Great Comics About Great Music: On Giles Crawford’s “Dear You”
I spent a decent chunk of February on the road at AWP and doing some events for my new novel In the Sight. Part of that trip included spending a few days in Ann Arbor, where I bought some books, worked on a new novel, and chatted with the esteemed Phil Christman, whose writing on a host of subjects is invaluable. He pointed me in the direction of a few notable shops around town, and that’s how I ended up in Vault of Midnight, which might well be my platonic ideal of a comics shop. One of the best selections of books I’ve ever seen, from indie titles to Marvel and DC books — plus a friendly staff and a bustling clientele.
That was where I picked up Dear You, a comic by writer/artist Giles Crawford. I didn’t know much about either the book or the artist at the time that I bought it, but I’m of an age and disposition where seeing a comic named for a Jawbreaker album featuring a scruffy guy on the cover holding a cassette tape is, basically, catnip for me.
I’m going with first impressions here, for reasons that will become apparent very soon. On the first page of the book, we see the comic’s protagonist at the end of a show — specifically, it’s Jawbreaker. There’s exactly one panel of the band playing, and countless more of the immediate aftermath: the band exiting the stage and the moment immediately afterwards, where (assuming the show was good) you’re part of a collective moment. It’s both exhilarating and a little sad; the former because of what you’ve just witnessed and the latter because you know it’s over, at least for the night. It’s a paradox, for sure.
The protagonist leaves the venue and meets his boyfriend, and the two drive back to New Jersey. And while there, the two have a long conversation — both about their relationship and the protagonist’s frustrations with life. “So I was in the pit, right, and they played Accident Prone and I realised ‘nothing I ever do will mean this much,’” he says — and that’s a paradox, too.
Dear You makes fantastic use of spot color: the opening scene of Jawbreaker playing is toned in a deep read, which gradually fades from the book. Crawford also uses color to set the book’s protagonist apart. You can feel incredibly alone even when you’re sharing an experience with hundreds of other people, and a panel of the book’s protagonist standing in the venue where he’s the only figure drawn in black ink is a strikingly elegant way of evoking this.
Crawford’s art is also memorably expressive. For a book that largely consists of two guys talking in a car and, later, a diner, the whole thing is visually interesting throughout. That’s no small accomplishment. Facial expressions, body language and the use of text are all first-rate. It’s a memorable, concise story that both feels very specific to these characters and their relationship to each other and to music and very applicable even if you’ve never listened to Jawbreaker or set foot in a diner.
After reading this, I found Crawford’s website and learned that these two guys — Louis and Neil — are recurring characters in Crawford’s work. There’s also something else I learned from this heightened context that made this comic even more bittersweet. Crawford’s website mentions that it’s set in March 1996, a time when it seemed like Jawbreaker would keep touring forever. (There’s even a reference in the comic to seeing them the next time they come through.) That was, to put it bluntly, not the case; if memory serves, the Philadelphia concert depicted here would be either their last stop in that city or their penultimate one.
It’s an elegant touch that accentuates some of the book’s themes — of the unpredictability of life, of the importance of seizing moments as they come, of human connection. The band you love might never tour again, but there are other ways to find your bliss. Sometimes there are, anyway.
As always, I'm Tobias Carroll, and this has been Postcards From Komiksoj.
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