Eugene S. Robinson
Bruises & Haikus
2007-12-11
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The world is divided into two very separate camps of man. One camp treasures long walks, hot tea on Tuesday morning, the occasional snifter. Maybe they engage in ill-advised rants of public drunkenness or shrill debate-club jousts in swanky bars. But with no amount of provocation is anything physical to transpire. The second camp flinches with a native urge to tussle, plain and simple. Maybe they like long walks, tea and the occasional uppity tirade too, but they’re more than willing to follow it up with a few jabs to the jaw and a roundhouse to the temple. It is the second camp who are the foci of Eugene S. Robinson’s new book from Harper Collins, Fight: Or Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Ass-Kicking But Were Afraid You’d Get Your Ass Kicked for Asking. Robinson isn’t any slouch with regard to the subject matter, either. Aside from being an award-winning journalist, an actor and frontman for art-metal deities Oxbow, Robinson is a former cage fighter and was bequeathed 1998 CAAT Heavyweight Men’s Sanshou Champion, and 2nd Place Overall and 1st Place Divisional 2003 California Submission Fighting Champ. Between his astounding wit and obvious physical prowess (6’1”, 235 lbs.), it’d be advised not to fuck with him. Ever.
Within his new text, “a 360 monograph with a strict narrative line. Sort of like Plato’s Republic,” according to Robinson, he explores the passions, obsessions, delusions and even the insanities that fuel the fire inside world-recognized brawlers. The book also tackles both the intrinsic flames (be they childhood mockeries, languishing attempts at respect, etc.) that make people fight, and simply the competitive and technical aspects of the fight itself. Robinson fixates his voice to that of fan and facilitator, which more often than not means that he’s willing to challenge most of his interviewees, or that he’s at least interested in getting a reaction from them as fodder for his prose.
There’s a humor ingrained into the narrative, however, that belies the seemingly serious tasks at hand. And you’d suppose that a man who challenges fighters who deep down he knows to be superior (a boot from kickboxer Cung Le results in a ruptured quadriceps tendon, and he is repeatedly thrown into crippling submission holds in a fight with the famed Daniel Gracie) would have a more developed sense of humor, which luckily, Robinson does. Case in point, asked why he wrote Fight… Robinson responds, “I was asked to. Which frequently guides a lot of my decision making: what others would like me to do. The problems arise when I hear them saying stuff they never really said...’fuck my wife...’ being one.”
Fight… illuminates the myriad different styles of fighting, as evidenced by analyses into knife fighting, bar brawling, jailhouse rock (prison fights…yes, they have their own style), cage fighting, wrestling, hockey fights and boxing. And though each style holds its own air of nobility, Robinson notes, “I believe [fighting is] a noble pursuit when pursued by those for whom nobility is still an extant issue. But I find defensive fighting to be the most defensible. All of my recent engagements have been thus. People who have started with me. Which is quite satisfying, because I imagine it serves some sort of didactic function. That is teaching them a goddamned lesson. Which many are in need of it seems. In any case, the minimization of fear seems like it makes a lot of sense to me.”
Upon its release in the UK, Fight… faced scrutiny from the British Parliament for its insert of tips for how to not only compose yourself during a knife fight, but also how to win, even going so far as to inform readers that the knife needs to be “longer than four inches to get through all the fascia, chest muscles and the rib cage and into the heart.” The result of such a section was a version that omitted it.
“I never wanted to put [the knife fighting insert] in this book to begin with,” says Robinson. “It was off message I think, and I was compelled to do so by my editor who figured that the book lacked a certain amount/kind of grit. Having my book fucked by the UK is a drag because right now it’s only being bought by those already in the know, versus walk-in traffic. But you know, business discussions always end the same for me: I'm not Bill Gates.”
Though Robinson concurs that this particular insert may have been a little much, don’t count on him surrendering a single ounce of sincerity with regard to the rest of the bloody tome. Fight… is even-handed as it shows both the intensity it takes to win a fight (or even get caught up in one) and the humanity of self-realization in the moment of the fight. The question must be asked: Is Robinson worried that people (maybe mainly young people) will take these tips and humorous anecdotes on fighting the wrong way?
“I don't care at all,” says Robinson. “This is in your blood or it is not. And if it’s in your blood, you recognize in this much more than a scintilla of truth. And in that way you are perhaps a little lonely. But that was not my intent. I have a responsibility to tell a story truthfully.”
What is it that makes it such a compelling read, though? It’s a book about fighting. When to fight. Who not to fight. In some cases, how to fight. It’s an explosion of machismo and Earth-indigenous grit. For Robinson, fighting is as artistic in merit as writing, singing or acting. Every absorbed kick to the thigh is a symphony for his ears alone; every submission hold escaped, a sonnet; every measured punch, a musical medley. It is within a world of ultimate expression, and with the utmost regard for ultimate progression that Robinson thrives. Oxbow is a band known not only for its pummeling hybrid of blues riffs and bionic metal scourge, but also, perhaps mainly, for Robinson’s overwhelming physical and aural presence. Whether conjuring the spirit of a bumbling alcoholic alter-ego (a la their latest release The Narcotic Story, which Robinson just learned has garnered a Grammy nod for its producer Joe Chiccarelli in the Producer of the Year, Non-Classical category), stumbling stanzas and gradual onstage disrobing, or simply employing a reflex-oriented fist-chop to his hulking legs during measured beats of music, the world (or more specifically, anyone around him) is his canvas. The looks of perplexity that adorn that faces of his audience, the snarls from would be ass-kickers who bite off more than they can chew, the readers of his book — these appear to serve as the penultimate recognition he wishes to receive.
“If there are any in the audiences who believe that they are larger than the art — not even our art...just art — I will do my level best to disabuse them of the soundness of this notion,” expresses Robinson. “This is what our performances do: bear the standards of the creative impulse; Eros.”
Robinson’s extra-curricular endeavors aren’t limited to just the release of his new book, though he waxes, “I’ve been doing non-stop radio, the Boston Phoenix is saying I’m a cross between James Joyce and Norman Mailer. Which I guess means two dead guys.” He’s also just returned from a trip to England for the London Jazz Festival, to which he was invited by Barry Adamson, formerly of the band Magazine, of Nick Cave’s The Bad Seeds and more recently the proprietor of a solo venture.
“Unknown to me at least, [Adamson had] been an Oxbow fan since being turned on to us by photographer and guitarist for this band called Bender, Steve Gullick,” says Robinson.
The visit resulted in an onstage collaboration between Robinson and Adamson wherein Robinson read from Fight… while Adamson and his band played behind him on the first night there. On the second night, Robinson was invited to sing his own cover song, while Nick Cave, David Talbot and another vocalist also sang their own cover songs.
“It was fantastic and seems to have given birth to a new project: The Second Story Men, with me and Adamson and other secret guest artists,” says Robinson. “But it should be cool, and we start it right after the new year starts.”
Robinson’s also been dealing with being in a position as an editor who is reading work written on his own projects, which poses a unique situation for him.
“I love well considered reviews,” begins Robinson. “Badly written ones that lack insight? Well, first you gotta know that I’m reading these first as an editor, because that’s what I do. Forget about the fact that it’s about my book or my band, I’m reading them like one of my writers gave them to me, and if it’s shit, I am unhappy. If it’s well written but it slams my stuff, then I don’t care because I’ve learned something usually.”
Within his new text, “a 360 monograph with a strict narrative line. Sort of like Plato’s Republic,” according to Robinson, he explores the passions, obsessions, delusions and even the insanities that fuel the fire inside world-recognized brawlers. The book also tackles both the intrinsic flames (be they childhood mockeries, languishing attempts at respect, etc.) that make people fight, and simply the competitive and technical aspects of the fight itself. Robinson fixates his voice to that of fan and facilitator, which more often than not means that he’s willing to challenge most of his interviewees, or that he’s at least interested in getting a reaction from them as fodder for his prose.
There’s a humor ingrained into the narrative, however, that belies the seemingly serious tasks at hand. And you’d suppose that a man who challenges fighters who deep down he knows to be superior (a boot from kickboxer Cung Le results in a ruptured quadriceps tendon, and he is repeatedly thrown into crippling submission holds in a fight with the famed Daniel Gracie) would have a more developed sense of humor, which luckily, Robinson does. Case in point, asked why he wrote Fight… Robinson responds, “I was asked to. Which frequently guides a lot of my decision making: what others would like me to do. The problems arise when I hear them saying stuff they never really said...’fuck my wife...’ being one.”
Fight… illuminates the myriad different styles of fighting, as evidenced by analyses into knife fighting, bar brawling, jailhouse rock (prison fights…yes, they have their own style), cage fighting, wrestling, hockey fights and boxing. And though each style holds its own air of nobility, Robinson notes, “I believe [fighting is] a noble pursuit when pursued by those for whom nobility is still an extant issue. But I find defensive fighting to be the most defensible. All of my recent engagements have been thus. People who have started with me. Which is quite satisfying, because I imagine it serves some sort of didactic function. That is teaching them a goddamned lesson. Which many are in need of it seems. In any case, the minimization of fear seems like it makes a lot of sense to me.”
Upon its release in the UK, Fight… faced scrutiny from the British Parliament for its insert of tips for how to not only compose yourself during a knife fight, but also how to win, even going so far as to inform readers that the knife needs to be “longer than four inches to get through all the fascia, chest muscles and the rib cage and into the heart.” The result of such a section was a version that omitted it.
“I never wanted to put [the knife fighting insert] in this book to begin with,” says Robinson. “It was off message I think, and I was compelled to do so by my editor who figured that the book lacked a certain amount/kind of grit. Having my book fucked by the UK is a drag because right now it’s only being bought by those already in the know, versus walk-in traffic. But you know, business discussions always end the same for me: I'm not Bill Gates.”
Though Robinson concurs that this particular insert may have been a little much, don’t count on him surrendering a single ounce of sincerity with regard to the rest of the bloody tome. Fight… is even-handed as it shows both the intensity it takes to win a fight (or even get caught up in one) and the humanity of self-realization in the moment of the fight. The question must be asked: Is Robinson worried that people (maybe mainly young people) will take these tips and humorous anecdotes on fighting the wrong way?
“I don't care at all,” says Robinson. “This is in your blood or it is not. And if it’s in your blood, you recognize in this much more than a scintilla of truth. And in that way you are perhaps a little lonely. But that was not my intent. I have a responsibility to tell a story truthfully.”
What is it that makes it such a compelling read, though? It’s a book about fighting. When to fight. Who not to fight. In some cases, how to fight. It’s an explosion of machismo and Earth-indigenous grit. For Robinson, fighting is as artistic in merit as writing, singing or acting. Every absorbed kick to the thigh is a symphony for his ears alone; every submission hold escaped, a sonnet; every measured punch, a musical medley. It is within a world of ultimate expression, and with the utmost regard for ultimate progression that Robinson thrives. Oxbow is a band known not only for its pummeling hybrid of blues riffs and bionic metal scourge, but also, perhaps mainly, for Robinson’s overwhelming physical and aural presence. Whether conjuring the spirit of a bumbling alcoholic alter-ego (a la their latest release The Narcotic Story, which Robinson just learned has garnered a Grammy nod for its producer Joe Chiccarelli in the Producer of the Year, Non-Classical category), stumbling stanzas and gradual onstage disrobing, or simply employing a reflex-oriented fist-chop to his hulking legs during measured beats of music, the world (or more specifically, anyone around him) is his canvas. The looks of perplexity that adorn that faces of his audience, the snarls from would be ass-kickers who bite off more than they can chew, the readers of his book — these appear to serve as the penultimate recognition he wishes to receive.
“If there are any in the audiences who believe that they are larger than the art — not even our art...just art — I will do my level best to disabuse them of the soundness of this notion,” expresses Robinson. “This is what our performances do: bear the standards of the creative impulse; Eros.”
Robinson’s extra-curricular endeavors aren’t limited to just the release of his new book, though he waxes, “I’ve been doing non-stop radio, the Boston Phoenix is saying I’m a cross between James Joyce and Norman Mailer. Which I guess means two dead guys.” He’s also just returned from a trip to England for the London Jazz Festival, to which he was invited by Barry Adamson, formerly of the band Magazine, of Nick Cave’s The Bad Seeds and more recently the proprietor of a solo venture.
“Unknown to me at least, [Adamson had] been an Oxbow fan since being turned on to us by photographer and guitarist for this band called Bender, Steve Gullick,” says Robinson.
The visit resulted in an onstage collaboration between Robinson and Adamson wherein Robinson read from Fight… while Adamson and his band played behind him on the first night there. On the second night, Robinson was invited to sing his own cover song, while Nick Cave, David Talbot and another vocalist also sang their own cover songs.
“It was fantastic and seems to have given birth to a new project: The Second Story Men, with me and Adamson and other secret guest artists,” says Robinson. “But it should be cool, and we start it right after the new year starts.”
Robinson’s also been dealing with being in a position as an editor who is reading work written on his own projects, which poses a unique situation for him.
“I love well considered reviews,” begins Robinson. “Badly written ones that lack insight? Well, first you gotta know that I’m reading these first as an editor, because that’s what I do. Forget about the fact that it’s about my book or my band, I’m reading them like one of my writers gave them to me, and if it’s shit, I am unhappy. If it’s well written but it slams my stuff, then I don’t care because I’ve learned something usually.”
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