Dogged by Literature

Black Dogs

By Jason Buhrmester

Handling ambiguity is akin to dealing with thieves. Both can backfire and therein lies the challenge and possible triumph of it all. In tackling history hypothetically, Buhrmester’s Dogs intrigues so long as it’s read and not read into. The latter reveals certain incongruities that compromise the grand, haphazard larceny at hand.

That said, casually the work is quick and exciting. Conversational depth and detail work to seamlessly absorb. With characters and band favoritism that echo the personal taste and experience of the author, the ‘possibly true’ is soon realized to be semi-autobiographical. This heightens anticipation to a point as the plot hurtles ever forward in abandon of each preceding event. The reader goes on, feverishly awaiting a twist or even a slight detour away from the expected. Such hope, however, is met with little more than a banally straightforward, hasty wrap-up.

Occupying the greater portion of the book is the planned ‘robbery’ of Led Zeppelin – the resident ne’er-do-wells’ golden ticket to financial independence and pseudo-karmic retribution. In choosing this isolated, factual event, Buhrmester wrote his story before the first word. It’s no spoiler to simply say that $203,000 is taken. It happened, happens here and all else is one-sided conjecture. Truth here is a shiny lure in otherwise murky surroundings. Even with total freedom, though, the authority of this work banks on chance regularly and still needs help. A lack of obstacles, for example, morphs a bumbling redneck into a deadly adversary.

Characters’ amicability is skin-deep – fun in distant caricature, yet headstrong and juvenile in their close-minded pessimism. Frenchy, the sole figure with actual potential in anything other than petty theft is by name alone marginalized. An artistic connection and shot at legitimacy of his with Jimmy Page is thoughtlessly stolen like so many car stereos. Should such a band be applauded then for their shifty plot, simply because they say humorous things and are generally nice when backs aren’t turned? Yes, according to the author, because Zeppelin deserved it.

With so many personal judgments made, especially on those of the ‘burn out, fade away’ crowd, one has to wonder when the spotlight, if ever, turns inward. This scraggly bunch has few redeemable features and is hardly rebellious in any appealing sense of the word. Loose morals are meant to garner praise, though drawing ethical lines at robbing banks seems meaningless when after all is said and done, ‘…getting drunk and stoned and taking about what we were going to buy’ is the only resolution. The journey of this work is like its anti-heroes – selfish, lazy and without greater meaning.

Dogs opens and closes in a record store, the narrator scrutinizing the racks – only ever interested in Black Sabbath. This same bias remains one of few explicit elements in the story. The rest appears secondary and mishandled in a hazy venture best saved for risk free skimming.