powerful antidote to the constant fucking onslaught of magazines, newspaper articles and television programmes telling us that people like this are worth looking up to. Shangri-La represents an opposing view, and comes with a terribly apposite motto:
"Live fast. Die young. Leave a beautiful comic."
Review text (C) Matthew Craig
Originally published in the pop culture magazine Robot Fist