For the past month or so, Caffeine Powered has been presenting Variant Covers, a weekly feature that previews some of the more notable comic releases of the upcoming Wednesday. Starting this week, I am going to begin offering Images & Words, a complementary post that essentially tells you about my favorite comic of the week.

So to clarify:

Variant Covers — Caffeine Powered tells you which comics to look for.

Images & Words — Pepsibones rants about his favorite release of the week.

Get ready for some magic! (“Illusions, Michael, illusions…”)

Just as Caffeine Powered told you on Tuesday, some big titles have dropped this week. Jonathan Hickman continues his excellent run on Fantastic Four by starting a new arc that centers on Franklin Richards; Geoff Johns and Ed Benes remind us that Hal Jordan and Kyle Rayner aren’t the only worthy ring-bearers of the DCU in   Green Lantern #49; and one-shot Captain America — Who Will Wield the Shield is less of a cash-grab and more of a genuine exploration of the new relationship between Steve Rogers and James Buchanan.

While I don’t feel as though I’ve wasted any cash this week (which is a rare thing in the life of a comic nerd), one collection of images and words stands a step all of the aforementioned titles: Detective Comics #860.

For those of you who haven’t been keeping up, Detective Comics has been helmed by Batwoman since Bruce Wayne bit the dust. Long story short — Batwoman is Kate Kane, a Jewish lesbian with special ops training, a father with connections in the military, and an insanely rich stepmother who ostensibly funds the vigilantism without even knowing it. Yeah, I know that the description makes the character simultaneously seem like a bit of a stretch as well as a disingenuous attempt to insert diversity into comic books. To be honest I don’t have any investment in the idea or concept of Batwoman, but the collaboration between Greg Rucka and J.H. Williams III  has kept  me coming back for more.

Story wise, Greg Rucka has been using Detective Comics to present the compelling mysteries and tales of crime for which he has come to be known. This latest issue, the third part of an arc titled Go, features flashbacks in which the reader sees Kate Kane trying to cut her teeth in the crime-fighting biz. In the process, Kate has to deal with ex-girlfriend/DCU fan-favorite Renee Montoya and eventually come to accept the assistance of her father. The narrative then takes us to present day, in which Kate is trying to deal with the fact that her long-lost twin may actually be a villain named Alice.

Again, as I type this shit out, I realize how terrible and played-out it seems. Maybe it is. But even if you find nothing worthwhile about the story itself, you’d have to be a fool to not recognize the beauty that is J.H. Williams III’s paneled page.

At the very least, any comics reader should respect the way in which Williams structures his panels. On some pages, such as during flashbacks, Williams sticks to the familiar, rectangular panel layouts we’ve all come to know and love. However, the artist really shines when he takes a path less traveled; for example, the panels often compose smaller segments of a Bat-symbol that spreads across the entire page. Something so simple as putting the story within subdivisions of a larger visual whole really pays off.

Also, it’s worth mentioning that Dave Stewart is the colorist for Detective Comics. He’s  the man — if you ever get the chance, check out his phenomenal work on Darwyn Cooke’s The New Frontier.

Detective Comics #860 isn’t a classic single issue and a year from now I’ll probably be completely incapable of telling you what it’s about. But as far this week is concerned, it is an exemplary combination of images and words, visual narrative and solid storytelling. If you cash in your Slurpee cup filled with spare change and it totals four bucks, go splurge on Detective Comics.

Paul Pope is not only an amazing comics-creator, but a true inspiration and one of my personal heroes. I admire Pope because of his ability to swoop into the world of comic books to deliver amazing stories  & fresh perspectives, and then stage an exit before falling victim to the pitfalls of the medium. I don’t know much about the technical aspects of illustration, but I know that every single panel of Pope’s work I’ve ever seen feels authentic/genuine/as though the man is incapable of phoning it in.

Although he’s  spun some of great  yarns about franchise-characters  , he understands that they fulfill a certain role. In an interview to address his exhibition at the Art Directors Club in New York City, Pope offered the following:

“They periodically kill off Superman or Captain America or Batman, then according to [formula], they resurrect them again. I don’t follow continuity comics unless a really amazing cartoonist is drawing the story, an Eduardo Risso or a Frank Quietly or a John Cassaday or a Steve Rude. I think superheroes represent themes rather than function as true characters in any literary sense. Because in real life and in literature, people and characters make choices and have a destiny, and must necessarily change–maybe for the better or the worse– but they are substantively different from the person they were at the beginning of the story. The superheroes don’t change, the guardians of the franchise don’t want to change them, and the audience probably doesn’t want it either.”

So although I enjoy the hell out of Batman Year 100 (which, roughly speaking, reads to me as a cross between the Batman mythos and a Bladerunner-styled technofuture), Pope’s original works are the creations to which I am most drawn. For an amazing testament to the power of sequential art, I strongly recommend 100%. Despite being a bit of a cynic, this book makes me believe in the value of love and art and trying to make the most out of a life that often seems utterly insignificant. And while this all sounds great in theory, Pope’s execution is nothing short of perfection.

As a student of narrative, there’s been many a night in which I’ve asked myself, “What’s the fucking point of this stuff? Why should I even bother concerning myself with the past? What can fiction do for the world?” The best answer I’ve ever received comes on the eighteenth page of Pulphope, Pope’s collection of art and essays:

“When I need my own mirror of men and angels, I too turn to hear the voices of the dead. Without even having faith in mystics, I too turn to take my cue from dead mystics. When I need voices, I turn to Emerson and Thoreau. Their Transcendentalism rings a bit hollow to me (I am no Platonist), but their words still ring clear and true. I turn to the dour civics of Confucius and the clear-eyed cynicism of Machiavelli. The life-embrace of Epicurus. I turn to the dreamtime of Jung and the pastorality of Tolkein. And to others. These poets and philosophers are the whispering dead I hear, pointing the way to the road which leads out of this inferno. These are the dead on the roof with me, these are my Virgils. They point their parchment fingers toward the arc of the heavens, helping make sense of a meaningless rising moon and a mute and dumb setting sun.”

Today, the mailman dropped off a limited edition Paul Pope print from the folks at Nakatomi Inc. The one-sheet is a tribute to Guido Crepax, an Italian comics artist of yesteryear whose work is (apparently) marked by sexually-charged female figures. The 13×19 variant features babes, motorcycles, and a shootout; in other words, it’s dope.

I couldn’t be happier with this print. Beautiful in its own right, I’m going to hang it with the added satisfaction of knowing that I possess a limited edition poster created by comic books’ most inspirational, if not underappreciated, artists.

I don’t have much hope — but I have Pulphope.

Last week it was suggested to me:

I think once a week you should post an obscure picture from FFXIII and we try to guess what the fuck is going on.

Well, here we fucking go! I dig this picture, because I dig Snow. I dig Snow in the way that I dig people I want to make love to. That is…I want to make love to him. Now, I know he’s not real. And I know it will never happen. But I know that this also makes me much like Kierkegaard’s Knight of Infinite Resignation. And frankly, anything I can do to make myself much like anything involving my existential heroes, I’ll undertake.

So I continue on my path, knowing that I will never make love to Snow. But I will never relinquish said dreams, for I will continue to envision a day when polygon and man can come together, united in their love.

Oh wait, I’m supposed to guess what’s going on?

I’m not really sure. But if I had to guess, Snow and Lightning are about to kick some fucking ass. You can tell Lightning is serious, because her arms are crossed. Which means that she’s silent and brooding and she wants to elbow drop someone. Meanwhile, Snow is pretending he’s Zell, or Dash, and he’s ready to unleash some fucking monk fury on an unsuspecting ass.

Who is he fighting?

Clearly Santa Claus.

I don’t know what I’ve started with my Bayonetta madness. But now people are finding us through “i wanna bury my face in bayonetta’s ass”. Is this an pinnacle, a nadir, or both?

So, I was Google Image Searching today under the term “Midol”. You see, I was being mature and wanted to insult a friend on a forum because I was teasing that he didn’t dig shit. So I implied he had his period! Get it?! I’m so witty. And then I found this advertisement. It’s amazing. Just bask in it. Drink that shit in. Not the placenta though. Run from that. Quickly.

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I like stories.

Maybe that’s a nonsensical thing to write — not worth the energy required to move my fingers onto the keyboard. After all, who doesn’t love a good yarn? The sharing of narratives is one of the few (virtually) universal aspects of humanity. Even through differing perspectives, goals and messages, all tribes of Planet Earth are united by a proclivity for storytelling.

The thing is – I really like stories. If I’ve enjoyed something I’ve read, it’s only a matter of time before I revisit the pages. I’ve spent countless hours (probably days, at this point) discussing and debating movies with my friends. And I’m currently toying with the idea of teaching high school English not because of a fondness for grammar, but because of a genuine belief in the power of narrative.

Some stories are so affective that they keep me up at night, warding off the sandman until I’ve scribbled some quasi-coherent notes. And these are the tales I like best — the ones that want you to keep working, peeling away a bit of skin before getting to taste the fruit. I don’t consider myself a snob and definitely think there’s something to be said for straight-forward stories told in a straight-forward manner; but who doesn’t like finding a prize at the bottom of the cereal box?

With this stance in mind, it is no mystery as to why I’ve always been a fan of the concept album. First and foremost, the product is a musical collection and therefore is designed for audio-pleasure. But unlike “standard” albums, the listener may then elect to dig deeper, using the lyrics, booklet and artwork to reveal a story. While this format is a staple of the prog-rock world I once swore allegiance to (Hey, we all make mistakes), it is hardly confined to a single genre.

Finally getting to the matter at hand, I present Defeater’s Lost Ground — a refutation the concept album as it has come to be known. There are no synthesizers, ballads about dark wizards, or masturbatory instrumental sections that make you scream “THIS SONG HAS BEEN ON FOR THIRTY-SEVEN MINUTES WHEN THE FUCK DOES IT END?!?!” While my favorite album of all-time may very well be a fair target for such criticism, Defeater manages to avoid the pitfalls. So whereas double-lengths like  The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway and Quadrophenia popularized the concept album, Lost Ground reimagines its purpose.

In fact, Lost Ground is a six-song EP that comes into your room, tells you what’s up, and then gets out despite your pleading for more. Musically, I suppose the second release of the Boston-based group would be considered something along the lines of melodic hardcore. While there are definitely hard-hitting sections of soaring guitars and pounding drums, there are also many moments in which there is clarity, a refined levelheadedness. For instance, the introduction to The Bite and Sting sees an exchange of bass and guitar, a teasing that helps to build anticipation. This tension is furthered by the verses, in which soft staccato guitar is cleverly doubled over with a clicking on the rim of a drum. By the time the chorus hits, the listener feels liberation, a rejoicing at the prospect of open chords!

In terms of musical  narrativity, the EP is actually a complement to Defeater’s first effort, Travels. Summarily, the band’s debut    tells of one man’s journey away from life he hates and his unavoidable return home  for a final confrontation. One of the highlights of that disc is Prophet in Plain Clothes, a track about a bum who sings his songs of woe. Lost Ground, in turn, is actually an exploration of the Prophet –  chronicling his life as a young African American who decides to enlist in the Army for World War II. Horrors are witnessed, the post-war celebration is less-than-ideal, and we learn why it is that this man sleeps in barrooms.

Thematically, I think Lost Ground is an improvement over Travels. Maybe it’s because of the groundwork laid on the first album, but I find myself sympathizing much more with the narrator on this EP than I do with the one on the full-length. Furthermore,  Derek Archambault’s delivers his vocals in such a way as to actually convince the listener that he was in the trenches, fighting  Germans in the Second Big One. I think the artwork is a step above too, with the inclusion of a propaganda poster which depicts the misleading means by which blacks may have been enlisted. My only complaint about Lost Ground is that it isn’t a full-length, but I suppose a band can consider a release successful if it leaves people wanting more.

I’m not sure if Lost Ground is a World War II period piece that rocks my socks off or just an EP that happens to be historical fiction — but in either case, I’m better for having listened to it.

Give it a spin.

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